A Properly Conducted Sham (Most Imprudent Matches #5)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

WAYLAND’S, LONDON - JUNE 5, 1816

LEE

My second wall was a vast improvement over the first—quieter and absent jeering simpletons.

This one was behind the lower-stakes tables, where young bucks and debutants tried their hand at the games with helpful instruction from others. It also had the benefit of proximity to the door. The temptation to make an escape, to give myself permission to abandon the masquerade and begin the trudge home, grew with every passing moment.

I’d done well, I thought, though Brigsby would not be inclined to agree. When I received the invitation, my first instinct had been to pitch it into the fire. The astonishment of Wayland’s name on it, paired with a wife no less, was enough to stay my hand. Curiosity had warred with instinctive revulsion at the thought until the former finally beat back the later.

And there was loneliness. I was man enough to admit to the sentiment. Brigsby and the staff had been my closest—my only—companions in the long days since Mia passed. The longer nights were devoted to the stars. Anything to escape the wrath that awaited me in sleep. Or worse, the devastating desolation when sleep would not, could not find me

No, the temptation of the masquerade found me at precisely the moment when my solitude reached an unbearable crescendo.

My fingers traced the edge of my mask in a gesture that had become habitual over the course of the evening. The ribbon that ground into the flesh of my forehead was a small price to pay for the brief conversations I’d had tonight. I would give far more for the moments when I felt like something other than the wraith I had become.

And, much as I could feel the exhaustion setting in, I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. The bill for tonight would come due, sooner rather than later. I could already feel the edges of an attack closing in. I had pushed myself too far and too fast, and my tenuous hold on my nerves was sure to come crashing down. A smart man would know his limitations, would leave before disaster struck.

Generally, I considered myself sensible enough for pragmatism. I shifted on the balls of my feet, contemplating the door once more when a mound of golden silk spilled onto the wall a few feet from my side.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as the woman fussed with the fabric, arranging it artfully around her. She was lovely, with porcelain skin lit from within, a sharply angled jaw, and an arched brow. The left side of her face was masked, sparkling gold reflecting the light. It was difficult to make out the precise shade of her hair, but it glinted, flickering in the candlelight between rich honey and warm cinnamon.

Her masked gaze flicked in my direction, her full lips twisting into a pout. Likely at not finding my gaze devouring her shapely form. She shifted, angling herself in such a way to display her plentiful assets for my appreciation—and I did appreciate them. But her position was awkward and surely uncomfortable with those heavy skirts and underpinnings.

She was too pretty to be a wallflower, and far too unaccustomed to the wall. It was a wonderful thought, a lady making her way over to feign disinterest—in me. My stomach gave a flip at the realization. It was either elation or terror, or perhaps a combination of both. Regardless, I dipped into my pocket for a peppermint, unwrapping it and biting down with a distracted chomp, running my fingers over my mask.

The relieving bite of the mint gave me the courage to face her.

Her eyes had drifted closed and I watched, enraptured, as she inhaled, tasting the scent of my sweet between pouted lips.

A tension seemed to lift from her shoulders as she breathed. Perhaps I had thought wrong and she wasn’t here for me. Perhaps the crowd was too much for her too. Instinctively, my hand dipped into my pocket.

Only two mints left.

Without giving myself time to consider the implications, I grabbed one and stepped forward, holding it out. Offering it to her.

Her eyes blinked open, lashes fluttering. I was met with a color somewhere between buckwheat and bourbon as they widened in surprise.

She accepted my bungled offer, her gloved fingertip brushing my palm enticingly. When she bit into the sweet, she inhaled the sharp, fresh essence. A half smile pulled across her cheek, just kissing one corner of her mouth and eye.

“Thank you,” she breathed. Her voice was sensual and throaty, a clarinet in a sea of piccolos.

“Of course, Lady…” I realized too late that my approach was anything but proper. I’d never had to request a lady’s name before—it was always provided with an introduction.

Nothing in her countenance indicated offense when she replied, “Charlotte. Lady Charlotte James.”

Closer now, I could see that her eyes were a warm bronze, framed by thick dark lashes.

After a further cow-handed introduction, something of the old Lee seemed to claw its way to the surface and I managed to ask her for a dance.

She slipped her hand in mine easily, finding my shoulder with the other at the same time that I caught her waist beneath outdated skirts. A dip of my eyeline to the rest of her confirmed that this was no wallflower before me. Wallflowers did not dress like that . This was a gown to see and be seen, and she wore it so, so well.

The music began and I guided her through the first sluggish, unpracticed steps of a waltz. She moved easily, anticipating and softening in all the right places. There was no question in my mind that she was quite familiar with the dance floor.

What the devil was she doing with me?

Well, at the moment, she was looking at me expectantly, her eyes widened in question.

“I beg your pardon?” I blurted.

Her lips quirked again. “I was merely asking if you are often in town. I cannot recall having made your acquaintance.”

“I’ve been… out of society for some time.” Something about that response had a smile tugging at her full-bowed lips.

“Why have you returned now?”

“Wayland—he is an old friend. He invited me.”

“Ah, so you are a gambler then? Too busy at the tables for the ballroom?” It could have been a reproach, but her air was casual and her smile never faltered.

“No, nothing quite so interesting I’m afraid.”

“Oh no, sir. I do not believe you are the one who determines whether you are interesting.” She dragged her eyes along my form with interest. That was… that was flirtatious. She was flirting with me.

Mouth suddenly dry, I swallowed pathetically. “And who does?”

“Well, I do, of course.” She was good, practiced in coquettish smiles and enticing gazes. She reminded me of Lady Rycliffe in her youth. The girl she had been before her husband passed, when she could summon a man from across the room with nothing but a glance.

“Well, do be sure to let me know how I’m faring.” Though my voice was strangled, the words were acceptable enough.

“Four,” she offered with a coy note in her voice.

“Four?”

Her shoulder dipped in a playful shrug. “Out of ten. Room for improvement, certainly, but not dreadful.”

A chuckle escaped my chest, loosening some of the tightness. “I shall take that under advisement. I do wonder, though, is it truly a benefit to achieve a ten? Surely, there is such a thing as too interesting.”

I spun her with more ease. Now that I was no longer concentrating, the steps returned to me. Tentatively, I brushed a thumb across her waist—she wouldn’t feel it through the layers of gown, chemise, and corset. But this was the closest I had been to a woman in years, and I couldn’t help but take a moment to enjoy.

“That would depend entirely on the judge’s opinion. But you, my lord, are being evasive.”

“Am I?”

Her nod was definitive. “You are. You say you are not gaming but give no indication where you have been all these years.” The words were demanding, but her tone was arch.

“Years?” I laughed. “How long have you been out in society? A quarter of an hour? You could not possibly know it has been years.”

“Well, if I did not, that was surely a confirmation. And I shall not scold you for the impertinence of the question. All I shall say is that this is not my first season.”

“No? I suppose that places you at a three and a half.”

A laugh spilled from her, full and less studied than her manners had been thus far. “I am to be rated as well?”

“It is only fair.”

“Very well. But your evasions grow tedious, my lord. Two,” she popped the t between her teeth in a cheeky manner.

“I have been in Surrey. I suppose that takes me down to a one?”

This earned another giggle but it was less spontaneous than the last, more practiced. “Oh, at least. What is in Surrey?”

“North Downs, a river or two, Guildford, Box Hill, that sort of thing. Also my estate, Bennet Hall.”

“Tell me of Bennet Hall,” she requested.

I felt the smile curl up on the edge of my lip. “Ah, now that is interesting.”

“What is?”

“You are very good with gentlemen.”

She blanched. “I beg your pardon?”

“I just meant—you know men like to talk about their estates. I assume you would move on to horses next?”

“I had considered it,” she replied pertly. The laugh from earlier had vanished from her countenance, leaving her stiff and lifeless in its wake.

My stomach sank and my hand twitched for a peppermint. I’d gone from sharing a mild flirtation to insulting her in the span of two sentences. I was fumbling this precisely as egregiously as expected.

“I have no interest in horses,” I insisted, trying to ease the unintentional sting. I had been enjoying myself immensely, and I did not wish for this to end in disaster.

Why had I let it go so long? I used to be good with women.

I rushed to continue. “My vices lay… in other directions. And while I have a great deal of pride in my estate, it is not the sort of thing to intrigue a young lady in a ballroom. There is nothing scandalous about it at all. Bennet Hall is well maintained and profitable. The servants are paid well and loyal. And there is a tragic dearth of ghosts and other spirits.” That earned me a giggle—feigned most likely, but I would accept what I was given gladly.

The last strains of the waltz faded, disintegrating into murmured chatter from the tables. Wordlessly, I guided her back to the wall where she found me, my hand hovering an inch or so off the small of her back.

“Is there an entail? Entails are always interesting,” she asked, interest in her tone.

“There is…” I replied warily. Now, I could sense the beginnings of a fishing expedition.

“And who is to inherit? A son? Some hideous beast of a second cousin?”

“I do not believe the second cousin is any more hideous than the current occupant. Though I’ve not seen him in some years.” My answer was carefully couched, but she didn’t seem to catch it.

“Certainly a beast then,” she insisted with a conspiratorial whisper. So close to the truth.

“I’ve no wife or children if that’s what you were after,” I said. It was sharper than intended.

Her eyes widened at my tone, a flush rising higher on her cheeks. And then, to my astonishment, she squared her shoulders, meeting my eyes. “It was, in point of fact. I see no reason why I should be reproached for it. We can continue to play coy, but to what purpose?”

“No,” I blurted. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am,” she teased, her entire body sinking into the smile she offered.

I was strung too tight, an overdrawn bow. Her jest was not enough to release the arrow. I was, perhaps, pushing too much, too fast, straining unused muscles tonight. But she was stunning and sweet smelling—citrusy and floral. And better still, she had a backbone to her.

Tentative, testing, I pressed on. “And do you?”

“Do I have a wife and children? No.” Her grin turned cheeky with that.

“That is disappointing—that would have put you at a seven at least.”

The comment earned me another laugh, though something artificial remained. I hadn’t yet made it back to the one real laugh.

“No husband either at present.”

I opened my mouth to question the oddly specific nature of her words, when a shout rang out.

I jumped half out of my skin, spinning to find the source.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

What on ear—The unmasking .

My stomach dropped. How had I forgotten?

My gaze spun around the room. Ladies and gentlemen were fussing with the edges of their masks. Beside me, Lady Charlotte had already untied hers and was merely holding it in place. A strategic smile curved across her lips.

My heart hammered and my vision narrowed—darkness seeping in from the sides. Already, my stomach had found its way back from the floor, churning and swirling with agitation.

Instinctively, my hand found my pocket and I dipped inside, grasping the solitary peppermint. I pulled it free along with the wrapping papers I had stuffed there. It slipped through my trembling fingers to the floor. To the carpeted floor where someone promptly stepped on it, grinding it into the carpet.

“Five, four…”

“My lord? What is the matter?” That voice was soft and warm and too far away to reach me now. My empty hand found the edge of my mask, pressing it tighter still.

“Three, two…”

“I have to—goodbye.” I wasn’t entirely certain I hadn’t offered those words to the door I was shoving my way through as I spilled out, the space between her side and the exit a blur.

I stumbled into an alley and leaned back against the wall, then slid down it to a crouch. There, in the stinking, filthy back alley, I dropped my head between my knees. I tried to concentrate on my breathing, but the stench threatened to upend my stomach just the same as the panic.

And then, to make the situation even worse, the heavens opened up. There was no drizzle, no forewarning. One moment the evening was muggy but dry. The next was a flood of biblical proportions.

Fortunately, the rain seemed to shock some of the panic out of my system, and I rose on shaky legs. Crawford was right. He would be horribly insufferable for it.

The rain seeped between the mask and my skin, leaving it even more sensitized and irritated than usual. With trembling fingers, I yanked at the knot, but it held fast. Frantically, I tore at the ceramic and yanked it over my head—scraping the skin of my forehead as I pulled it free. I tossed it to the ground where it shattered before me, shards spilling across the alley in a wretched mosaic.

I dragged my hand across the newly revealed mottled, gnarled flesh.

“Are you all right, dearie?” A well-used voice asked from farther in the alley. Startled, I yanked my fingers through soaked hair, tugging it over my forehead and cheek. The sound of heeled slippers knocking on cobblestones echoed against rain-soaked pavement.

She stepped into the lamplight. Tangled hair, the kind that only came from a man’s fingers in the throes of passion, topped a pale face with smeared rouge. She wore only a corset and chemise and might as well not have bothered for all it covered with the rain.

She approached slowly, tentatively. “Do you need—Oh, good lord! Your face!”

And with that, my stomach made its final rebellion. Peppermint and gin swirled in the sopping gutter droppings at her feet.