Chapter 13
13
“ I am so happy that we have returned to London,” said Mama, dressed in a lacy domino costume, completely covered in black including a veiled mask draped over her eyes. “Word is Northampton’s ball shall be the sensation of the Season.”
Martin peered closer at his mother, trying to look her in the eye through the black netting but failing miserably. “I’m certain it will be, but the question is how can you possibly see in that thing?”
“’Tis only fine tulle across the eyes. I can see just fine.”
“Well, you look as if you’ve returned to full mourning.”
Mama fluffed her skirts. “Be it half or full, my heart is still mourning your father and that is what truly matters.”
Martin gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Forgive me. You look lovely as always.” Feeling a bit silly dressed as Mark Antony, he glanced to his bare knees. Charity had done her duty and found him a costume but hadn’t taken into account that he was far taller than most men. Even the Roman leather armor was a bit snug across his chest.
Mama pointed her fan at his sandals, complete with leather straps laced all the way up to his knees. “I hope your toes don’t freeze.” Her gaze shifting upward, she rapped his shoulder with the blasted thing. “Where is your mask?”
He pulled the black slip of cloth from inside his armor. “Not to worry, I’ll put it on before we arrive—canna have anyone knowing Mark Antony is really a duke, now can we?”
“I don’t know. I would recognize you regardless, and I imagine more than half the mothers in attendance will have your identity figured out by the end of the evening. Keep your eyes open. You may find your match.”
“I will not find my match. I accepted the invitation to this masquerade to provide an escort for Charity so that she may find her match,” he said as his sister started down the stairs, dressed as Cleopatra with a radiant smile beaming below a golden mask. However, her shimmering golden gown clung to her form a bit too tightly for Martin’s liking. At least with an Egyptian collar encrusted with turquoise, the bodice wasn’t cut too low as was the fashion in ballrooms of late. The black wig she wore had a sharp-angled cut, offset by the serpent crown perched upon her head.
“My heavens, sister, you are incredibly bonny this eve. I’m certain Cleopatra possessed nowhere near your beauty.” Martin met her on the stairs and offered his hand. “’Tis a good thing I have a Roman sword in my scabbard. I can see it now—I’ll be fighting off all the rakes and knaves worshiping at your feet.”
The lass gave him a nudge. “You wouldna dare!”
He gave her a wink. “When it comes to your honor, you’d be surprised at what I would dare.”
In a whirlwind of red curls, Modesty bounded down the stairs and charged ahead of them. “Do you not think Charity looks like a real Egyptian queen?”
“I dunna like the wig,” said Grace, appearing on the landing. “It is far too severe for her features.”
“But the cut is the Egyptian style to match her costume,” said Mama, taking Charity’s arm. “That’s the purpose of a masked ball is to have one’s identity veiled, after all.”
“Agreed.” Martin looked to Giles standing with his cloak, hat, and cane, all of which would be out of place with his costume. “We’d best be off,” he said, passing the butler and opening the door himself. After all, he did have a red cape attached to his shoulders. Heaven forbid he cover up such a flag of masculinity with a coat.
“Since it is a masquerade, why can I not go along?” asked Grace, her voice hopeful. “It would take but a moment for me to change. I could wear one of my old frocks with pantaloons and go as Little Bo Peep.”
“No,” Martin said simultaneously with his mother.
“Goodness you are incorrigible,” Mama added.
“I thought I was the incorrigible one,” said Modesty.
Charity tugged on the youngest sister’s red curl and made it bounce. “It seems you’ve been replaced.”
Together they headed for the waiting carriage and the short ride to the Marquess of Northampton’s stately home. After they were introduced and moved inside, there was no doubt that His Lordship’s new marchioness had not spared a farthing on the decorations. Enormous vases filled with house flowers adorned every surface. Brilliant chandeliers lit by thousands of candles made the ballroom glow. Even the servants were clad in an array of costumes.
“I wish etiquette allowed young ladies to dance with their brothers,” Charity whispered behind her lotus fan. “Goodness, Marty, we’re all wearing masks, mayhap no one will notice.”
“Mama will notice, and that’s reason enough not to try it. Just be happy we’ve missed the grand march where we would have suffered strutting around the room like preening peacocks.” As Martin spoke, he scanned the room. They’d arrived fashionably late as one would expect from a ducal party. A sizeable crowd filled the hall with nearly as many men as women. He reckoned his sister ought to have her dance card filled in no time. “I aim to see you dancing most of the night and I’ll wager by the time the orchestra plays their last set you’ll forget I’m the one who escorted you here.”
“My dear.” Mama looped her arm through Charity’s elbow and gestured to a somewhat undersized King Richard. “It is my esteemed pleasure to introduce the Earl of Bixby.”
The man bowed deeply. “My lady…”
Martin moved away, though he was a bit flummoxed. Before they’d left the town house, Mama had held forth about hiding one’s identity at masked balls, and yet she was already making introductions. Though Bixby was entirely too old for his sister, at least the chap was signing her dance card and that ought to provide the lass with some encouragement. With Mama’s enthusiasm, Martin didn’t doubt Charity would be fully occupied this eve—giving him an opportunity to observe.
A dais spanned the far end of the ballroom with the orchestra situated on one side. On the other, King Arthur and Guinevere held court—obviously the Marquess and Marchioness of Northampton. They were seated upon gilt thrones, but the couple were not what drew Martin’s attention. To Her Ladyship’s left, a woman sat in a small, unpretentious chair. She was dressed as a Greek goddess and wore a canary yellow gown with a matching mask. A flicker of awareness sparked at the back of Martin’s mind. Did he know the bonny lass?
Deep in his soul, he was absolutely certain he had met this woman before.
But where?
From across the ballroom, he stared. Though yellow had never been his favorite color, for some reason, it was now. The lady wore it so well from the daring neckline edged with crossed gold cord accentuating her breasts—incredibly well-formed breasts—not terribly large, but pert and round and ever so unignorable. Her chestnut hair was piled atop her head in a riot of curls framing her oval face. Her coiffeur was held in place by a sparkling circlet with a white swan nestled in a splay of myrtle, its symbolism indicating the beauty was costumed as Aphrodite.
Martin sighed as she turned her head, allowing him to regard her profile, revealing a small nose peeking from beneath her mask.
The woman opened her fan and inclined her head toward the marchioness, whispering something that made Her Ladyship smile.
Martin, leaned forward as if doing so would help him eavesdrop, even though he could not possibly hear across the expansive floor or above the orchestra. He skirted around the hall, watching her—a long, graceful neck, delicate shoulders that looked smoother than ivory satin. God save him, he was certain he’d seen those shoulders before. At the very least, he’d dreamed about them. Overcome with an uncanny sense of familiarity, he could not shake the idea that he knew this woman from another place and time, as if their destinies were somehow entwined.
But how?
As Martin approached the dais, a court jester stepped into his line of sight. The man bowed to the goddess and escorted her into the center of the floor.
Clenching his fists, Martin looked on with a scowl, swearing he’d never be seen anywhere dressed as a damned court jester. If the cur made one single ungentlemanly move, he would personally thrash the buffoon within an inch of his life.
“I say, Dunscaby, I haven’t seen you in London for some time. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Martin glanced at Northampton and regarded the marquess’ medieval robes before returning his gaze to the dancers as a minuet began. “It appears my disguise is ineffective, even though I’ve been away from Town for nearly seven months.”
“You’re a difficult man to miss, given your size—and only a Scot would have the aplomb to step out in a tunic that short.” The marquess bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “But forgive my impertinence. One does not ignore a duke when he accepts one’s invitation.”
Martin rocked back on his sandals which strained the leathers around his shins. “You and your bride are to be commended. The hall is stunning.”
“’Tis all Her Ladyship’s doing.”
“Hmm,” he mused, not really listening as the sable-haired beauty lightly touched her fingers to her partner’s hand and seemed to float across the floor like a feather carried on a gentle breeze. “Astonishingly graceful.”
“Yes, there is something about a minuet that is purely balletic.”
If Northampton didn’t go weak at the knees from watching the Greek goddess in the yellow gown, he obviously was still on his honeymoon. Rumors were his was a love match. “The lass who was seated beside your wife—I feel as if I know her.”
“Aphrodite?”
“Come, come. I’ll wager Her Ladyship has been whispering everyone’s identity to you as they’ve been announced. Surely you ken the name of a woman who occupied such an esteemed place upon the dais.”
The marquess scratched his temple, making his crown tilt sideways. “You didn’t hear it from me, but she’s Lady Julia, one of Sophie’s dear friends.”
Julia…
Martin wracked his brain, but he was dashed if he didn’t know a Julia. The name was common enough. He ought to know a Julia. But he’d be eating crow if he owned to being clueless to Northampton. Perhaps his mother knew the woman. After all, if she was Lady Julia, she was the daughter of an earl or higher. There weren’t all that many earls, marquesses and dukes in Britain. “Might I have an introduction?” he blurted before he thought better of it.
One of Northampton’s eyebrows arched above his black mask. “On the marriage mart are you?”
“Hardly.” Martin stood taller and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. “I’m here for my sister. However, I may as well make the best of it and have a wee dance with the bonniest woman present.”
Northampton snorted. “I beg to differ, Your Grace. No one holds a candle to my Sophie.”
Martin didn’t bother glancing toward the marchioness. After all, he’d seen the two women sitting together. And though the mysterious Lady Julia was in the smaller seat, she was like a shining beacon compared to the lovely, yet somewhat pallid, other woman.
The minuet ended on a harmonious chord while Aphrodite sank into a courtly curtsy. Martin immediately started moving toward her when Northampton grasped him by the arm. “My, it has been a long time since you graced a ballroom. Come this way. Her Ladyship’s partner will escort her back to the dais.”
Julia.
Name flowed like a Highland burn, babbling through Martin’s mind with an accent on the L.
“My lady,” said Northampton as she approached. “Please allow me to introduce the du… ah …Mark Antony.”
As her lovely chocolatey brown eyes widened beneath the shroud of her mask, the icon of grace tripped on her hem. Though his heart jolted, Martin pretended not to notice while she quickly regained her composure. Perhaps the floor was a bit uneven. Had she recognized him? Or had the Marchioness pointed him out when he’d arrived? The steward had announced his party as “Mark Antony, Cleopatra, and the widow” which had made Mama a wee bit piqued.
Martin slid his foot forward and bowed, noting the lass was ever so petite in stature. “It is a pleasure, m’lady.” As he straightened, her gaze lingered a tad too long on his legs and then trailed upward until she looked him in the eyes. Had a celestial bell just sounded? Was the delicate tinkling responsible for the sudden bout of bubbles levitating from the pit of his stomach?
He had no clue, but by the saints, he liked the unabashed way she looked at him.
After a moment’s hesitation, she dropped her gaze to the floor and curtsied deeply. “I am honored to make the acquaintance of Caesar’s high-ranking general.”
Had she drawn in a wee gasp? He hoped so. “Aye, but dunna play down the importance of a goddess.” Martin gestured from wall to wall. “I see no other celestial beings in the hall.”
“You flatter me, sir. Though I find it indubitably interesting that a preeminent officer of your rank is blessed with a Scottish brogue.”
“Not all Scots are peasants,” said Northampton.
“Forgive me if I was mistakenly construed as impertinent. The implication was certainly not my intention.” Dashed if her gaze didn’t slip to Martin’s legs yet again. “It was intended as a simple observation.”
“As is your impeccable English accent.” Martin extended his hand. “Would you do me the honor of the next dance?”
The lady nodded to their host. “I do believe King Arthur signed my card for the next.”
Northampton bowed and took a step away. “Do not let me dissuade you. I shall naturally forfeit my place for my esteemed guest.”
Martin gave the man an appreciative nod and led Lady Julia to the floor while the orchestra played the introduction to a slow French waltz. With the music, the image of Smallwood clomping about the drawing room with Modesty came to mind.
“Are you fond of waltzing?” asked Her Ladyship placing her hand upon his waist as he mirrored her. Mayhap he couldn’t have given a rat’s arse about the new dance sweeping through Britain’s ballrooms, but in this moment with this woman’s hand touching him so intimately and allowing him to hold her in kind, it was his favorite dance in all of Christendom. Perhaps waltzing had become his favored pastime.
“Quite fond.” Arching his hand over his head, he grasped her fingers and stared into those round, trusting, doe-like eyes. “I’ve recently had the opportunity to watch my sisters’ dancing lessons.”
As he began to move, Lady Julia effortlessly flowed with him, lighter on her feet than any woman with whom he’d ever had the pleasure of waltzing. “By the smile playing on your lips, I’m guessing they must have been enjoying themselves.”
“I’m certain they were.”
“Pray tell, if your sisters were dancing, why were you watching and not stepping in as a partner?”
“Their lesson had already begun when I arrived and the footmen were getting along nicely—except for my steward.”
“Your steward was dancing?” she asked her voice a wee bit higher while those shaded eyes watched him, anticipating his every step, his every nuance. All Martin needed to do was apply the slightest of pressure and she responded as if she’d danced with him a hundred times before.
“The fellow was making an attempt at dancing. Unfortunately, the man isn’t gifted with grace as are you.”
Lady Julia laughed—a very audacious laugh and quite improper for a ballroom. But the happiness she imparted made his heart flutter. A warmth surged through him akin to the thousands of mirrored candles making the hall as bright as a sunlit day.
While they twirled, waltzing across the floor, his sense of familiarness grew as if he’d known this woman all his life. But if they had met, he definitely would have remembered.
The dance ended all too soon followed by the announcement that the orchestra was taking an intermission. Martin bowed and offered his elbow, the touch of her fingers on his arm nothing short of staggering. Together they strode toward the dais while he tried to convince himself of all the reasons he should not ask the woman for another dance when the musicians returned, the first being it was somewhat improper. Doubtless, the gossips were watching and if Northumberland knew Dunscaby’s true identity, then so did they.
“Marty…” Charity stepped out from the crowd, covering her mouth with her fingers. “Ahem, I meant to say Mark Antony.”
He stopped and looked for Mama who was chatting with a matron near the wall. “Cleopatra, please allow me to introduce Aphrodite, goddess and esteemed guest of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.”
Lady Julia curtsied simultaneously with his sister. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“As am I.” Charity hesitated for a moment, leaning toward Her Ladyship with an odd twist to her lips before she straightened and gestured to Mama. “The domino and I are heading to the lady’s withdrawing room while the orchestra takes their intermission. Would you care to join us?”
“Oh no.” Aphrodite shook her head, nearly losing the swan in her coiffeur. As Charity’s smile waned, Lady Julia took his sister’s hand in her palm. “Forgive me. I’m afraid I haven’t been out in society for some time. Though I would very much like to go with you, I must return to Queen Guinevere. She is expecting me to…ah…return.”
With that, Her Ladyship curtsied and hastened away.
“Do ye ken who she is?” his sister asked.
“I’ve no idea, but she seems familiar.”
“I felt the same. She’s a darling wee lass and her costume lights up the entire hall.”
Martin posed no argument as he watched the mysterious Lady Julia head for the dais, where the marchioness was nowhere in sight.