Chapter Three
Leticia had not slept well.
Not for lack of comfort. The bed was warm, the linens fresh, the house respectfully quiet.
But her thoughts had looped themselves into knots, tugging at the edges of her rest each time she began to drift off.
The moment she closed her eyes, the memory of a bow, a hand, a look returned with unwelcome precision.
It had been one dance. One conversation. Nothing that should have lingered.
And yet, a chill ran up her neck at the memory of his gaze. Not with admiration, but with interest. As though trying to decipher something that wasn’t entirely legible at first glance. Most men looked at her and saw only what they expected: polite charm, practiced ease, and inherited grace.
She had read three pages of Camilla, stared at the same corner of the ceiling for what seemed like hours, and once considered going downstairs for tea, except that would mean explaining herself to Alice, her lady’s maid, or Aunt Margaret. Heaven forbid.
But he had tilted his head, just slightly, as though cataloguing something unexpected. Evaluating, not admiring.
And he had danced like a man trained to follow orders, not instincts.
Leticia rolled onto her side and muttered to the ceiling, “Not uninteresting.”
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.
The morning light was soft, unhurried, and far too gentle for the restlessness curling beneath her skin.
She lay in bed longer than usual, her eyes tracing the shadowed curve of the ceiling above her.
The house was quiet. Someone, probably the maid, had opened the curtains just enough to let in a spill of golden light across the foot of her bed.
Dust motes danced in the beam like so many idle thoughts.
It had been only a dance. A single conversation. Nothing to stir the heart. Nothing to keep her awake.
Leticia exhaled and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, letting the chill of the floor remind her where she was and, more importantly, where she wasn’t.
Not in the ballroom. Not in the soft, suspended moment when the stranger who turned out to be a baron, newly titled, had thanked her with such deliberate formality.
My lady. Spoken like a question he meant to answer later.
The echo of his voice still chased through her like an unfinished melody, persistent and unwelcome.
Her maid, Alice, entered quietly, arms full of linens.
“Morning, my lady. The kettle’s just on. Your aunt says Lady Alfreda means to call this afternoon. Shall I lay out something pale or bold?”
Leticia blinked, startled from her reverie. “Pale,” she murmured. Then, realizing what she’d said, amended, “No. Bold. Something with shape.”
The word surprised her. Brazen, almost. She stiffened, as if daring herself not to retract it again.
The maid curtsied, lips twitching as if to smile, and slipped from the room.
Leticia stood, wrapped her robe tight, and crossed to the window. Beyond the window, the world was waking calm, unhurried, and indifferent to her unrest. The day had begun, ordinary and indifferent.
The world had resumed without pause, which only made her more vexed with herself for lingering.
She turned away from the window, trying to shake the heaviness that clung to her thoughts like fog. There was nothing to be done about it now. One dance. One remark. It shouldn’t have meant anything.
And yet.
She stepped into her day dress slowly, letting Alice fasten the back while her mind wandered elsewhere. The sash was still in her hands when the maid re-entered with a salver in her hand.
“A note, miss. Delivered not ten minutes ago.”
Leticia took it, noting the familiar crest embossed in the wax, Notley House. Her smile came involuntarily. Erica’s notes were always carefully penned, full of flowing script and casual charm, as though written in a sun-dappled garden with nothing more serious than a poem in mind.
She broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Darling L,
Last night was a triumph, but our season’s mischief is far from over. The masquerade draws near, and I do hope you’ll attend. I shall be there, plumed, painted, and pretending nothing at all.
They say masks reveal more than they hide. I wonder what I might learn if I spot you behind one.
Promise you’ll come. I’ve half a mind to make it a game, but perhaps we’re past such things.
Ever yours,
Erica
Leticia read the message twice. Her fingers tightened around the edges, just enough to crease the paper before she caught herself.
It was exactly the sort of note Erica always sent, light, lovely, and designed to leave one feeling special.
And yet, there was something in it… the suggestion of a challenge, the hint of secrecy beneath the silk.
Her friend’s hand always sparkled with gaiety, but this time it pressed more deliberately, like a bell she could not unhear.
She folded it again, slower this time, and looked toward the window.
She told herself she hadn’t yet decided whether to attend. The idea of a masquerade seemed indulgent and unnecessary. However, the idea had settled beneath her skin, persistent and irrational. She told herself it was an obligation, a social expectation, but some part of her craved the escape.
The gown was already ordered. The mask was chosen. The invitation was accepted weeks ago. It would be noticed if she didn’t attend. And there would be resulting gossip. She let out a deep sigh. She had no intention of being the brunt of that.
Leticia tapped the folded letter against her palm.
A single dance wasn’t a scandal. Unless one kept thinking about it the next day.
She set the letter on the dressing table and turned back to Alice, who stood waiting near the armoire.
“Something with shape,” Leticia said again, more firmly this time. “And the green slippers.”
Alice’s brows lifted slightly, but she offered no comment. Only a nod, and the faintest suggestion of a smile.
Leticia turned her attention back to the letter, still folded on her dressing table.
She should have forgotten him by now.
The dance hadn’t lasted more than five minutes.
He had said nothing remarkably, that maddening phrase, not uninteresting, and her name as though it were a secret he meant to carry away with him.
Yet there had been something about the way he stood.
As if accustomed to command, but unused to amusement.
As though he didn’t quite know what to do with someone who answered him honestly.
He had danced like a man who followed patterns, not instincts. Each step was precise, measured, not mechanical, but as if he’d been trained to move with efficiency, rather than joy.
It had intrigued her. And more than that, it had stayed with her long after the music ended.
She stood, pacing lightly before her mirror, absently adjusting the fall of her sleeve. Memory slipped in where discipline should have been of a summer afternoon at Ridgemoor, Erica laughing in the garden, tossing bread to the ducks with unapologetic aimlessness.
“You can’t always be composed, Leticia,” words she’d deflected at the time with a practiced smile, though they’d pricked sharper than she let on.
Only now did she begin to understand the warning behind them.
Erica had said, tugging a blade of grass between her fingers.
“Someday you’ll want to be entirely unreasonable, and I do hope I’m there to see it. ”
Leticia hadn’t known whether to be flattered or insulted. She smiled, of course. That was what one did. But even then, she had felt the divide between them. Erica was carefree and radiant, and herself… reliable.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel, at the small velvet drawer in her dressing table where the masquerade mask had been tucked away since it arrived from the modiste.
She hadn’t so much as lifted the lid. Perhaps she was afraid of who she’d find behind it.
A knock came at the open door, followed by the unmistakable silhouette of Lady Eastbury. She wore her dark shawl wrapped elegantly over one shoulder, a small book in her hand, and the faint scent of lavender trailed after her.
“You’re up early,” her aunt said lightly. “Good. I’ve been awake for hours and had no one to share in my indignation at the latest from the Morning Post.”
Leticia turned. “What has society done now?”
“An article named a viscount’s pug one of the ten best-dressed attendees at Lady Withersby’s garden party.”
Leticia blinked. “Was it well dressed?”
“Impeccably,” her aunt allowed. “But I object to its inclusion on principle.”
Leticia smiled despite herself and gestured toward the chair near the window. “Shall I prepare a protest? Or merely have Alice remove the fashion section before your tea arrives?”
“No, no. Let the world be absurd. It makes our restraint appear virtuous.” Her aunt settled gracefully, added, with the slightest arch to her brow, “I hear your friend Miss Notley is preparing something especially grand for the masquerade.”
Leticia raised a brow. “Already?”
“She’s had it planned since July, I suspect. She merely let the rest of us catch up.”
There was a pause. Leticia folded her hands. “You’re looking forward to it?”
“I am.” Her aunt smiled softly. “There’s a kind of delicious freedom in not being recognized. Anonymity, just for an evening, can make one surprisingly bold.”
Leticia considered that. “Or dangerously foolish.”
“Possibly both.” Her aunt looked up. “But there is something to be said for stepping out of one’s role, even briefly. One can try another way of being. A different voice. A secret self.”
Leticia glanced again at the drawer. A mask was a hiding place. But also a mirror. It could conceal just enough to let something truer slip through.
She was not so composed as she had once believed. And if she let herself want something, someone, with that same honesty, she wasn’t sure she’d know how to stop.
She watched the sunlight shift across the floorboards and, for a moment, imagined who she might be if no one expected her to be anyone at all.