The Jealousy Revelation
The Bancroft masquerade ball transformed Lady Bancroft’s already opulent ballroom into a fantastical dreamscape. Gold and silver decorations caught the candlelight, creating an ethereal glow, while masked figures in elaborate costumes moved through the space like creatures from myth and legend.
Amelia adjusted her Venetian mask, its emerald plumage matching her gown. She’d chosen the costume of Artemis, goddess of the hunt, with a silver bow slung across her back and a crown of delicate silver leaves woven through her upswept hair.
“You look magnificent,” Charles murmured as they entered the grand ballroom.
Amelia’s breath caught as he removed his cloak.
He’d chosen to come as a Roman gladiator, the costume both elegant and imposing.
A burnished bronze breastplate covered a fine white shirt, with decorative leather straps crossing over his shoulders.
A short crimson cape was draped artfully from one shoulder, and leather arm guards adorned his forearms, leaving only a glimpse of his muscled arms exposed.
A simple golden mask covered the upper half of his face, and a ceremonial sword hung at his hip.
The overall effect was striking—suggesting the power and strength of a gladiator while maintaining the decorum expected of a marquess.
“As do you,” she managed, her mouth going dry. “Though I wonder if your choice of costume isn’t a touch theatrical?”
His grin flashed, white against his tanned skin. “A masquerade demands theatricality, my lady. Besides, the alternatives were worse. Patrick suggested I come as Bacchus, complete with grape vines and little else.”
“Thank goodness you showed restraint,” she replied dryly, though her eyes lingered on the defined muscles of his arms.
She had known, of course, that her husband kept himself in excellent condition—fencing required significant physical prowess—but seeing even this modest evidence in the strong line of his forearms and the way the breastplate accentuated his powerful chest made her cheeks warm beneath her mask and stirred something possessive beneath her ribs.
They made their way through the crowd, stopping occasionally to exchange greetings with acquaintances.
Amelia noticed the appreciative glances directed at her husband from various ladies and found herself unconsciously moving closer to him.
His hand settled at the small of her back, warm and steadying.
“There are the Lancasters and our brother,” Charles observed, guiding her toward where Elisha and her husband stood conversing with Steven.
Elisha, costumed as Cleopatra, greeted them with a warm embrace. “You both look wonderful! Though Charles, I’m surprised Lady Bancroft hasn’t swooned at the sight of your bold dress.”
“She’s made of sterner stuff,” Charles replied with a laugh.
“The costume suits you,” Steven acknowledged with a nod to Hereford before kissing his sister’s cheek. “Though I’m sure half the ladies present will be scandalized.”
“Only half?” Charles raised an eyebrow. “I must try harder.”
“Let me fetch you both some champagne,” Charles offered after a moment. “You’ll want refreshment before the dancing begins in earnest.”
As he moved away toward the refreshment table, Amelia seized the rare opportunity for a private word with her brother.
“Steven, while we have a moment alone—I’ve been meaning to ask you about Crown Street Textiles. Do you know if Malcolm Phillips still maintains his law offices on Fleet Street?”.
Steven’s brows furrowed with concern. “Are you investigating your accident?” he asked, studying her face carefully. “After all these years?”
She met his gaze steadily. “I need to know who was responsible for such atrocious factory conditions, who was willing to risk my life and numerous others.”
He nodded slowly, understanding darkening his features.
“The ownership will be deliberately obscured,” he said, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
“These manufacturing concerns build labyrinths of management companies and investment trusts specifically to shield the true proprietors from liability.”
“Which is precisely why I need Malcolm’s expertise,” Amelia said. “His understanding of corporate structures might help me navigate the maze.”
Steven considered this for a moment. “Malcolm’s office is still on Fleet Street.
He would be a valuable ally in this pursuit.
His practice has grown considerably since you last met—he’s developed quite a specialty in untangling these corporate webs.
” He placed a reassuring hand on her arm.
“I’ll write to him tomorrow and arrange a meeting. Perhaps Wednesday next week?”
“Thank you,” Amelia replied, gratitude softening her voice. “This means a great deal to me.”
The Lancasters turned toward them after finishing their conversation. “I’ve received excellent news regarding our railway project. The final approvals were granted last week,” the duke said smoothly.
“All thanks to your marriage,” Steven added, offering Amelia a smile that held both gratitude and a touch of guilt.
Amelia nodded, allowing the shift in topic. It was comforting to know that her arrangement with Charles had yielded tangible benefits, although her personal price was yet to be fully realized.
“The railway will transform transportation throughout the region,” Lancaster continued, his enthusiasm evident. “Goods that once required weeks to move will arrive in days. The economic implications alone are staggering.”
“Not to mention the humanitarian aspects,” Elisha added, her eyes brightening. “Vulnerable women can be moved to safety with unprecedented speed and discretion.”
“The investors are already projecting returns well above our initial estimates,” Steven noted. “And the employment opportunities for local communities will be substantial—station masters, ticket agents, porters, not to mention the construction workers needed to build the lines.”
As Amelia listened, she felt a momentary satisfaction warm her chest. Perhaps her unconventional marriage had served a greater purpose after all. Her gaze drifted across the ballroom, idly seeking Charles among the revelers.
She found him at the refreshment table, but he wasn’t alone.
A woman in an exquisite Cupid costume stood beside him, tiny wings of gossamer and gold attached to her shoulders, a miniature bow and quiver hanging decoratively at her hip.
The woman’s hand rested with casual intimacy on Charles’ arm, her fingers lingering against his skin as she leaned close to whisper something that made him laugh—a genuine laugh that transformed his features with boyish delight.
Something sharp and unexpected twisted in Amelia’s chest at the sight.
The woman was stunning even behind her rose-gold mask, her costume modest by some standards yet perfectly designed to accentuate her figure and flawless complexion.
The easy familiarity between them spoke of an established connection, one that predated Amelia’s arrival in Charles’ life.
As Amelia watched, Charles placed his hand at the small of the woman’s back in a casual, intimate gesture.
“Amelia?” Elisha’s voice broke through her distraction. “Are you all right? You seem miles away.”
“I’m fine,” she replied automatically, dragging her attention back to the conversation. “Just a touch warm.”
Her eyes, however, kept returning to Charles and the mysterious Cupid. Their body language spoke of established familiarity—the easy way they leaned toward each other, the casual touches, the shared laughter. A knot formed in Amelia’s stomach, tight and uncomfortable.
“Ah, there’s Charles returning,” Lancaster observed. “And with champagne, thank goodness. I’m parched.”
Charles rejoined their group and distributed glasses. “My apologies for the delay. Margaret insisted I hear about her latest adventures in Bath.”
“Most likely involving her hands straying to improper regions,” Amelia mumbled before she could stop herself, the words emerging sharper than intended.
Charles glanced at her, a question in his eyes, but said nothing.
The orchestra began to play, signaling the start of the dancing. Lancaster immediately led Elisha toward the floor, and Steven excused himself to greet an acquaintance, leaving Amelia alone with her husband.
“Shall we?” Charles offered his arm, his expression unreadable behind his mask. “I believe this is a waltz.”
Amelia accepted with a nod, allowing him to guide her to the dance floor. His hand settled at her waist, warm through the silk of her gown, as they joined the swirling couples.
“Is something troubling you?” he asked as they moved through the first turn.
“Not at all,” she replied, her voice deliberately light. “Why do you ask?”
“Because your smile doesn’t reach your eyes,” he said softly. “And you’ve been watching something—or someone—across the room with remarkable intensity.”
She kept her expression carefully neutral. “I’m merely observing the various costumes. Some are quite elaborate.”
“Indeed.” His voice held a hint of amusement now. “Any particular costume that caught your interest?”
Despite her best intentions, Amelia’s eyes drifted to where the Cupid stood conversing with another couple. Charles followed her gaze and swallowed a smile.
“Ah,” he said, “I see.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Amelia replied stiffly.
“Don’t you?” His smile widened to a decidedly wicked grin. “Could it be that my wife of convenience is most inconveniently experiencing a touch of jealousy?”
“That’s absurd,” she protested, though heat rose in her cheeks. “I was merely noting the impropriety of her costume. Those wings are ridiculously impractical for dancing.”
Charles laughed, the sound low and warm. “Of course. The wings. How thoughtless of me not to realize that your architectural interest in proper wing construction was the source of your fascination.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse.”