Prologue
"Oh, do not make this a night you will regret, Lavinia," Nancy said, draping the emerald silk dress across the faded counterpane of Lavinia's bed. Mischief made her eyes glow, and Lavinia had learned to regard it with equal parts affection and wariness over their many years of friendship.
"How does one regret not attending a masque, Nancy?" Lavinia countered, turning away to straighten an already immaculate row of hairpins on her dressing table. "One can hardly miss what one doesn't experience."
"Nonsense. You'll lie awake imagining every dance, every laugh, every moment of freedom you denied yourself." Nancy produced a matching silk mask with gold trim from her reticule and laid it beside the dress. "And this would suit you perfectly."
Lavinia ran her fingers along the worn edge of her dressing table, a silent reminder of how far the fortunes of Pembroke Manor had fallen. "I haven't attended such an event in over a year, Nancy. People will wonder where I've been, why my dresses aren't new—"
"It's a masquerade," Nancy interrupted, her voice softening. "No one will know it's you. That's rather the point of wearing masks, my dear."
"And what of this?" Lavinia gestured vaguely at the room around them—the faded wallpaper, the darned curtains, the distinct absence of servants bustling about. "I cannot afford such frivolities anymore. Not since Father—"
"This isn't frivolity. It's necessity." Nancy crossed the room and took Lavinia's hands in hers. "When did you last do something simply because it brought you joy? When did you last dance? When did you last laugh without immediately wondering if it was inappropriate?"
Lavinia's fingers instinctively reached for her mother's amethyst pendant, tracing its familiar contours through the fabric of her day dress. A habit she'd developed over eighteen years, whenever uncertainty or worry clouded her thoughts.
"My responsibilities—"
"Will still be here tomorrow," Nancy finished.
" The manor will not crumble if you take one evening for yourself.
" She squeezed Lavinia's hands. "You've been both mother and sister to Frances since you were a child yourself.
You've managed this estate alone for a year, selling off pieces of your inheritance bit by bit to keep afloat. "
"Someone must do it," Lavinia said, her words clipped.
"Yes, and that someone has always been you. But even Atlas was permitted to shift his burden occasionally, and I daresay he carried less weight than you do."
Lavinia allowed herself a small smile at that. "I'm hardly holding up the heavens, Nancy."
"Aren't you? From where I stand, it certainly looks that way.
" Nancy returned to the dress, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from its lustrous fabric.
"This dress belonged to my cousin—the one who married the merchant and scandalized the family by being deliriously happy despite it all.
She's sent it to me with strict instructions that it be worn by someone who needs a night of freedom. "
"And you immediately thought of me? How flattering."
"I thought of you because you deserve it. Because if you don't allow yourself moments to breathe, Lavinia, you'll break under the weight of everything you carry." Nancy's gaze was steady, uncompromising. "And what good would you be to Frances then?"
The mention of her sister struck home, as Nancy had surely known it would.
I promised Mother I would care for her, but surely that doesn't mean I must deny myself every small pleasure?
"The dress is lovely," she conceded, allowing herself to admire its elegant cut, the way the color would complement her dark hair and fair skin. "But I haven't the proper accessories—"
"I've brought gloves and a fan," Nancy said quickly, triumphant at the first sign of capitulation. "And your mother's pendant would look striking against the green."
Lavinia's hand stilled on the necklace. "I never remove it."
"Of course not. I wouldn't suggest otherwise." Nancy moved to stand behind Lavinia, meeting her gaze in the looking glass. "When did you become so serious, my friend? There was a time when you would have been the one dragging me to balls, insisting we dance until dawn."
"That was before." Before her father's death, before the discovery of his debts, before the desperate scramble to maintain appearances while secretly taking in sewing and translation work to supplement their dwindling income.
Before she'd grown accustomed to calculating the cost of every candle burned, every meal served.
"And this is now," Nancy said. "One night, Lavinia. One night to remember who you were—who you still are, beneath all those responsibilities."
Lavinia stared at her reflection, taking in the shadows beneath her eyes, the tight set of her mouth that had once smiled so readily. When had she last allowed herself even the smallest indulgence? When had she last felt like the girl who had loved music and dancing and clever conversation?
"If I were to go—and I'm not saying I will," she added hastily as Nancy's face lit up, "I would need to leave early. Before midnight, before the unmasking."
"But that's the most exciting part!"
"It's also the most dangerous." Lavinia turned to face her friend. "I cannot risk being recognized as the late earl's daughter who now works for her bread. The scandal would destroy what little standing Frances and I have left."
Nancy opened her mouth as if to argue, then closed it again, considering. "Very well. Before midnight, like Cinderella fleeing the prince."
"There will be no prince, Nancy. Only an evening's respite from reality." Lavinia allowed her fingers to brush the silk of the dress, marveling at its softness. "One dance, perhaps. That's all."
"One dance," Nancy echoed, her smile knowing. She reached for the pins in Lavinia's hair. "Now, let's see what we can do with these brown locks of yours. The Duchess of Lushton's masquerade awaits, and we have a transformation to complete."
Lavinia surrendered to her friend's ministrations with a deep sigh. Just one night, and then back to reality before the clock strikes twelve.
* * *
Lavinia stepped into the ballroom and immediately felt as though she'd wandered into a dream from her past life. “Breathe,” she commanded herself. It's only a ball. Only the world you once belonged to, now viewing you as an intruder.
She touched the emerald mask secured over her eyes, drawing comfort from its concealment.
Behind this shield, no one could see Lady Lavinia Pembroke, daughter of the late earl, reduced to taking in mending to support herself and her sister.
They saw only a mystery—a woman in green silk who might be anyone at all.
Perhaps Nancy was right, she thought, watching the dancers with a pang of remembered pleasure. Perhaps I did need this, if only to remember.
A footman offered champagne from a silver tray, and she accepted. Then Lavinia skirted the edge of the ballroom, preferring observation to participation. The mask granted her a peculiar freedom; she could watch openly, critically, without concern for how her expressions might be interpreted.
"May I have this dance?" A gentleman in a crimson mask and matching waistcoat materialized at her side, hand extended expectantly.
"Thank you, but I'm merely observing this evening," she replied with a polite smile.
He tried again, commenting on the excellence of the orchestra, but Lavinia maintained her refusal. After he departed, two more gentlemen approached in quick succession. Each time, she declined with increasingly creative excuses.
"I find my slippers are not suited to the rigors of a country dance."
"I've promised my next three dances to my companion, who appears to have been delayed."
"I fear I'm still recovering from a twisted ankle. Most inconvenient timing."
She was just congratulating herself on her ingenuity when a voice rang out above the music.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the final waltz before the unmasking!" The master of ceremonies gestured grandly to the orchestra, who readied their instruments.
A momentary hush fell over the gathering as couples began forming for this last dance.
Lavinia glanced at the ornate clock on the far wall—a quarter to midnight.
Time for her to slip away, before curious eyes could peer beneath her mask.
She set her empty champagne flute on a passing tray and turned toward the doorway.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice came from just behind her right shoulder—deep, resonant, with a hint of amusement that seemed directed not at her, but at the entire glittering assemblage around them.
Lavinia turned to find herself facing a broad chest clad in impeccable black evening wear, forcing her to tilt her chin upward to meet the stranger's gaze.
His mask was simple, elegant—black with subtle silver accents that caught the light when he moved.
Unlike the ornate disguises favored by most of the gentlemen present, it covered only his eyes and the bridge of his nose, leaving visible a mouth that curved at an angle that hinted at amusement and extraordinary moments.
"The final waltz is beginning," he said, extending a hand toward her. "Will you do me the honor?"
Lavinia's instinct was to refuse, as she had all evening. But something in his direct gaze, in the confidence of his stance that nonetheless stopped short of arrogance, made her hesitate.
I came to remember. One dance before I disappear again.
"Very well," she said, placing her gloved fingers in his palm. "Though I warn you, I'm woefully out of practice."
The instant their hands touched, Lavinia felt an unexpected jolt of awareness travel up her arm. His fingers closed around hers with a gentle firmness that somehow conveyed both respect and an unmistakable attraction. She drew in a sharp breath as he guided her to the dance floor.
"Out of practice?" he murmured as they took their positions. "Somehow I doubt that very much."
The music began, and they moved into the waltz. His hand at her waist was steady, proper, and yet Lavinia felt it as distinctly as if it had been placed against bare skin rather than silk. She struggled to remember the last time a simple touch had affected her so strongly.
"Do you enjoy balls, my mysterious lady in green?" he asked as they turned in perfect time to the music.
"They are lovely illusions, nothing more," she replied, surprised by her own candor.
His eyebrow raised above the edge of his mask. "Illusions?"
"Certainly. Masks or no masks, isn't that what society always is? Everyone playing parts, hiding their true natures behind proper words and artful smiles."
Lavinia had learned that, with no small measure of pain, when her those she’d thought of as friends had withdrawn from her when her family fortunes diminished.
He guided her through a particularly graceful turn, their bodies moving in perfect synchronicity as though they'd danced together a hundred times before.
"You sound rather cynical for one so young," he observed.
"Age has little to do with experience, Sir."
"True enough." His smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. "Though I confess, your particular brand of cynicism intrigues me. As does your reluctance to dance with anyone else tonight."
“I see you have been watching me,” she noted.
One corner of his mouth curved upward. “How could one not? Are you inclined to share your reason for avoiding the dance floor?”
"Perhaps I was waiting for a partner worthy of breaking my self-imposed exile from the dance floor," she returned, then bit her lip, startled by her own boldness.
"Then I'm honored to have passed whatever mysterious test you applied." He guided her around a slower couple. "Might I know the name of the woman who's deemed me worthy?"
Lavinia shook her head, suddenly remembering the precariousness of her position. "You see me now, but you won't tomorrow. And that's how it has to be."
"Mysterious indeed." He pulled her a fraction closer as they navigated through a particularly crowded section of the floor—close enough that she could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood and something uniquely his own. "At least tell me if you're enjoying our dance as much as I am."
"I..." Lavinia faltered, unused to such direct questions. "Yes. More than I should, perhaps."
His eyes darkened behind his mask. "Why shouldn't you enjoy it?"
"Because enjoyment implies continuation, and there can be none. I won't be present when the music ends."
"All the more reason to savor this moment, then." His thumb brushed lightly across her knuckles where their hands were joined, a touch so subtle it might have been accidental—yet Lavinia knew it was anything but.
"Your name," he pressed as the music began building toward its conclusion. "Just your first name. Something to remember you by."
"No names," she said, though something inside her yearned to grant his request. "No tomorrow. Just this dance, now nearly finished."
The final notes of the waltz approached. All around them, couples were beginning to move toward the center of the ballroom, where the Duchess of Lushton stood ready to begin the ceremonial unmasking.
"Then I shall simply have to find you again," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
Before Lavinia could respond, she slipped from his arms and into the crowd, heart pounding with exhilaration and alarm in equal measure. She wove through the crush of revelers until she reached the hallway just as the clock began to strike midnight.
Outside, her borrowed carriage waited as promised. She climbed in quickly, giving instructions to return to Pembroke Manor before collapsing against the worn leather seat. Her hand flew to her throat to seek the comforting presence of her mother's pendant.
Her fingers met bare skin.
Lavinia sat bolt upright, frantically patting her neck, her bodice, the folds of her dress. The pendant was gone—the necklace she had not removed in eighteen years, the last gift from her mother, lost somewhere between a waltz and a hasty retreat.
She lunged toward the carriage door, ready to order the driver to turn back. But the footman had already closed it with a decisive click, and the horses pulled away from the duchess's London townhouse, carrying Lavinia into the night.
She fell back against the seat, one hand still at her throat, a hollow ache spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the mysterious man she'd left behind, and everything to do with the piece of her heart now lost among the glittering detritus of a world she could no longer call her own.