Chapter Three
The ball was everything Emmeline had dreamt of, and more.
Her excitement had increased with each minute spent in the carriage with her mother and brother, as they stood in line to enter the residence, and she was fairly vibrating with it by the time they were finally admitted to the grand ballroom.
The cavernous space was warm from the crush of bodies and the golden light of hundreds of expensive beeswax tapers placed in crystal chandeliers and gilded candelabras.
Explosions of pink peonies, red tulips, and white lilies were in every corner, dripping from tables, and decorating the balconette where the orchestra was already adding to the exquisite ambiance of the evening.
If that wasn’t enough, the costumes made her feel as if she was drifting through the most fantastical dream.
She finally understood why it took so many months to have the fancy dresses made—each one would have been an unimaginably laborious task.
It boggled the mind how there were enough modistes and tailors in London to create all the beautiful and intricate designs worn by the very best of the ton.
Her eyes scanned the collection for a man who could be the counterpart to her French Court costume.
She saw a sultan, a king, a knight, a Renaissance painter, a bejeweled male peacock, and even a man wearing a ruff resembling a lion’s mane, but no French courtier.
No matter. For the time being, she was content to absorb her surroundings and enjoy the unfamiliar atmosphere.
After nearly five years out in Society, this was far from her first grand event, but that evening’s dreamlike quality was intoxicating.
It was difficult not to become swept up by it all—the undercurrent of anticipation was an undercurrent shared by all the guests.
The night was young. There was plenty of time for her to locate her match.
Some costumes were better than others at disguising their wearer.
A distinctive belly immediately gave away the identity of her mother’s swan counterpart.
The Marquess of Brendan was an old, dear friend of her mother’s and, from what Emmeline had heard, they were often paired together at this event—especially since the passing of Emmeline’s father three years before from an illness of his lungs.
Some men might have looked absurd garbed in black feathers, but the marquess’s incessant smile and determined joviality overshadowed all of it.
A memorably grating laugh made Emmeline fairly certain that the medieval lady with long, draping sleeves on her gown was Lady Dowell.
Leo’s partner was taking full advantage of the anonymity of the fancy dress and mask to hang on the arm of the newest Duke of Goffin.
The young lady, garbed in a swath of pleated ivory fabric intended to mimic a toga of antiquity, her hair done in a hundred little braids and woven into a honey-gold cone at the back of her head, beamed.
There was no other word for her blinding smile that showed off nearly all her (thankfully) straight, white teeth.
As far as Emmeline could tell, she could be Miss Prudence Felton or her cousin, Miss Diana Bruce, either one of whom she did not find all that objectionable.
Leo, however, already appeared miserable; he had been easily recognized for who he was.
With his height and distinctive dark, curling hair and his less-than-elaborate costume, it did not take a brilliant mind to recognize the Duke of Goffin.
One could not hide too well beneath the disguise of a Roman senator.
Emmeline and her mother made their rounds of the room, each of them on one of Brendan’s arms. She did her best to scan the room as subtly as possible, casting glances out of the corner of her eye as she looked for the counterpart to her assigned costume, but she had no luck.
It was difficult not to become deflated as the hour crept closer to the Grand Dance.
What if her partner never showed?
What if she were the only guest who could not participate in the dance?
Had that ever happened before?
This was, of course, her first time attending the event, so she couldn’t say whether it was a common occurrence.
One would believe that she’d have heard if it had been, right?
What would this do to her reputation? She supposed the only saving grace was her disguise—worst case, she could deny it was she who was the lonely lady.
Emmeline’s frantic thoughts froze, full stop.
Her eyes caught on the tall, sturdy frame of a man garbed in the opulent clothing of the French Court.
She faced his back with its impressive shoulders and slim waist. For all its gaudy trim, it was tailored to the highest level of perfection.
The shapeliness of his legs was accentuated by the fine silk knee breeches and white stockings.
Her eyes raking him up and down with unabashed appreciation from behind her gilded mask, Emmeline wondered who the man was, and how she had never noticed him before.
He’d eschewed a wig and, instead, had opted to dust his hair with powder to mask its color.
Her best guess was that he had either dark brown or black hair, and it was long enough to tie back in a short queue at the nape of his neck.
The man was a fine specimen…and she simply had to know his identity.
Emmeline wasn’t a woman who enjoyed being on the outside of a plan or secret.
This might have precluded her from enjoying an event such as the one she was attending, but she had also been fairly confident that she’d be able to recognize her partner behind the mask and disguise.
Emmeline had been certain that the atmosphere and the fancy dress would present no obstacle to her deductive abilities, but now…
In her three years out in Society, Emmeline had met, danced with, or conversed with essentially every eligible man of marriageable age, and she knew most of the married ones, as well.
She ran through her mental list, and she could not recall having met a man with such a pleasing figure, nor such a perfect profile when he turned his head to speak to another guest. Even though the upper part of his face was obscured by a plain domino mask cut from the same fabric as his coat, she knew she’d never seen a finer jaw.
As if sensing her eyes skating over every inch of his handsome form, the man turned in her direction. Her heart actually skipped, and it was as if the rest of the ball faded away.
Gone were the hum of voices, the plucking of notes from the orchestra, the clink of crystal glasses; everything was replaced by the rush of blood pounding in Emmeline’s ears.
What she could see of his face was well-proportioned.
His strong jaw and full mouth complemented one another.
The man actually possessed a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled.
While the lack of symmetry made him appear more human and less godlike, it also served to make him achingly charming.
What did it say about her that her insides felt as if they’d begun to liquefy from a mere glance in her direction?
How could she be expected to comport herself when she spoke with him, danced with him?
She was not a nervous person; she never shied from a challenge, nor was she afraid of speaking her mind, so why had a simple glance from an unfamiliar man upended her world so thoroughly?
Her elder sister, Francesca, had once described feeling something similar when she’d first encountered her husband.
The two of them were now happily wed and ensconced in the country, far too absorbed in their bliss to bother with events such as this one.
Emmeline gave herself a little mental shake.
She wasn’t fanciful. She didn’t plan weddings to men whom she’d only just glimpsed.
She would not paint herself in the role of a woman who met a man and the two of them were both immediately struck by Cupid’s arrow.
That was the silly stuff of fairytales, not reality.
“Oh! Look, dear!” Emmeline’s mother fluttered her white feather fan in the man’s direction. “Your partner has arrived!”
“Mother,” Emmeline hissed, furious that she could already feel her cheeks warming from her mother’s not-so-subtle gesturing.
The marquess saved her by gently lowering her mother’s arm. “Let’s not mortify the girl.”
Emmeline shot him a grateful look and, purposefully not looking toward the man across the room, she said, “I am going to retrieve some punch for myself. Would either of you care for some?”
“No need,” the marquess replied with a smile and held up his whiskey.
“Thank you, no, dear,” said her mother, already pulled into another conversation.
Emmeline breathed a sigh of relief as she escaped toward the refreshment area that had been laid out along the wall opposite the orchestra.
She needed a moment to gather herself—to remember who she was.
The evening had barely begun, and her good senses were already being carried away on clouds of mystery and music.
She didn’t realize she’d reached the refreshment table, nor that she’d been staring into the enormous crystal bowl of pinkish punch until a deep, husky voice spoke intimately close to her ear. “If you are wondering how to serve yourself, you must utilize the ladle.”
Emmeline whirled as quickly as her heavy, cumbersome costume would allow. She turned so fast that the momentum of her spinning skirts nearly carried her in a full circle, and would have had the man’s gloved hand not caught her elbow and saved her.
“Whoa, there,” he murmured with one of those charming, dimpled smiles. Good lord, the timbre of his voice was like the plucking of a cello’s lowest string; it resonated in the air, and she felt it in her chest long after he’d finished speaking.
“I—I know how to serve myself punch,” Emmeline finally said, and, immediately, she could have kicked herself for the stupidity of the response. Of course, she knew how to serve herself punch. Of course, he’d only been jesting as a way to introduce conversation in these unconventional circumstances.
“Just in case, why don’t I do it for you?
Allow me.” He removed his hand from her elbow, and she, rather absurdly, missed its presence.
Though his hands were quite large and proportionate to the rest of him, they moved with an unexpected grace and dexterity.
His fingers were long, and their elegant movements made her wonder if they were smooth and unblemished like a scholar’s, or if they were rough like a man who, despite his regal mien, rode his horse hard and enjoyed physical activity.
God, she prayed it was the latter. She couldn’t abide a man who didn’t enjoy a bit of adventure and excitement.
She stared dumbly for a moment before remembering she needed to move her hands to accept the proffered drink.
“Thank you,” she said faintly, and, not wishing to seem ungrateful, she forced herself to sip from the cup. It was too sweet, as punch usually was at these events, but it did serve to loosen up her tight throat and refresh her mouth that had gone suddenly, concerningly dry.
“Unless I am mistaken, we are to be partners for the evening, Miss…?” he trailed off, waiting for her to fill in the desired information.
“I believe it isn’t very sporting to request my name. It goes against the spirit of the event.”
She was unaccountably pleased by the flash of humor in his hazel eyes.
Now that they stood closely together, she could see they were quite lovely and appeared to reflect the sapphires and emeralds of his fancy dress and domino mask.
Absently, she thought what a shame it was that any part of him was hidden from the world.
He inclined his head in concession. “Then what do you prefer I call you? Mademoiselle Papillon?”
Emmeline’s cheeks warmed beneath their dusting of rice powder. “I am unsure if I care to be likened to an insect, no matter how beautiful a butterfly’s wings may be.” Her lips curled in a smile as an idea occurred to her. “And you? Is Monsieur Grenouille too spot-on?”
He pressed a hand to his chest as if she’d wounded him gravely, but his mouth split into a full-fledged grin. His straight, white teeth added to the beauty of his smile. “So cruel, Mademoiselle, to call me a frog?”
“Correct me if I am wrong, but I believed it was an accurate nickname for the French.”
“But I am an Englishman through and through. On my honor, I swear it.”
Was he flirting with her? Oh, yes. The glint in his eyes confirmed it.
“How am I to take your word for such a thing when you look so very French?” She flicked open her painted lace fan and fluttered it rapidly.
She’d initially done it to add emphasis to her banter, but it made her realize just how warm she was beneath all the heavy layers of clothing that made up her costume.
The breeze provided by her fan was actually quite pleasant.
“I could say the same of you. Surely, your attire would rival that of any French noblewoman of last century’s court.”
“Are you saying I look too French?”
“Too beautiful to be French.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, making Emmeline’s heart lodge in her throat.
His smoldering eyes never left hers. “Since we are committing to our hidden identities, I propose we address one another by Papillon and Grenouille. Neither of us is overly pleased with the name, so we are on even territory in that regard. Besides, it is only temporary.”
“Temporary?”
“I, for one, fully intend to learn your name before sunrise.”