Chapter Four
Who is this woman? Grey thought for the hundredth time that night.
He had been hopelessly drawn to her ever since he first caught sight of her across the crowded ballroom.
She should have looked absurd in her antiquated French costume better suited to his grandparents’ era, but there was something utterly perfect about her.
That she’d gone so far as to don a wig, and powder and paint her face? He appreciated the commitment.
When she’d broken away from her companions and headed toward the refreshment table, Grey knew he must take his chance at a private introduction.
He immediately excused himself and made his way across the ballroom. He fully expected to be able to discern her identity once they were closer, but that was not the case. If anything, he was more intrigued by the mystery. More entranced by her beauty up close.
The golden lace of her mask perfectly highlighted the amber streaks in her chocolate brown eyes. Those eyes were marvelous, as rich as any cocoa confection, and rimmed in thick, sooty lashes longer than should have been possible. They drew him in and held him fast.
From the first words she spoke, he knew she was brimming with mirth and wit—an utterly attractive and irresistible combination as far as Grey was concerned.
She met his every comment tit-for-tat, impressing him with her quickness and making him all the more eager to learn her identity.
For the time being, he was content to play along with the mystery of the event, but he vowed that he would learn her name one way or another.
He searched her face for any clues to her identity, but her mask and her costume were too successful in disguising who she was.
He ran through his mental list of who their hosts might have paired him up with.
She was too slim to be Widow Trout, too youthful to be Lady Hargreave, too intelligent, by far, to be Mrs. Paulson.
Any of those women would have been suitable pairings for a bachelor duke with his background—they were respectable enough women, but not at all opposed to a bit of naughty fun should the mood strike.
Certainly, she was none of his former lovers, nor was she a sibling of any of his friends.
He continued his analysis of her visible features, listened to the pleasing cadence of her voice, and still, he was at a loss.
Perhaps he merely needed to spend more time with her… That would not be a hardship.
He took the role of escort to heart and, though it was awkward with the large diameter of her skirts, he remained by her side.
Her hand rested lightly on his forearm. She was dainty, he noticed, but far from frail.
Between the wig and her layers of clothing, she must have been carrying around at least forty pounds of added weight.
Not once did she falter or sway. In fact, she practically glided beside him, making him even more impressed by her poise and carriage.
She was a brilliant mixture of charm and acerbic comebacks.
She juggled conversing with several people at once and deftly directed the discussion to her preferred topics.
Grey was content to watch, so long as she continued touching him.
Finally, there was a swell of notes from the assembled musicians. One by one, heads turned to the balcony and began searching out their partners. The evening’s main event was about to take place.
Grey turned to his match and was pleased to find her already watching him. “Are you ready, Papillon?” he asked with a smile.
She huffed as deep a breath as her full corset would allow. The gesture caused the milky swells of her bosom to rise up and over the edge of her gown’s square bodice trimmed in lace. The motion had him riveted, and his mouth went suddenly dry. “Oui, Grenouille.”
He led her to the dance floor with the flow of the crowd and took their place for the famous waltz.
Grey watched raptly as she stared in wonder around them.
Matched couples in fancy dress of every conceivable color, theme, and design surrounded them.
There was something new and exciting to see each time one turned his head; it was almost too much to take in.
Her lips were parted in delight, cherry red, and glistening. His mouth watered with the nearly overwhelming need to taste them. He imagined how sweet they would be—how she would gasp in surrender against his mouth as he licked his way inside.
“This is like a dream,” his partner whispered, returning her attention to him as they took their places.
Her skirts bunched between them and, while it took some adjustments, they were able to manage the proper pose for the waltz.
If Grey was honest, he held her a bit more tightly and closely than was strictly necessary.
He liked the feel of her in his arms; he enjoyed her light scent of lilacs and vanilla, at once warm and clean.
Would her hair smell the same? Were the locks beneath her wig rich and dark like her eyes, or the color of late-summer honey?
“You seem in awe of your surroundings,” he commented, an idea tickling the back of his mind. “Is this your first time here?”
“It is the first time I’ve been able to attend,” she admitted.
This relieved Grey. With her confidence and self-possessed carriage, he hadn’t believed her to be a debutante, but this confirmed it.
She’d indicated this was the first time she’d been able to attend the ball, not that she’d previously been too young to be invited.
It wasn’t that he disliked debutantes; he merely preferred a bit more worldliness, wit, and fire than they typically possessed.
“How are you finding it?” he asked, subtly pressing his palm more firmly against the low of her back so she did not misunderstand him.
The dark pools of her pupils nearly swallowed her irises. “Quite wonderful,” she breathed. He imagined he could see the endless expanse of the starry night sky in her eyes, fathomless in its infinity.
Quite wonderful, indeed.
The waltz began, and the two of them moved together with all the grace and skill of individuals who had been well-tutored in the art of dancing from a very young age…
but there was still something to be said for chemistry.
If his years in Society had taught Grey anything, it was that two relative strangers could manage a dance together quite well so long as they both knew the steps.
It took a certain amount of intuition and silent communication to dance as beautifully as he and his counterpart did.
She was as light on the dance floor as she’d been strolling the ballroom on his arm; she placed enough trust in him to guide her amongst the throng yet held her own as more than a simple partner.
She was grace personified. And Grey could have happily continued staring down into her face for the rest of time.
Her smile entranced him. Her soft laughter when he moved her into an extra spin for no other reason than flair was warm and throaty, a sound he wished to hear again and again.
He had to get her alone.
He had to learn her identity.
He had to see her again after this night ended.
In his mind, it was simply not a possibility that this interaction would be their one and only.
He ached to feel her bare fingers against his, to press their palms together and feel one another’s warmth.
He needed to know how she felt beneath him, on top of him, in his arms, and when she wrapped her own arms around him.
He wanted to learn the unique rhythm of her heartbeat, the sounds she made when she came apart in surrender, and what she looked like upon waking from the deepest, most content slumber.
He’d been partnered with her for a reason—by fate just as much as their hosts—and he couldn’t help but think what a mistake it would be if they walked away from that night, never knowing what might have been.
The dance concluded, and all the partners bowed and curtseyed.
A rousing round of applause followed as their hosts appeared on the balcony.
Lord and Lady Benton were dressed as Aphrodite and Hephaestus—the Greek goddess of love and her blacksmith husband.
She was swathed in glittering robes and intricately layered gossamer fabric, while he wore blacks and reds, leather gauntlets, and an iron circlet around his head.
They began addressing their guests, thanking them for their attendance and committed participation to the fancy dress requirement.
With the entire party congregated in the ballroom, the air was becoming quite close and stifling.
Just as he wondered how long it would be before sweat ruined the effect of his dusted hair, Grey felt the woman beside him waver.
Instinctively, he cupped her elbow to steady her.
It was impossible to tell with the amount of powder she wore on her face, but he believed she’d gone quite grey beneath it.
“Are you unwell?” he asked in a whisper, trying not to draw any unwanted attention to their direction. If his papillon was feeling poorly, then he did not wish to embarrass her by alerting others.
“This gown,” she replied faintly and began to fan herself with small, quick flicks of her wrist. “I am unused to how heavy it is, and the dancing and now standing in this crush…”
Right. Grey needed to find a way to relieve her before she was overcome by the circumstances.
Wordlessly, Grey maneuvered them back through the throng, keeping their movements slow and measured so they did not draw notice.
Luckily, they’d completed the dance not too far from the doors leading to the back garden; the elaborate costumes and their expounding hosts were an excellent distraction.
Before long, Grey had swiped a cup of punch from a passing tray with his free hand and continued to guide his papillon out into the night.