Chapter 2 #3
“Thank ye for helping me to welcome a verra special guest. Mr. Deville has come all the way from America at the behest of my cousin Andrew, to manage Prince Armory’s interests in the Highlands.
” As the cheering began again, the laird lifted his hands.
“And coincidentally discovered he’s part of the family, too, eh?
” The big man’s smile left no doubt he was thrilled to welcome another bastard.
“He’s a fine young man, who has decided we’re no’ all that bad either! ”
As the guests laughed, the guest of honor climbed the stairs to stand a few steps below the laird. Ember couldn’t tell much about him behind his mask, other than he was well-built—although anyone standing beside the portly laird would appear well-built—and dressed as a cowboy.
How…interesting. Weren’t cowboys rough and dirty men, who lived in the wilderness with their cattle? But Mr. DeVille was the son of the laird and had been sent by a millionaire to oversee an important business, so surely he was just as refined and sophisticated as the Oliphant brothers.
His costume choice—complete with an outrageously large cowboy hat—must be a joke toward his American status. That had to be it.
As the laird finished speaking, the musicians started to play, and with much gaiety, the ball officially began.
Despite her ensemble, Ember was content to stand in the shadows of the pillar, beside a large potted tree, and simply enjoy the pageantry of it all.
She counted five women dressed as cats, one of them dressed in an orange-and-black gown with a striped mask.
The rest wore simple tails attached to ballgowns as their only nod toward a costume.
There were quite a few medieval knights—one in a full suit of armor, who didn’t look as though he could walk at all—and other lordly costumes from antiquity.
She was fairly certain she recognized one of the laird’s sons—the scholarly one was dressed in Egyptian garb—and a few others. But it was the servants who were easiest to pick out, as they wore their standard black, and she recognized most of them from her time in the village.
None of them would recognize her of course, and there was something exhilarating about that knowledge.
She could, if she wanted to, move out from behind the pillar, interact with these men and women, and none would know it was her. There was power in that realization. And power in the knowledge she was dressed as if she belonged there.
Oh! There was Tiffany, dancing with a man in elegant evening wear and a simple black mask. She glowed in the fancy electric lights Lady Dumpkins had installed, and Ember noticed more than a few people pointed to the shoes on her stepsister’s feet.
It was working!
Ember had known Tiffany would draw attention, and thus her shoes would as well. Perhaps soon, Ember would be able to convince Mr. DeVille to begin production on a new line of products.
Bonnie was dancing as well, although she didn’t seem all that happy about it.
She kept glancing over at her mother, who made impatient little shooing motions with her hands.
Machara was watching her daughters dance and was preening with delight.
Bonnie, on the other hand, looked as if she’d much rather be standing behind a pillar—or hiding in the laird’s library—than be the center of so much attention.
It was all so dazzling, Ember stood for what seemed like hours, watching it all. The lights! The colors! The music! She hadn’t imagined anything like this.
Balls like this—even masquerade balls—were for people who weren’t like her. People like the Laird Oliphant and Mr. DeVille. People with money and sophistication and influence.
But if she stepped out from behind her pillar, not a single one of them would realize she didn’t belong there.
Tiffany swept by at that moment, laughing gaily. Her partner was dressed as a knight, but seemed to dance and move freely enough. Through his visor, even Ember could see he was smiling as he spoke to her stepsister.
And then…the knight—whom Ember was beginning to suspect might be the second Oliphant brother: the charmer—spun Tiffany to a stop very near Ember’s hiding spot.
It was clear, from the way he placed his hand against Tiffany’s lower back and steered her toward the shadow of the potted tree, that he was looking for some privacy.
As Ember slipped around to the other side of the pillar, she overheard the knight say to her stepsister, “Please, lass. I must ken yer name!”
Tiffany giggled flirtatiously and brushed her gloved fingertips against the edge of her pink mask. “Does that not defeat the purpose, milord?”
“The purpose?” he murmured, leaning closer.
Ember’s stepsister didn’t seem to mind. “The purpose of a masquerade, milord. We could be anyone beneath these masks. You could be a stable boy or the Duke of Cashard.”
The knight leaned closer to murmur, “The Duke is not attending tonight’s ball. He didnae want to attend the house party at all, but his mother insisted he escort his sister and her. But while they’re here, he apparently drew the line at masquerades.”
Ember watched her stepsister’s expression, but to her surprise, Tiffany didn’t seem particularly heartbroken that she wouldn’t get to dance with the Duke tonight. Either she was very good at play-acting, or she was truly enamored of the man in the knight’s costume.
“Well then, milord I could be anyone, could I not? A princess, or a serving maid.”
“Whoever ye are, sweet lady, ye are beautiful.” The knight lifted Tiffany’s hand, but instead of placing a kiss on it, cupped her palm to his cheek, which made her sigh with pleasure. “I would ken yer name, so I might find ye again.”
It seemed to Ember it took her sister a few times to get her mouth working, and she understood why. If this was indeed Lysander Oliphant, he was certainly the charmer everyone had claimed.
“I—I am an Oliphant, milord.” Tiffany’s voice was breathless, as she leaned toward him. “You can find me at the inn.”
“The Oliphant Inn. Excellent,” he murmured. And then he stepped forward, forcing Tiffany to step back or risk plastering herself against him, and soon enough, both of them were now behind the potted tree.
An excellent position for hanky-panky, if that’s what they were up to, but not ideal for Ember. In desperation, she slipped around the other side of the pillar, trying not to be caught back there with her sister and her new beau.
How awkward. And crowded.
So she stepped out from the shadows, lifted her chin, and met the eyes of the cowboy.
That sounds quite exciting, does it no’?
But they weren’t in the wilds of America; they were in a ballroom in the heart of civilization. And although he was dressed as a cowboy, Mr. DeVille was a wealthy manager, come to set the factory to rights.
And the man who could help her by agreeing to produce the shoes which would give her back her freedom.
So when he took a step toward her, she didn’t turn and run; not that she could, in these fancy shoes. Instead, she lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and tried to remember how to be charming.
“Would you care to dance?” the cowboy asked her in a deep drawl. His expression, under the plain mask he wore, was serious, but he held his hand out to her as if he never expected a denial.
So she placed her hand in his and allowed him to sweep her into a waltz.
He held her stiffly—either he was completely proper or was as unaccustomed to dancing as she was—and kept his attention on the music.
Still, dancing with the guest of honor made Ember feel almost giddy, and also, quite warm.
Her hand and back tingled where he touched her, but that was likely because of the excitement of the moment.
“They are all looking at me,” she said suddenly, then pressed her lips together in embarrassment.
Behind his mask, his dark eyes seemed to soften at the edges as he glanced down at her for the first time.
“And why wouldn’t they? You’re the prettiest lady in the room.
” The way he stated it, so assuredly, made her warmer still.
“I couldn’t believe you didn’t have a partner already; that’s why I had to scoop you up. ”
“How positively American of you,” she murmured.
He chuckled, a warm deep sound, which made him seem more human and less like a refined businessman.
“I like you,” he drawled, as they swept into another turn. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name?”
Remembering the way Tiffany had demurred and knowing the repercussions which would come if her stepmother ever learned she’d been at the ball against the woman’s wishes, Ember lowered her chin. “That would defeat the purpose of the mask, would it not?”
The cowboy hummed. “And since it’s such a nice mask, I wouldn’t want to do anything to offend it. That mask…I’ve never seen anything like it. Are those gears?”
“Yes, sir.” One corner of her lips tugged upward, and she realized, despite the high stakes, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. “I have somewhat of a mechanical bent.”
“Really? Me too.”
“Yes, I know, Mr. DeVille.”
“You know my name, but I don’t get to know yours?”
“You are the guest of honor,” she pointed out.
“Everyone on Oliphant Lands is abuzz with the news of the laird’s new son, who has come to run Oliphant Engraving.
” And although she knew many of them, they only knew her as her stepmother’s drudge, not as a lady in an intriguing silver gown. “And I have been hoping to meet you.”
“Really? Because of my charm?”
She had to chuckle at that. “Because of your position. I have a business idea—a proposition—now that you hold such an important role.”
“Oh.”
He seemed disappointed, and she opened her mouth to reassure him, although how, she didn’t know. But at that moment, the waltz ended, leaving them both a little surprised. She lowered her arm a few moments too late to join in the applause, and saw him shake himself, as if he’d been in a stupor.
Movement off to the side of the ballroom caught her eye. There, near the potted tree she’d hid behind, stood Machara, and Ember recognized her body language well enough to know the older woman was livid about something.
It didn’t take long to understand, as Machara’s hand shot out and closed around Tiffany’s arm, pulling her out from behind the pillar. Ember’s stepsister was looking a little rumpled, but the knight, who stepped out of the shadows after her, was grinning.
Oh dear. There clearly had been some hanking and panking, and Machara wasn’t pleased.
Ember knew her well enough to know that it wasn’t Tiffany’s reputation—she would gladly ruin it for her own goals—but the fact that this beautiful daughter of hers had been wasting her time with the second Oliphant brother, instead of the heir.
Ember’s stepmother raised her hand to gesture to Bonnie, who looked almost relieved when her mother motioned her toward the front entrance. As Tiffany was pulled away, she glanced over her shoulder at the knight, who still seemed amused by the whole thing.
Were…were they leaving? Ember’s heart began to pound in her chest. If they were leaving, that meant they would be back at the inn soon, and her stepmother would discover she wasn’t there!
Her mind already frantically calculating, she stepped away from the cowboy, who was still watching the musicians. If Machara and her daughters had to wait for the carriage to be brought around—and their cloaks, although it was warm outside—then they’d be here a bit longer.
Ember might have a chance of beating them home.
But only if she ran!
Mr. DeVille turned to her. “I’d like to dance with you again, if you don’t—” He cut himself off abruptly when he got a good look at her. “Why are you shaking your head at me?”
“I am sorry,” Ember said quickly, genuinely meaning it. “I have to go!”
“But—”
She didn’t have time to hear him out. Instead, her heart already frantic, she turned and hurried for the back entrance, hoping she wasn’t making too much of a commotion.
Once out of the ballroom, she gathered her skirts in her hands—thank goodness they were cut high in the front, so she didn’t have to worry about tripping—and began to run.
Taking the back stairs two at a time, she almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
“Wait! Please! What’s the rush? Miss? Miss!”
It was the cowboy, following her!
Blast!
She didn’t have time to explain to him her hurry, much less who she was and why she wasn’t supposed to be at the ball in the first place. Rounding the corner to the kitchens, she ducked her head and flew past the cook and her helpers.
And Mr. DeVille still followed. “Miss! Can I help you?”
Such a gentleman!
Her cloak was still hanging by the back door, and she snagged it on her way past. But the steps leading into the kitchen garden were shrouded in darkness, and she had to slow her descent. In doing so, her left shoe slid from her foot.
She was already three steps down when she realized it and was turning to pick it up when Mr. DeVille burst out of the backdoor. “Miss!”
Double blast!
No time to explain, and no time to go back for the shoe. Besides, she’d be faster without it. Without stopping, Ember bent and slipped the other shoe from her right foot, then grasping it tightly in her hand, bolted into the darkness on stockinged feet.
She had to be home before Machara discovered where she’d been, or she’d be scrubbing the privy for weeks, or worse!
Only once during her flight did she glance over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of Mr. DeVille, in his outrageous cowboy hat, standing silhouetted on the back steps, holding her other shoe in his hand.