Chapter Seven
Dearest readers,
It would seem that last evening’s masquerade ball, already destined to be the jewel of the season, delivered enough intrigue to occupy even the most jaded tongues across Mayfair.
Amidst the sea of silks, satins, and anonymity, one could hardly miss the fairer of a certain pair of ducal twins, whose commanding presence still managed to shine through the disguise of his black Venetian mask.
What drew this humble observer’s keen eye, however, was not the duke himself or his fetching Spanish elegance, but the daring creature who positioned herself at his side with rather striking boldness of conversation rather than elegance in quadrille.
This mysterious lady, her identity concealed yet her intentions powerfully laid bare, danced perilously close to a certain duke.
One cannot help but wonder how this audacious woman has succeeded in standing between two brothers who, by all accounts, are not known for sharing anything so willingly—even their affections.
And yet, where there might be embers, fire surely had burned.
How, pray tell, does one court such mysterious entanglements and yet maintain the appearance of innocence?
A trick of the masquerade, no doubt—but masks eventually fall, my dear readers, and this one will be no exception.
Rest assured, my quill is poised, and I mean to uncover if this lady’s charm is strategic brilliance or merely a reckless wager soon to come undone.
Until the truth emerges, I advise the lady in question to tread carefully.
After all, secrets are never safe from the M-Press.
Charlene had barely been able to sleep last night. Soon, Ashley and Maddie would arrive for tea in the greenhouse and let her know if the society papers or gossip had anything of importance to say. But for now, Charlene couldn’t help but think of him.
She had danced with Adam and was almost giddy with excitement—that is, if she allowed herself such silliness.
Which she didn’t, of course.
Thus, after contemplating the matter instead of sleeping, Charlene grew restless.
And as soon as the house finally awoke with servants bustling downstairs, she left her chambers.
The soft murmur of household activity greeted her as she descended the sweeping staircase, her hand trailing lightly along the polished banister.
The familiar scent of baked bread and lemon polish wafted from the dining room below, yet it did little to ground her thoughts.
Her mind still lingered stubbornly on the events of the masquerade, where mystery had danced far too closely with temptation for her comfort.
And what bothered her most was that she’d recognized the feeling at all.
No Cross brother should have such an effect on me.
She had barely slept, her dreams tangled with indistinct figures in masks and whispered words that faded before she could grasp them. Yet one sensation lingered, vivid and unshakable, like a shadow cast by firelight. It was the way he had felt—so unwavering, so utterly inescapable.
Adam Cross.
His presence clung to her thoughts, a quiet, insistent pull that made her chest ache with something she dared not name. She wished she could dismiss it, yet even now, in the fragile light of morning, the memory of his touch and the way his gaze held hers refused to fade.
At the bottom of the stairs, the butler, Mr. Aldridge, waited with his customary calm, a silver tray balanced in one hand. His expression was as neutral as ever, though Charlene noted the tiniest arch of his brow. He held out the tray as she approached, a single folded letter resting upon it.
“Good morning, Lady Charlene,” he greeted, his deep voice as steady as a hearth’s hum. “This arrived only moments ago. The courier left no name.”
Charlene paused, her fingers hovering just above the paper of the folded note. “No name?” she echoed, glancing once at the butler’s composed face, as though he might betray some hidden knowledge. “Did he say nothing of its origin?”
“Only that it was urgent and meant for you alone.” Mr. Aldridge’s tone betrayed neither interest nor concern, though Charlene imagined it might take much to surprise him after years of service.
“Hm.” She picked up the note, her fingertips brushing the embossed edges of expensive paper. Without another word, she turned toward the drawing room, already feeling the curious weight of it in her hand.
“Shall I bring breakfast to you, Lady Charlene?” the butler inquired before she could retreat.
“No, thank you. I’ll come to the dining room shortly,” Charlene replied without looking back. Food was the last thing on her mind.
Once seated near the window in the privacy of her orangery, with sunlight splashing through the windows, she unfolded the note with equal parts hesitation and anticipation.
Her breath caught as her gaze fell upon the scrawl, each stroke of ink as deliberate and bold as the figure behind the mask the night before.
For the Lady who hides nothing and everything all at once. Meet me…
She caught her breath. With trembling fingers, she closed it and unfolded it again, as though reading the words a second time might change them. It didn’t. Hides nothing? What did he mean by that? And the invitation? The audacity!
She traced the edges of the note. Even with his boldness, he was not wrong. About the hiding. Only he would know, wouldn’t he? The paradox of those words unsettled her. Had Adam seen her so clearly—or had he hoped she would see herself?
A warmth kindled in her chest and spread with slow, beguiling insistence.
She tried to temper it with reason, ticking off his flaws in her mind.
He teased too much. He smiled too often.
And yet… it had been so long since she’d been something other than a title, a person altogether apart from a daughter, a niece, a name attached more to a dowry than to an independent soul.
The words bespoke of a lovely lie, a dangerous truth.
What game was he playing?
What role was she about to step into?
And did she want to lose that sense of being wholly, completely known? Her stomach flip-flopped; her heart betrayed her with its quickened pace. She pressed the note closer to her skin, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth.
Perhaps, just this once, she would play along.
What did he say? Meet him at the park? She tossed the note aside. Why did he have to send that? Did the man think to mock her? How infuriating!
Man. Duke.
Fern. Orchid.
She couldn’t trust her own senses when it came to the Cross brothers.
Charlene scowled and poked at her ghost orchid. They weren’t exactly the prettiest in comparison to others, and they tend to grow on the bark of a tree in the darkest part of the wild, but they were still rather rare. And some were even very funny-looking.
They did, however, never fail to make her smile.
They were leafless.
They hovered.
They only bloomed once a year.
She traced its stems with her fingers and thought it wouldn’t be enough all her life, would it?
Well, on the more positive side, they had scales instead of leaves.
And roots, of course. They also smelled of apples.
And, while they hovered, they gave off the appearance of floating.
It wasn’t easy to mimic their preferred environment.
They were stubborn and difficult to cultivate.
But they appeared the loneliest of all of her rare ones.
Unlike Adam.
What are you thinking, Charlene? You can’t compare this beautiful, floating orchid to that man.
Well, perhaps only in the fact that she wished he was still a ghost in her life.
But he was determined to re-enter her life as though his brother hadn’t torn it apart.
Urgh! They were friends once. But friendship…
Some friendships weren’t meant to last. And as her brother so often pointed out, a woman can’t just be friends with a man.
Such things did not exist. She hadn’t listened to him in the past.
Perhaps it was time to do so now.
But what was she to do about his improper invitation? She should ignore it, right? She peeked at the discarded note.
She had read the thing a hundred times already, and it made less sense each time.
Meet her in Green Park. At dawn. To practice her dancing.
Was he serious? Or sarcastic. He was a duke now, for stars’ sake.
She should show some sense! They might have been friends once, but this man was a stranger to her.
The memory of their dance the night before flared in her mind—the way he had moved so effortlessly, so maddeningly, told her to relax.
Hah! She was relaxed. Very, very relaxed!
Charlene balled her fists so hard, her nails dug into her palms.
And he wanted to be friends again. Friends. As though one year of silence and—Charlene’s chest tightened—everything else could be easily swept away.
Well, it couldn’t.
And she was most certainly not meeting him in the park. The last time a Cross had extended an invitation to somewhere private, it had turned out disastrous. He should know better than anyone that this was the worst way to approach her.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she picked up the note. Well, she had to admit, looking at the thing did send a small shiver down her spine. “Does he honestly expect me to meet him?”
“Meet who?” Waylon’s voice came from behind her.
Charlene’s head whipped around so quickly her neck protested. Her brother appeared in the corner of the orangery, one brow arched, and he strode up to her, swatting away the branch of a fern.
She scrambled to fold the letter and tuck it into the folds of her skirt, her movements far from subtle. “No one in particular,” she said, forcing a casual tone.
“You expect me to believe that? Because you’re hiding that letter like it’s a state secret.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to burden you with my secret affairs,” she said drily.