Chapter 1 #2
They took up their positions among the other dancers, and she allowed him to lead her in a perfectly dreary waltz. His hot, fetid breath wafted over to her and, in an effort to avert her nose from the offending odour, she tilted her face toward the other dancers.
As distressing as the evening was, the ballroom was rather splendid.
The floor and columns were swirled white-and-grey marble, the walls white-painted wood panelling, the ceiling artfully arched and trimmed with gilt that spread to every column and balustrade, including the orchestra’s balcony.
It was marvellous. But bloody hot. And overwhelming with offending odours. And fire.
Her gaze slipped over the delicate chandeliers—and the candles gracing them—and she suppressed a shiver.
The earl spun her in a turn and squeezed her hand tighter, diverting her attention back to her assignment.
She pasted a vapid smile on her lips. The man believed her to be capitulating to a marriage due to his threat of ruination—which would occur regardless—while in actuality, she was the one in control.
She was, in a very real sense, acting as a spy.
“Would that you had chosen something brighter to don than…this,” he muttered. “You look like a widow.”
“This is a masquerade,” she returned, though she fully acknowledged that she’d chosen black as an act of protest against her engagement to the dreadful man. “I am a raven.”
“I know what you’re doing.” His voice dipped to an angry murmur, his breath hot on her cheek. “But I shan’t be deterred. You are now mine, regardless of your little rebellion. Tomorrow, our adventure begins. I’ve paid handsomely for our passage. We shall both have officers’ cabins—”
“Are those not meant for the officers?” she asked pertly.
His hand tightened again, and his blue eyes hardened behind his domino. “You’re welcome to sleep in a hammock among the crew.”
Bastard. “I’ll take the cabin, thank you.”
“Ah.” He forced a wide smile. “Excellent choice.”
Heather feigned idle curiosity and boldly inquired, “Why are we to journey upon a navy frigate and not—”
He scoffed, his shoulders drawing back to puff out his chest in arrogance.
“As an orphan of no means, I forgive your ignorance. I, however, am an earl with high connections. I spoke to one exceedingly prominent royal on the matter of our journey, and he most generously offered his support. The captain of the frigate will do anything I demand.”
Curiosity piqued, Heather feigned only mild interest as the earl continued to boast. What royal could have agreed to align himself with the Earl of Shite? And was that royal aware of this man’s potentially traitorous dealings?
The earl’s grip on her tightened painfully as the last notes of the waltz hung in the air, effectively drawing her attention back to him.
His jaw tightened in a maniacal smile as he leaned close to press his lips to her ear. “You’ll do as you’re told on this journey, Calluna, or you shall face my wrath.”
Heather hid a cringe at his use of her given name. Her parents had been devoted in their study of horticulture—very much like Heather herself—and had named their only child after their favourite flower: Calluna Vulgaris—Heather.
She could only surmise the Earl of Shite chose to use Calluna over her preferred name, Heather, because he knew it bothered her. And it did. Though likely not for the reason he presumed. Indeed, she adored her name—when her parents had used it. This blackguard was defiling it.
She nodded, and he retreated, his malevolent gaze locking onto hers with intended meaning. Heather lowered her gaze in an effort to appear sufficiently cowed. The man, however, had only served to strengthen her resolve.
Her friends were correct: she couldn’t leave on the morrow without first experiencing something that would be hers. It was precisely the boost of confidence she required.
But how to choose a man? And, her friends’ advice aside, how could she be certain that the man would be interested?
“Please explain why you brought me here tonight,” Percy Baxter muttered to his friend and former employer, Leonard Notley, the Marquess of Livingston, his gaze dispassionately scanning the throng of bedecked dancers.
“My wife and her friends wished to come.” Leo scratched at his chin absently. “They’re acquaintances and, dare I say, friends of yours now as well. I thought you would enjoy yourself. It is your last night in London for some time, after all.”
Despite his prior comfort on the open sea, a jolt of nervousness tightened his insides. “Miss Grace Huntsbury is my new employer, and the other young women are my protégées. I would scarcely call them friends, regardless of how affable they might be.”
“And pretty?” Leo lifted a golden eyebrow.
A flash of red-streaked blonde hair, a full figure, and a challenging smirk raced across his mind’s eye, but he glared at his friend. “I know what you are attempting to do, Leo, and it shan’t work.”
Leo hummed, his gaze dark behind his domino as he swallowed a gulp of champagne.
“I might have been a…well, you know what I used to be,” Percy muttered, “but I’m not a cad, for Christ’s sake. I’ll not besmirch a gentlewoman’s name—nor her bloodline—by forcing my attentions on her. While I’m away, my duties are clear: I shall be a protector and support for Heather—nothing more.”
“Come, now.” Leonard sipped at his champagne once more. “You’ve plenty to offer a gentlewoman. I daresay—”
“These people are toffs, Leo,” Percy grumbled. “I don’t belong here. Hell, at one time, neither of us would have belonged here. Look at me.” He tugged at the hem of his outrageously purple waistcoat and feather-adorned coat. “I look like a sodding peacock.”
“Half the men here look like sodding peacocks,” Leo replied. “It’s a masque.”
Percy rolled his eyes.
“But you belong here just as much as anyone else, Percy,” Leonard continued. “You’ve earned your place, to be sure.”
With a shake of his head, Percy bit the inside of his lips and let the argument go. Leo would never know what it felt like to be a true outsider, for while he might have been a man of the sea at one time, he was born a gentleman. Percy was not.
His stomach twisted again at the reminder of where he would be on the morrow. And the restlessness itching beneath Percy’s skin only worsened as they stood observing the dancers. He needed a good release.
Accepting a flute of champagne from atop the tray of a passing footman, Percy gulped it back. He wasn’t a man to philander or prey on women, and he hadn’t any intention to become one. He’d never truly been in want of company long. Someone always approached him.
His gaze scanned the crush of elaborately costumed gentry. These women, however, were not for him.
“It’s damned hot in here,” Leonard grumbled.
Percy grunted his agreement. It was, indeed.
The lilting music came to a stop, and the dancers bowed and curtseyed politely to one another before leaving the dance floor.
“I’m going to seek out Juliana’s hand in a quadrille,” Leo said. “Will you be well here?”
Percy notched his chin. “Of course. Go on and make your wife happy. I might take a walk.”