Chapter 2 #3
A figure waited at the bottom of the steps, barely illuminated by the moonlight.
He seemed to be the same height as Thomas, but something about the way he held himself was different.
He was less guarded, broader, but maybe this was just her anxious mind playing tricks on her.
His shoulders curled slightly inward as he leaned against some sort of pillar beside him.
It will only take a second. She steeled herself. A kiss, and then I’m gone.
Her body tingled with nerves. She never drank the punch they served at these sorts of parties. She hated the taste of fortified drinks, but she wished now that she had plugged her nose and downed something, like a man would, to make the moment pass more easily.
She rushed across the terrace quickly and arrived at the top of the stairs. Thomas turned around. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She thought she saw a black mask, but there was hardly any time to be sure...
Because almost as soon as he turned around, she lost her footing and tripped forward. Her arms went wide, and she fell against Thomas hard. Panicking, she could only think of the kiss, and she forced her mouth against his, having missed his cheek by inches.
She felt immediate repulsion at what she had done. This man was not intended for her. She had never even kissed a gentleman before.
And then something strange occurred.
Thomas responded to the kiss passionately, grabbing her around the waist and drawing her into him.
Her initial repulsion gave way to something lighter.
Rosalie’s face became warm as he breathed against her lips, parting them so she could taste the sweet but smoky taste of his mouth.
Her legs started to give way from under her.
I am enjoying this, she thought to her horror.
His arms around mine, the pure masculinity and forbidden nature of him, so different from everything I have ever known.
Is this why women ruin themselves? To experience this, if only once?
It is like in the books after all. Everything they have written is true.
There was a sound behind them then. Someone was opening a door. Rosalie drew back quickly and opened her eyes. A sliver of light cut through the darkness from the open door and illuminated them- him.
And that was when she realized who he was.
Not Thomas at all. His mask was black and feathered. His mouth was full and unfamiliar. And his eyes, the way they glinted behind his mask, were hungry and confused.
“Oh, heavens, no...” Rosalie whispered before she raced back indoors, where she was certain only ruination and social death awaited her.
She pushed past the man outside the doors and entered Hartmere House. She could barely breathe, her breaths coming fast and ragged. There was a hand on her suddenly. It was Emily, leading her back into the ballroom.
“Did you do it?” Emily asked, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I was waiting in the hall. I couldn’t help myself. Mother went to the powder room. Rosalie, did you kiss him and tell him yes?”
Rosalie looked around. The ballroom was too loud. The air was hot and sticky. She pressed herself against the wall behind her, and she nodded, even if it was partly a lie.
“Good,” she heard Emily say through the fog of her thoughts.
“Thank goodness for you, Rosalie Winthrop. You have saved my life!” She took Rosalie into her arms and hugged her, then released her quickly.
“It is just about to turn midnight. The Duke of Hartmere will be giving his speech any minute now. I must return to my mother. Will you be all right?”
Rosalie nodded again. She couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to.
She was alone in the corner of the ballroom, and she knew that nothing could make her life any worse.
A spinster. She had solidified it now. The man she had kissed would discover her identity somehow and know it was her.
He would tell everyone what she had done, and she would never recover from the shame.
Tears welled in her eyes. She nervously grabbed her wrists, affixing her gloves just to keep her hands busy. And if she hadn’t been so overwhelmed by fear, she would have realized her dance card was gone.
“There you are,” she heard moments later. Her mother and father were approaching, waving energetically at her. “What are you doing all alone in this corner, Rosie? The duke is about to make his speech. Let’s go and listen. We won’t hear anything from here.”
She was dragged to the center of the vacant dance floor. The chalk underfoot was smudged, the arabesque patterns unrecognizable. On the dais at the back of the room where the musicians had been standing, there was some laughter and then applause, as the evening’s host walked onto the stage.
“He really looks so much like his aunt, don’t you think?” her mother asked, pulling Rosalie into a side hug. “Her countenance is a little less severe than his, but they hold themselves so similarly. Same eyes, too. Even behind that grim little mask of his.”
Rosalie looked up, and she supposed her mother was right.
Behind that grim little mask that she knew too well was a face similar to Lady Chipping’s, whom they had spent the last month touring Italy with.
The man she had kissed on the terrace was Lady Chipping’s nephew.
Gabriel Ashcroft, Duke of Hartmere.