Chapter 1 #2
Startled, Meghan looked at the tall man in a white Volto mask. The gold epaulets upon his ivory uniform were all that marked him as a servant. The butler, to be precise.
Behind his eerie mask, he cleared his throat.
Then Meghan remembered, she was supposed to be the lady, although she was actually just a miss. Her sister and married cousins held the titles of the lady.
“Lady Tremaine,” she mouthed. She sneaked a glance about, waiting for one of her many male kin or her betrothed to jump from the shadows and shout, “Caught!”
The servant’s unblinking stare drew her to the moment.
Meghan fumbled with the ties at her throat. The moment she managed to free herself from the silver cloak, a servant slipped from the shadows and caught the article.
She watched him hurry off.
It was now or never.
Taking a deep breath, she made the long climb of the entryway stairs. Each sleek black marble step should ground her.
It should.
The ball was well into the evening. The assurance didn’t help.
Like a fast-moving wave, laughter and joy-filled shouts swelled with every step that brought her closer. Between the deafening roar of merriment and the absence of lords and ladies in the receiving line, almost all guests—if not all—had already arrived.
Each step taken lent her heart an extra beat.
Her mouth went dry.
What if she were recognized?
As if fate sought to alleviate her worries, Meghan crested the landing, where the butler stopped them. A floor-length gilded mirror had been positioned where revelers could steal one last glimpse before they joined the masquerade.
Meghan stilled.
She did not recognize herself. With a wide satin and organza crystal-beaded gown and arm-length crystal studded gloves, nary a one of her many identifying freckles could be discerned. Her mask made of clear gems that glimmered bright as diamonds covered the expanse of her face.
At a masquerade, disguises were donned and people played at being another, and a wallflower could become something she’d never been and, under the twinkling crystal lights of every chandelier hereafter, would never again be—a diamond.
I am invisible.
Heart hammering, Meghan smoothed her white satin-gloved palms over the crystal-encrusted bodice of her crystal-studded ballgown. With that reminder ringing in her head, Meghan entered Lord and Lady Rutland’s ballroom.
The crystals on her off-the-shoulder appliques chimed softly, like the whole Fairy Court tinkling its approval in time to the gazes swung her way.
Her hands rested just beneath her bosom.
The twelve-piece orchestra, all disguised as jewel-colored harlequins, chose that inopportune time to bring a lively minuet to an end.
Silence fell, thick and impervious.
And yet, for the first time, the entire world looked upon Miss Meghan McQuoid Smith and also—at no one at all.
Gazes swung slowly in Meghan’s direction. Murmurs followed, along with more bold looks. Until the entire room buzzed with the crowd’s fascination.
To give her shaking hand purchase, Meghan used the railing to guide her march on the stairs. With every step taken, there was a pause allowing for the soft pitter-patter of footmen circulating drinks to be heard, amidst a crowd of some three hundred guests.
Too busy searching for her sister and cousin in the suspended audience, it took a moment before the awe-coated whispers reached her.
“A true Diamond…”
Her pulse picked up its beat.
“Sparkles brighter than any diamond…”
Meghan stilled on the third step from the bottom.
Me. They are speaking about…me.
Through the shock of Meghan’s discovery, her gaze found a pair of misses in jewel-toned masks. Even standing beside their respective dance partners, impish smiles told the ladies’ identities.
Meghan’s youngest sister, disguised in all silk sapphire, brought her palms together. She lifted them in a discreet little clap Meghan’s way.
The tension left Meghan fast.
No one spoke about Meghan. No one noticed her. No one saw her.
The fact no one had, nay, the fact the one man she yearned for above any other had failed to account for her reluctant acceptance of the duke’s proposal.
Tonight, the whole world stared, and not in the way the cruel ton tended to gawk at the McQuoids.
The moment her jewel-studded slippers touched the marble floor, the orchestra broke out into King George IV, King’s Reel.
The spell was broken and the crowd came together so fast for the lively four-set number that Meghan thought she’d imagined the grand entrance for herself.
She found herself surrounded on every side.
A stranger grabbed her left hand.
Heart hammering, she looked at the tall, spindly masked Circassian responsible for that boldness.
“The diamonds of a most praised water doth appeareth,” he lisped, the crooked set to his yellow teeth more pronounced by his partial face covering. “To make the world twice rich.” His lascivious leer erased his pretty prose.
At Meghan’s right, a Hessian helped himself to Meghan’s spare palm.
The reason virtuous unmarried ladies were denied invitations to the scandalous, masked affairs now made sense.
This swarm about her threatened everything. She needed to be invisible.
No one looked at her. At least not this way.
The threat, the risk, was nothing compared to the heady rush that came from being seen. No, not seen. Desired—even if no one knew her identity.
But there was one…
A cool, commanding voice called above the others. “Step away, gentlemen.”
Shivers of awareness traced her spine.
This man, unlike the fawning lords around Meghan, uttered neither appeal nor plea. He commanded the way kings do, and with the same unspoken but understood promise of a swift death for the defiant.
Even faster than her would-be attendants converged upon Meghan, the lesser men yielded the floor.
The gentleman’s broad-set shoulders moved like a ship cutting through waves, the crowd curled away so he could pass, until only they two stood masked face to masked face.
Meghan stilled; even the breath in her lungs caught and held.
And then he stood before her.
Her lips trembled apart.
Meghan could hide in costumes. She did so with great ease and success here now.
This man, however? This highwayman, in black from the tip of his onyx domino to his snug-fitting black breeches and equally snug black leather boots, could not.
Even if the loose tangle of curls, a golden halo to his darkness, did not give him away, the harsh, sharp line of his jaw and angry slash of his cheekbones—stubbled from a day’s worth of growth—could never conceal his identity.
At least not from Meghan.
August.
Realizing the tight grip she had upon her skirts, Meghan relaxed her fingers.
The crowded ballroom, the audience, and reel working towards a finish were all forgotten. She and August locked in on one another.
Behind August’s domino, his eyes narrowed to sharp points. He flicked his gaze over Meghan. Each place his hot stare touched, burned.
With none of the effusive flattery of his inferior counterparts, he stretched a possessive hand out, staking a claim.
Breathless, Meghan placed her white satin-gloved fingers into his midnight-black leather-covered ones and let him lead her like a conquering hero and she his vanquished prize.
He slid his spare palm along the small of her back, his touch possessive and familiar. Warmth spiraled through her chest, and her every nerve ending came to life.
He knows it is me…
And while the reel ended, and Meghan and August took their places for the next set, hope blossomed.