Chapter Sixteen
“Lady Rose, is it true?” Daphne asked, adjusting her lavender mask adorned with gauzy butterfly wings. The scent of ladies’ perfumes drifted from the ballroom behind them as her friends ushered her onto the moonlit balcony. “You’re to marry Baron White tomorrow?”
Lydia, Arabella, and Violet gathered around her like conspirators, their silk skirts rustling against the stone balustrade. The distant sound of violins and laughter seemed to mock Rose’s predicament.
Rose nodded, her throat tight with unshed tears. “Yes, he says I have no choice, or he’ll see me committed to Bedlam. Or worse.”
“What do you mean, worse?” Arabella’s voice sharpened behind her fox mask. “Rose, you’re frightening us.”
“Indeed.” Lydia’s owl mask bobbed as she leaned closer. “Speak plainly.”
Rose glanced toward the ballroom’s glowing windows, ensuring they were truly alone. “There’s no escape now that I know the truth about his enterprises. They’re more determined than ever to keep me silent. One way or the other.”
“This is bad,” Lydia said under her breath. “What are we to do?”
Arabella stepped forward, her mask making her appear predatory in the moonlight. “We shall spirit you away tonight. After the festivities end, Lydia and I will see you safely hidden.”
“Father claims no corner of England exists where he cannot find and punish me.”
“Nonsense. I have connections among certain resourceful ladies who excel at such disappearances.” Arabella’s tone carried the confidence of one accustomed to bending Society to her will. “We could exchange masks during the evening’s confusion, create a diversion.”
Rose caught sight of the ornate clock visible through the ballroom doors. “I must return. I’ve promised Mr. Clarke the next dance.”
“That towering gentleman?” Violet asked with curiosity. “He cuts quite an imposing figure.”
“Indeed, rather substantial,” Arabella added with barely concealed amusement.
Rose promised to find them later and hurried back toward the ballroom, her heart already dreading the charade she must perform.
*
The moment Rose entered the glittering ballroom with its crystal chandeliers casting dancing shadows across the polished floor, the air thick with perfume and the heat of hundreds of bodies, she regretted accepting Mr. Clarke’s invitation.
Couples whirled past in a kaleidoscope of jewel-toned silks and elaborate masks, their laughter piercing her melancholy like shards of glass.
She longed only to see Sebastian, yet knew it was impossible.
Duty demanded her compliance, even as her heart rebelled.
Mr. Clarke materialized before her like a specter. “Lady Rose?”
Something in his voice made her pulse flutter with recognition, though his elaborate Bauta mask concealed every feature.
He stood tall and commanding in emerald evening wear, his presence both unsettling and oddly comforting.
Like fragments of a half-remembered dream, familiarity teased at the edges of her consciousness.
“Good evening again, Mr. Clarke.”
He stepped closer, executing a perfect bow that spoke of gentle breeding. When she placed her gloved hand in his considerably larger one, his grip proved firm and warm even through the barrier of silk. Her pulse quickened as they assumed position for the waltz.
His movements commanded the floor with confident grace, guiding her as if they’d danced together countless times.
How divine it felt to be held in such strong arms, the heat of his palm burning through her stays where it rested at her waist, their breath mingling in the intimate space between them.
He made her feel utterly secure, as though he would catch her should she stumble, regardless of what trials awaited.
Ridiculous thoughts. She knew nothing of Mr. Clarke.
She could neither see his face nor place his voice with certainty.
Yet her treacherous body responded exactly as it did to Sebastian, all fluttering heartbeats and tingling awareness.
He possessed Sebastian’s height and broad shoulders, his purposeful bearing.
Could he have gotten in somehow? His mask covered his entire face, which was unusual. Most men wore only half-masks.
“Tell me,” she murmured, scarcely aware the words had escaped, “have we partnered before? You seem most familiar.”
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the orchestra’s lilting melody. “Would you recall such an occasion?”
“Would you not?”
“Any gentleman privileged to hold you thus would carry the memory to his grave.”
Her breath caught as he spun her expertly, his grip tightening possessively at her waist. Who was this mysterious man? She dared lift her gaze, desperate to glimpse some telling detail, but the mask revealed nothing.
How could it be Sebastian? By what miracle could he have gained entry?
The music began its final, haunting refrain. He held her motionless in that last beat of silence, the spell of the dance suspended between them like a held breath. Then he leaned close, his voice a whisper that seemed to caress her very soul. “Do not marry him tomorrow. Run.”
The words struck her like lightning, sending shock waves through her entire being. Recognition crashed over her with devastating certainty. “Sebastian?”
“Do you know me truly, Lady Rose? With or without this mask?”
“It would seem I do,” she breathed, wonder and terror warring in her chest.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the terrace doors with that distinctive, purposeful gait she’d memorized from her bedroom window. The determined set of his shoulders, the angle of his proud head, the way he moved as though the very world would bend to accommodate his passage.
Sebastian. But how? And why risk everything to be here?
Before she could gather her scattered wits, Baron White appeared at her elbow like a malevolent shadow. “My dear, I believe our dance is next?”
*
Baron White wore a heavy, grotesque mask in deep gold and bronze, shaped like a wild boar. How perfect for him. Suddenly, she felt violently ill.
From the moment she placed her hand in his, a cold weight settled in her stomach.
His considerable belly pressed against her stays as they moved through the dance, his breath thick with brandy and cigars.
Perspiration seeped through his gloves, dampening her own, and she focused on breathing through her mouth, willing herself not to retch.
White led her through the steps with all the grace of a lumbering bear.
Where her previous partner had been steady and fluid, White was heavy-handed and oblivious, yanking her too close, moving with jarring, awkward motions that left her stumbling to keep pace.
This was the supper dance, meant to be elegant and celebratory—the last before masks came off.
But there was nothing elegant about it. There was only dread and the knowledge that if she didn’t escape, she would belong to this sweating, panting creature.
He leaned in close, his voice warm with drink and something far more unsettling. “You look quite appetizing in that gown. When we’re wed, I’ll have different costumes for you each evening. Silk, velvet, perhaps nothing at all. It shall be most delightful.”
She stiffened but kept her expression hidden behind her mask, thanking God for the concealment. “I am not a doll to be dressed up for your amusement.”
White chuckled indulgently, as if she were a child who hadn’t yet learned her proper place. “You say that now, my dear, but you’ll learn soon enough. Wives always do. You’ll discover how pleasant it feels to be properly guided.”
His fingers pressed into the fabric of her sleeve, just hard enough to leave a message without leaving a mark.
“You won’t need books or contrary opinions.
You’ll have me to think for you. I shall be everything to you.
And should you stray—should you give me even a whisper of reason to believe your affections lie elsewhere?
I will ensure no gentleman ever finds you desirable again. ”
She said nothing. Couldn’t. His tone remained soft, conversational, but carried an undercurrent of menace that made her skin crawl.
White leaned closer still, his labored breathing hot against her ear. “We shall have such agreeable times together, you and I. Provided you prove biddable.”
Her insides recoiled, but she kept her face carefully blank. She had to escape him. But first, she must survive this dance.
Across the ballroom, she caught sight of Arabella dancing with Lord Ellsworth. She tried desperately to catch her friend’s eye, but the masks concealed too much.
“Who was the man you danced the waltz with?” White asked. “You seemed familiar with him.”
“Mr. Clarke means nothing to me.” She spoke calmly, even though she was a mess of nerves. “I don’t truly know him. Whatever you observed was mere politeness. And even if it weren’t, what does it signify now? I’m to be your wife on the morrow.”
He studied her slowly, as if assessing whether she was sufficiently pliable to mold. His damp fingers slid lower on her waist before she managed to edge away.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Someone might observe us.”
His smile spread slow and serpentine. “Then behave yourself, my darling. What transpires after we’re wed depends entirely upon your conduct. I can prove most generous. Or most unpleasant.”
A chill wrapped around her despite the ballroom’s stifling heat.
She had no choice. Not yet. But if she could find Sebastian, speak to him before the night ended, perhaps she might finally have answers about who he truly was.
She scanned the crowd desperately. There!
On the far side of the room, near the terrace doors. The gentleman in green.
Sebastian.
He slipped through the doors and vanished.
Panic flared in her chest. She had to reach him. But first, she had to lose White.