Chapter 10
T he first grand masquerade of the Season was hosted, in predictably ostentatious fashion, by Lady Pritchard, who was renowned for two things: her magnificent jewelled parure and her talent for positioning newly engaged couples at the very centre of every room.
Hetty had not taken more than three steps into the gilded ballroom before the onslaught began. They came in waves: well-wishers armed with compliments, congratulations, and unsolicited commentary on wedding venues, gownmakers, and the naming of future children.
“Such a splendid match!”
“How very fortunate, my dear.”
“I always suspected it, you know. The tension was positively palpable at Lady Galbraith’s musicale last Season. The way Lord Langley looked at you during the Schubert was rather scandalous.”
Hetty smiled with all the gracious serenity of a duchess offering benediction to the masses, even as she itched to throttle someone with her reticule .
She was dressed that evening as the goddess Minerva – the patroness of wisdom and war – a choice both practical and pointed.
Her gown was of the palest silver satin, its sleeves trimmed in deep blue.
Her mask, masterfully wrought in gilt and pearl, framed her eyes like a helmet of war, and atop her head rested a laurel circlet as a crown of victory.
Theo had chosen to appear as a fallen knight in black and silver, a cape slung rakishly over one shoulder and a mask that revealed just enough to be devilishly handsome without hiding the perpetual smirk tugging at his lips.
His costume was excellent, and he was standing altogether too close for comfort.
Though she would scarce admit it even to herself, Hetty’s mind had been utterly possessed by the memory of their near kiss.
For the past fortnight, scarce a waking moment had passed without its unwelcome intrusion.
Why, in heaven’s name, had he tried to kiss her?
And more troubling still, why had she been so near to returning it?
She had always regarded Theo with the affectionate familiarity one reserved for a brother, and the very notion of kissing one’s brother was positively grotesque.
It unsettled her profoundly that, quite suddenly, she did not find the notion of kissing Theo grotesque at all.
His hand rested lightly over hers as they moved through the crowd, his every gesture the picture of devoted gallantry, as though they were truly betrothed and not mere weeks away from a delicious, perfectly calculated fall from grace.
She was compelled to admit that he played his part exceedingly well, and though it was precisely what she had entreated of him, she found herself vexed all the same .
“Your hand is clammy,” she muttered from behind her fan.
“It is not my hand that is clammy, Miss Tolliver. It is yours.”
“Let go of me.”
“Not until they stop staring.”
“They never stop staring.”
He smiled. “Precisely.”
They approached the receiving line, where Lady Pritchard – resplendent in emeralds the size of pigeons’ eggs and a mask so befeathered it resembled a peacock – greeted them.
“My dears,” she trilled, taking Hetty’s hands within her own jewel-encrusted palms, “you simply must open the dancing – a waltz, of course. Something slow and so achingly romantic that the very stars themselves will weep with envy, and every soul present shall remember this moment until the end of their days!”
As they moved away from their hostess to the centre of the floor, Theo leant closer to Hetty, his voice sounding far too amused. “Minerva, I do believe you are the evening’s unwilling offering.”
“Mm,” she agreed. “Sacrificed to the merciless altar of societal expectations. Would you cease smiling? It is most unseemly to enjoy a ritual slaughter.”
“Oh, but I must,” he replied with mock gravity, placing his gloved hand at her waist as the musicians struck up the opening strains. “One ought to appear radiant when leading a lamb to the altar.”
Theo guided her with ease, his touch light and steps exact.
Hetty followed with her head held high as her gown swept around her.
She could feel the weight of a hundred eyes pressing in from the edges of the ballroom like the narrowing rim of a net.
This was the precise sort of moment Lady Pritchard lived for: a young couple, newly betrothed, waltzing in time and scandalous proximity.
“Remove that insufferable smirk from your face,” Hetty hissed between clenched teeth, though she maintained a composed smile for the benefit of the onlookers. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I confess I am,” he admitted, his voice pitched low as they swept in a smooth arc. “You are exceedingly charming when you’re vexed. It adds a lovely flush to your cheeks.”
“If you think flattery will save you from my wrath, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I would be a fool indeed to presume flattery will save me,” said Theo as he drew her in the barest fraction closer. “But I must confess, it does improve the experience.”
She exhaled through her nose sharply.
“Do attempt,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching, “to appear smitten. We are drawing quite the audience.”
“I am, at present, devising numerous methods by which to stab you with my hairpin.”
“Excellent. Do ensure you cast me an adoring glance whilst doing so. It will make for a far better tale when the onlookers recount it at their next assembly.”
“You are insufferable. I wish I never involved you in this dreadful scheme, Theo. In truth, I might very well have managed it unaided, had I been in full possession of my senses.”
“Why this sudden vexation? Have I truly become so insufferable in so short a span? ”
Hetty did not deign to reply, for to do so would have granted him the satisfaction of knowing he had ruffled her composure, and she would rather perish in her sleep than concede him that particular triumph.
The music swelled, the floor gleamed, and her thoughts retreated inwards once more to her carefully constructed scheme to avoid marriage to Theo or indeed, to any gentleman at all.
She would endure precisely three more weeks of this nonsense and no more.
That was all the time she required to appear blissfully engaged and to prompt just enough envy, admiration, and speculation to ensure that when the match inevitably dissolved, no gentleman of sense or reputation would dare risk his heart where she was concerned.
She would remove all thoughts of nearly kissing Theo from her memory and bury them so thoroughly even the most scandalous gossip in the ton could not resurrect them.
After all, a lady must have limits, and hers did not include indulging in confusing flirtations with childhood friends masquerading as rakish knights.
Her plan had been perfectly simple, effective, and – most crucially – painless, until her slipper, that traitorous little beast, decided to stage a rebellion.
The tiniest misstep upon the traitorous gleam of the parquet floor – scarcely more than a breath of imbalance – was all it took to send her carefully rehearsed performance careening off course.
(Yes, dear reader, this is where the universe gleefully reminds you that no matter how much a lady plans, fate has a wicked sense of humour.)
Theo caught her, of course. It was swift and instinctive, and so alarmingly natural that it could hardly be called deliberate – though in moments such as these, one begins to suspect it is all very, very deliberate indeed.
One strong arm wound firm about her waist, the other rising to steady her shoulder, and suddenly, in that perilous, breathless instant, the charade slipped away.
Hetty found herself pressed against the solid plane of his chest and her fingers, betraying her entirely, curled into the fabric of his coat.
Her mask shifted just so, and when she tilted her head, she found his face impossibly close, mere inches from her own.
She was close enough to discern the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the golden flecks that stirred in the ocean depths of his eyes, and the slow rise and fall of his chest in time with her own wildly tumultuous breathing.
It was a most inconvenient and entirely distracting turn of events, indeed.
Gasps arose from the edge of the ballroom like a flock of startled birds abruptly disturbed from their roost.
“Oh,” breathed one matron near the refreshment table.
“Did you see that?” hissed another, clutching her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her throat. “Like something out of Byron!”
“How romantic,” murmured a third.
Theo straightened slowly, guiding Hetty back into perfect posture and resuming the waltz as though the entire incident had been little more than an agreeable rehearsal.
“Try not to swoon a second time,” he murmured beneath the swell of the orchestra. “I fear the poor dowagers may expire from excitement.”
“You caused the spectacle, not I,” she shot back, her gaze fixed just above his shoulder .
“You were the one who very nearly sent us careening into that Grecian urn,” he returned, smiling as though discussing the weather.
“I did no such thing.”
“I respectfully disagree. For a harrowing moment, I beheld the entirety of my life flash before me. It was dreadfully dull until you appeared at my servants’ door, I admit.”
“Then allow me to offer my sincerest regrets. Had I known your dull existence was in need of such embellishment, I might have hurled you into the urn myself and spared society the burden of your continued presence.”
Theo’s low laugh rumbled from his chest rather than his throat, an altogether dangerous sound. “I suppose I ought to consider myself fortunate that your mischief remains confined to jeopardising your own reputation, rather than my spine.”
“There is still time. We’ve three weeks left before this charade dissolves and you are free to limp off into bachelorhood once more.”