“I suppose there is that.”
Her mother then left to ensure all was as it should be, and an hour later the ballroom was teeming with guests. Exhilaration was rife on the air. She could sense it from the others in attendance, although she doubted anyone’s rivaled hers. She was constantly searching through the gentlemen—many of whom had done little more than don their evening clothes and a mask—striving to find the one who had not received a gilded invitation from her mother.
A tall fellow with dark hair approached her. Her mother had the right of it. She didn’t need to see beneath his mask to know he was Thornley. He exuded confidence, wearing his rank like a well-tailored cloak. When he smiled, she thought her stomach should have gone all a’jumble. He was devilishly handsome with power and prestige. She liked him well enough, but he didn’t create any sparks within her. Could she marry a man who didn’t? Duty dictated that she could and would. But would happiness follow? Would it be enough so she didn’t lie in bed and think of another?
“Lady Lavinia,” he said in his deep rich baritone, taking her gloved hand and pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “Or should I say Queen Marie Antoinette?”
She laughed lightly, truly delighted by his perceptiveness. Although she did hope he wouldn’t be paying that much attention throughout the evening. “You discerned who I am. Jolly good for you. As for yourself...” He wore his black evening attire and a plain black half mask. She arched a brow in question.
“Wellington, naturally.”
She gave him a pointed look. “You could at least have gone to the bother of dressing in his military garb.”
“I’m an older version of him, long after his military days were behind him. Dare I hope you saved me a waltz?”
She glanced at her card. A waltz was next with no name beside it, and since the gent for whom she’d been saving it had yet to show, she said, “You’re in luck. The next dance is yours.”
Reluctantly, she admitted he was a marvelous dancer as he swept her over the polished parquet floor. Respectful. No wickedness glinting in his eyes indicating he had a desire to hold her nearer. Would he once their betrothal became official? “Do you not enjoy masquerade balls?” she asked.
“Not particularly, no.”
“Then I appreciate that you came.”
“Your mother would have never forgiven me. Would you?”
“Yes, if I understood your reason. Why is it, do you think, we are taught we must do things we don’t want to do?”
“I don’t know. It does seem an odd way to manage one’s life. Are you enjoying your Season?”
“Very much. I don’t want it to end.” And then for reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, she was prompted to add, “I can hardly wait for next Season and another round of balls.”
“Are you in no hurry to wed?”
“No, Your Grace, I am not. Are you?”
He chuckled low. “To be honest, Lavinia, I think we’re both too young for such a venture.”
She laughed at that. He was all of eight and twenty. She wondered when he’d think he was old enough, but then her brother at six and twenty was also taking great pains to avoid marriage. She angled her head haughtily. “As queen, I relieve you of your duty to remain in attendance this evening. And if you’d be so dashed good as to take my brother with you, all the better.”
“Do you truly not mind if I take my leave?” he asked.
“Absolutely I do not mind. I have an abundance of dance partners, some who even went to the trouble of having a proper costume.”
The music faded away, the dance came to an end. With a tender smile, he took her hand and once again pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You are a generous queen. A pity one day you will lose your head.”
She wondered if perhaps she already had—over another. She certainly had no wish for him or Neville to watch her waltzing with Finn, to note she danced with him more closely than she ought, enjoyed his company more than she had that of any of her other partners. Being the perfect gentleman, he escorted her off the dance floor. “Enjoy your night, Your Grace.”
“Enjoy yours as well, my lady.”
He strode away, purpose reverberating in every step. She suspected he intimidated many, but then he’d been forced to put on the mantle of duke at fifteen, was very much accustomed to his place.
“You seem to like him,” a low voice said in a sensual whisper near her ear.
Her heart thundering, she swung around to face a man dressed in common threads. Beneath his greatcoat, he wore a laborer’s jacket, waistcoat, shirt, and knotted neck cloth. His boots, however, were buffed to a shine. His wide-brimmed hat, also that of a laborer or a farmer, was brought low over his brow, casting shadows over his face, a face half-hidden behind a black mask. “You came.”
“I promised you I would. I’d never lie to you, Vivi.”
She smiled. “Your costume...” Not nearly as posh as all the others, but then coins were precious to him. She couldn’t expect him to spend them on a trivial matter.
