Chapter 1
London, 1819
Julian Newcombe-Ives, the sixth Duke of Lambley, stood with his hands on the railing of the first-floor promenade encircling the grand ballroom and gazed down on his kingdom. The golden flecks in his hazel eyes glittered in the sparkling light of six crystal chandeliers. The barest hint of a smile teased briefly at his lips.
Everything was exactly as he’d planned it. As he wanted it. As he demanded. He controlled every detail of his weekly masquerades with the same ruthless precision he managed the rest of his dukedom.
Losing control? That was for people like his guests, who were currently engaged in all manner of debauchery and bacchanalia.
Discreet footmen with silver trays moved between the generous champagne towers. Strategically placed refreshment tables were heaped with sweet chocolate, succulent fruits, and other aphrodisiacs.
The orchestra was the finest in London, though only half of Julian’s guests had joined the dance floor to waltz with a stranger, their bodies pressed together far closer than was proper.
The other half of his guests were... elsewhere.
Up here, on the first floor, in one of the many sumptuous guest chambers designed for private pleasures. Out on the exterior balconies, seeking the heat of each other’s embrace between elegant Chinese folding screens erected to give lovers a semblance of privacy.
Or down in the wild garden below, enjoying the heady scent of spring roses and the anonymity of an inky black sky dotted with stars but devoid of the moon.
The ball opened at ten and ended just before dawn. Masks were worn the entire time—unless, like Julian, one did not care who glimpsed his face. It was his party. He was proud of the elegant hedonism and subversive equality he offered.
Some of the men and women below were lords and ladies. Others were opera singers, barristers, modistes, auctioneers, gamblers. If they were to notice each other at all outside of these walls, it would be to commission a gown or waistcoat, or perhaps only to turn up one’s nose and carry on.
But here—here!There were no such airs at the Duke of Lambley’s masquerades. He did not permit it. Everyone walked through the door to exactly the same reception. In fact—
The door to the exterior receiving room swung open. A pair of ladies with extravagant Venetian masks and barely-there bodices burst inside the grand ballroom.
“Presenting... Lady X, and her companion, Lady X!” the night butler’s voice boomed out.
The whirling revelers erupted in cheers, lifting their champagne flutes to cries of, “Lady X! Lady X!”
All of the masquerade guests were Lord or Lady X. Enquiring further was strictly prohibited. Only Julian and his trusted night butler knew their true identities.
Aspiring revelers were welcomed into the receiving room one carriage at a time. First-time guests were required to present a personal invitation, signed and sealed by the duke himself. Their details were then logged in cipher in the night butler’s secret ledger, and the invitation destroyed. Guests were then free to entertain themselves however they liked.
The two who had just entered the ballroom looked like any number of other fashionable ladies in extravagant gowns and even more expensive masks. It was impossible to guess their age behind the contours of the porcelain masks and the distraction of colorful feathers and plentiful décolletage on display. Most guests would assume the newcomers were in search of a night’s romance with one of the many equally handsome gentlemen in attendance.
Julian happened to know that these two ladies already had their partners in mind. In fact, they’d arrived together. They had eyes for no one but each other. They could not flirt publicly before the pinch-faced patronesses of Almack’s or beneath the bright sun at Hyde Park, but here in Julian’s domain, they were free to love as they pleased. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.
At the Duke of Lambley’s masquerades, society was underhiscontrol, not the other way around. The only rules were the ones he imposed: Complete anonymity and freedom of choice at every moment.
He had thrown his first such ball a decade ago. A much smaller affair, but the potential was clear from the very first hour. What had begun as a once-a-season indulgence quickly became monthly, then fortnightly, then weekly. During the parliamentary season, his balls were as much an institution as Almack’s—and just as exclusive.
For the five months of the social season, the patronesses presided over their insipid assembly rooms every Wednesday evening, and the duke ruled over decadent Saturday nights.
He peered over the enormous ballroom, his eyes missing no detail. Every candle in every chandelier was lit. Every glass of champagne, full. Every refreshment table, overflowing. There were no queues for food or drink. There was an excess of options at every turn, and an army of footmen trained to respond to the slightest cue.
“Presenting Lord X!” the night butler called out.
“Lord X!” roared the crowd with delight.
Julian’s servants might not know the names of the men and women they attended, but many of the guests wore the same masks to every masquerade. Hera had staked her claim on Zeus, and so on, leaving nothing to chance so the nameless lovers could be reunited.
Other guests, like Julian, did not pick the same partner twice. Some might be fooled by a change in costume, but not him. He did not forget a face—or even part of a face. He could recognize this lord by the cleft in his chin, or that lady by the sway of her hip.
Julian observed, and he remembered. It was part of what made his parties so memorable. The footmen knew the swan preferred her ratafia slightly less sweet but with extra grapes. They knew the tastes of the gentleman in the crimson mask, the lady with the lavender wig, the highwayman in the domino with its flowing black cape.
Lambley’s staff brought each guest exactly what they wanted before the thought even fully formed in their minds. To step into this ballroom was to have one’s innermost dreams brought to life.
