“I know he seems charming, Caroline,” Margaret interrupted. “I thought so too at first, but he pressured me to marry him in a most ungentlemanlike manner. For the inheritance. That is why I left.”
Caroline shook her head. “But I have no inheritance.”
Margaret closed her eyes and asked for patience. “Money isn’t the only thing men want.” Suddenly she sensed someone watching her from the side of the room.
She glanced over and saw Nathaniel Upchurch staring at her from behind his mask, looking as though he had seen a ghost. Did he see a woman he once knew? Or was he stunned for another reason—did he see “Nora” masquerading as a lady in a blond wig?
———
Were his eyes playing tricks on him—was this a figment of his imagination? For there stood Margaret Macy in all her fair glory. A mass of white-gold hair crowning her head, curls on delicate bare shoulders. Her gown shimmered white and seemed somehow familiar. The small mask she wore did little to disguise the blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the arch of golden brows, the sensible nose, the wide, shapely mouth he had memorized and dreamt about.
How could he be certain? She was wearing a mask, after all. Was it wishful thinking on his part? He knew himself fallible in recognizing women who’d changed their hair color. But, no. It was her. He knew it.
A rush of emotions swamped him. Curiosity. Concern. Why was she revealing herself here and now, when the men she had ostensibly been hiding from were in attendance that very moment? Did she not know? Should he warn her?
Nathaniel watched surreptitiously as Margaret spoke earnestly with a younger girl—her sister, he believed. When she turned and would have hailed the Bentons, Margaret gripped her arms and stayed the gesture. Clearly Margaret wanted to talk to her sister alone, likely to assure her she was all right.
Margaret glanced over her shoulder, and Nathaniel followed the direction of her gaze. Sterling Benton suddenly straightened, eyes alert. Nathaniel straightened as well.
He could stand back and watch or he could do something to help her. He did not know exactly what she was after or what she was up against, but he knew she was eager to avoid Sterling Benton. The look of fear on her face made his decision for him.
Pulling off his mask, Nathaniel strode over to her, reaching Margaret just ahead of Sterling. Margaret whirled, prepared to take flight, but Nathaniel blocked her way.
Jaw clenched, he offered his arm. “My waltz, I believe.”
She stared up at him, mouth slack. He was oddly tempted to strum his thumb over her protruding lower lip.
Instead Nathaniel took her hand, tucked it beneath his arm, and all but pulled her onto the dance floor. Behind him he heard the low rumble of Benton’s voice, peppering the sister with terse questions.
What am I doing?Nathaniel berated himself. How did asking Margaret Macy to dance jibe with his determination to avoid her? How would feeling the warmth of her hand spread up his arm and into his chest help him forget her?
He bowed to her, and she, belatedly, curtsied. For a moment he feared the tall wig would topple from her head.
“Mr. Upchurch?” she whispered, breathless before the dance had even begun.
“Yes, Miss... ?” He lifted his brows expectedly.
She frowned. “Miss Macy. Margaret Macy.”
He lifted his chin. “Ah. I thought so, but I was not certain I was supposed to recognize you.”
Her brow furrowed.
“With your mask, I mean.”
“Oh!” She blushed and reached up to touch her mask, as though she had forgotten she wore one.
The music passed the introductory notes and swelled into tempo. Nathaniel grew increasingly disquieted by the direct stare of her blue eyes. He looked instead down at her waist, more disquieting yet, and placed his hands there.Oh, not helping at all.
She reached up and placed her hands on his forearms.
Quite the opposite.One tug and she would be in his arms, snug against him. He grimaced, attempting to banish the thought.
Her eyes widened. “Did I step on your foot? I am sorry if I did.”
“Not at all.”
She lifted her chin. “You needn’t dance with me if you don’t wish to.”
