His mouth was especially fine, she noted again, contrary to her better judgment, firm yet sculpted. He had a generous mouth. Kissable. Dear heaven. What was she about, swooning over an unknown man’s lips? Hadn’t she just decided she was too craven to create the sort of scandal she’d require? She swallowed, forcing herself to recall what he’d just said.
“I appreciate your offer, sir, but I have a wonderful seamstress.” She thought of the dressmaker she used in London when in a pinch. Very likely, the entire train would require replacing.
“But the fault is mine,” he persisted, playing the gentleman now that she’d finally gained his attention.
“Nonsense,” she parried, feeling slightly foolish over her womanly horror at the damage to her gown. It had not been intentionally done, after all, and she had more than enough coin for Madame Laurier’s alterations. “Of all things that need mending, mere fabric is by far the easiest and least costly.”
He tilted his head, considering her with a fathomless stare that made her skin tingle to life with a dizzying warmth. “I sincerely doubt truer words were ever spoken.”
There was an intensity underlying his words that made her believe he was sincere and not merely another rake plying meaningless flattery. For the first time since stepping into the whirlwind of the ballroom, Maggie was intrigued.
“What have you that needs mending, sir?” she asked, feeling suddenly bold after all.
His lips quirked into a wry smile beneath his mask. “Would you believe it’s my heart?”
So he loved another, then. She tried to ignore the stab of disappointment the revelation sent through her. “I know better than anyone just how difficult it is to mend a heart.” She frowned as she thought of the unhappy life in which she had found herself. The realization she had settled on this miserable path was a constant burr beneath her mind’s saddle. “Perhaps impossible.”
“What man would dare to break the heart of a woman as beautiful as you?” he demanded. “An utter imbecile, surely.”
She laughed. “Forgive me, but I fear you’re guilty of dissembling.”
“Dissembling?” He pressed a large hand over his heart, feigning shock. “I’m wounded. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because you can’t see my face,” she pointed out, grinning despite herself. She well knew that her dainty mask covered all of her face as well, save her mouth. It was rather the point of a masque, after all. She would have to remove it to accomplish what she wanted. But for now, there was safety in her anonymity.
“Yes, but you have the most extraordinarily lovely eyes I’ve ever seen,” he returned with remarkable aplomb. “I daresay they’re almost violet.”
Another wave of warmth washed over her. He was somehow different, this man. Dangerous to be sure. “I rather like you,” she confided before she could stop herself. Drat. Being too honest had always been one of her downfalls. She’d never been very good at hiding her emotions behind a polite veil. Perhaps it was why she’d had such difficulty blending with London society.
He grinned. “You sound alarmed. I’m not all bad, I assure you.”
She shook her head, trying to regain her wits. “It is merely that I’d given up on your countrymen.”
“My countrymen?” He paused, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he eyed her with dawning comprehension. “You’re an American, are you? I thought I detected an accent.”
“I am,” she acknowledged. “I suppose that renders my eyes less lovely now.” Although a number of American heiresses like herself had made their way to England, they were not always well received. She’d had to work quite hard to forge her way, and acceptance from English ladies had not proved an easy or sometimes even achievable feat.
“Of course not.” An emotion she couldn’t define darkened his voice. “Your eyes are still lovely as ever. Would you care to dance?”
Oh dear heaven. The invitation excited her until she recalled two things. She was an abysmal dancer, and her train was in pieces. She wisely kept the first to herself. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid my train…”
“Bloody hell, I’d already forgotten.” He grimaced. “What an ass. Perhaps you’d like another glass of champagne?”
Belatedly, she realized the glass she held was empty. When had she drunk it all? She couldn’t recall. Perhaps that was the reason her head felt as if it had been filled with fluffy white clouds. Yes, that had to be it. Surely it wasn’t the tall stranger with the gorgeous mouth who kept plying her with sensual looks and disarming smiles. She probably ought not to have another flute of champagne.
“I’d love another,” she said. Hadn’t she lived her life the way she should? And what had that gotten her but misery and loneliness and a husband she hadn’t seen in over a year?
He returned to her side and pressed another glass of champagne into her hand. “There you are, my dear.”
“Thank you.” She took a fortifying sip, calming the jagged bundle of her nerves. Perhaps there was hope for her madcap plan after all. The stranger before her would certainly do for a scandal. Yes indeed. He certainly looked like the sort of man who would accept an invitation to sin. She forced her mind into safer territory, trying to distract herself from wanton thoughts. “Who has caused your heart to require mending?” she asked him. “A wife?”
He hesitated, drinking his champagne, and for a moment she feared she’d overstepped her bounds. “Not a wife, no,” he said with care. “But a very old and very dear friend.”
“A lover,” she concluded aloud, then flushed at her bluntness, which always seemed to land her in trouble. “I’m sorry, sir, if I’m too forthright. I cannot seem to help myself.”
“You needn’t apologize. Everyone knows that here at Lady Needham’s none of the standard society rules apply. You’ve but to look around you to see that.” His tone was wry as his gaze lit on the couple against the wall. The man had caught the woman’s skirts in his fist, raising them to reveal her shapely, stocking-clad calves.
Maggie looked away, cheeks stinging. Of course none of the standard rules applied here. Indeed, from all appearances, there werenorules here. It was one of the many reasons she’d decided—against her better judgment—to attend. What better place to create a scandal than a party that existed for the express purpose of licentiousness?
