She headed for the door, then spun around again as she remembered something else. "Oh, and don't forget your mask.” She pointed to the white papier-mâché on the bed. “That’s whatmakes masked balls so much fun—nobody will know if you’re a duchess or a dairymaid, so it doesn’t matter how scandalous your dress is.”
With a cheerful wave, she slipped out of the door and Olivia sucked in a deep breath to quell her nerves.
Nell, the maid who’d brought her breakfast, had been assigned the task of fixing her hair, and she forced herself to sit still while her curls were twisted and pinned half up, half down, and the gilt crown of oak leaves was placed on top.
Despite the fact that the top half of her face was going to be covered by the mask, she allowed Nell to stain her cheeks and lips with the faintest hint of rouge and had to admit that it made her look good. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement; with no underthings, she felt naughty and wicked and free.
She couldn’t wait to see Dev’s reaction.
It was already dark when she peeked through the window, and the long drive was lit with a procession of carriages, each fitted with glowing lanterns, while servants with flaming torches guided new arrivals up the steps and into the house.
Liv made sure her mask was secure before she ventured down the staircase, her heart pounding with anticipation, and was immediately caught up in the crush of people all heading for the ballroom.
Dev had been right about the variety of costumes she would see. A knight in full armor, visor down, clanked past with a lady dressed as a nun, while a multicolored harlequin in a black mask with a long, pointed nose tickled a buxom woman who’d come as a mermaid.
Whowereall these people? Presumably friends and acquaintances of Devlin, from all walks of life. Was the man dressed as a chimney sweep, his features concealed with a thick layer of black soot, really a duke in disguise? Was the woman dressed as a stable boy, her curved thighs and rounded bottomstraining against her breeches, an opera singer or a countess? It was impossible to tell.
The frisson of excitement and mystery was palpable in the air, in the laughs and whispers of the crowd; everyone had come to enjoy themselves to the utmost. Drinks were flowing, the conversation and laughter mingling with the music from the string quartet in one corner.
Liv skirted the edge of the dance floor, looking for Daisy, Ellie, or Tess, but she stopped short when a tall gentlemen stepped into her path. She immediately recognized Dev, despite the black half-mask that covered his eyes and nose but left those sinful lips of his bare.
His dark eyes were shadowed by the mask, but she could still see the way they roved over her and her lips parted in delight.
“Perfect.” His voice was a low rasp, and it made her stomach swoop in delight. “You look utterly perfect.”
Liv schooled her mouth into what she hoped was a disapproving line. “This is as far from mourning clothes as it’s possible to get. Am I supposed to be a Vestal Virgin?”
“You’re Hera, Queen of the Gods.” He took her hand in his and the touch of his skin was thrilling; neither of them were wearing gloves. She shivered as he pressed a warm kiss to the back of her hand.
He was dressed as a highwayman, in a black tricorn hat, dark coat, and tall boots, and the smile that curved the corners of his mouth was wicked indeed. It was no stretch of the imagination to imagine him holding up a coach and demanding a lady give up her most valuable possessions.
“I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you to steal, sir,” Liv teased.
“Now that’s not true. I’m not interested in jewels, my lady. I’m after something far more precious.”
“My heart?”
He squeezed her fingers. “Your hand. In marriage. As well you know.” He tilted his head toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”
Livvy shrugged. “Why not?”
She’d longed to be back in his arms since the last time they’d danced, before the war.
He pulled her gently into the crowd and she melted into his embrace. His big hand slid around her waist and settled at the very bottom of her back, just below the part where her skin was bare, and they moved in an easy waltz that made the room spin.
They didn’t talk, and Liv allowed herself to be swept away by the feel of him so close and by the lilting beauty of the music. When the dance finished, he held her a fraction longer than strictly necessary, but released her when she smiled up at him, dazed and breathless.
“Oh, that was lovely!” she panted. “Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “My pleasure.” He indicated a table on one side of the room. “Have you written down your secret yet?”
Liv frowned. “What?”
“It’s a Twelfth Night tradition. Every guest must confess to a secret—anonymously, of course—and write it down. The piece of paper gets put into the bowl,” he pointed to a huge silver punch bowl half full of folded pieces of parchment, “And at midnight the Lord of Misrule, in this case, Harry, will read them aloud and people will all gossip about who they think wrote them.”
“That sounds dangerous,” Liv said.
“It sounds exciting,” Dev grinned, shoving a pencil into her hand. “Go on. Write yours. I’ve already done mine.”
