Her arms were bare but for long black gloves, and she carried a dainty golden reticule for her skein and shears. The gown had camellias fashioned of gold fabric marching along the tops of the gathered shoulders, at the waist where the fabric was caught up, and along the generous hem where it trailed along the ground like a ripple of water. A row of gold flowers also lined the gloves from elbow to knuckle. And her dark hair had been separated into a multitude of sections, twisted with thick gold cord and pinned high at the crown of her head so that gold and walnut-brown curls cascaded down to her neck.
It didn’t take Angelica long to discover the lace which made up the lower half of her mask tickled her cheeks and upper lip,and she considered tearing the fringe off. But after she entered the masquerade ball, she decided against it.
Tonight, she wished to remain as anonymous as possible. Something like expectancy prickled her, and she felt daring and unencumbered. She didn’t want to be approached by any young brides-to-be, asking for her to prophesy about their future husbands.
Part of the reason was that Angelica still felt unsettled when she recalled the conversation with Dewhurst—no, she would think of him as Voss, as Corvindale called him. That name suited him more than something that bespoke of early morning meadows. Despite his toffee-colored hair, he was nothing like a sunny morning. More like an afternoon frosted with a soft summer rain: beautiful to look at, yet with a filter of shadow and gloom.
Angelica took the opportunity to slip away from Maia when her sister stopped to help Aunt Iliana adjust Mirabella’s wings. Angelica had worn the angel costume to one masque last Season and learned that wings made for a difficult evening. They came askew when dancing, they bumped and caught against people whenever moving through the crush, and the harness that kept them in place felt rather like an old-fashioned long corset. Last year, Angelica realized too late her sister had suggested that costume for just such a reason and resolved to pick her own costumes without Maia’s help in the future.
The free-flowing fabric and simplicity of her attire made it easy for Angelica to slip between a Romeo and a woodland faerie, who happened to have her own set of ungainly wings, and lose herself in the crush.
Tonight, there were no dance cards. No introductions. No matrons (or sisters) glaring from the walls, taking note of any scandalous behavior.
It was no wonder the Sterlinghouse’s annual masque was so popular.
The theme tonight was Ancient Babylon, and Lady Sterlinghouse had outdone herself. Plants hung from high on the walls, blossoming tendrils falling like Rapunzel’s hair and releasing floral scents into the air. Fountains rumbled, adding to the low hum of noise from conversation and music, masking everything but nearby sounds. The servants were dressed as ancient Babylonians in long, geometrically patterned robes, and carried trays laden with food and drink.
Angelica was standing near a fountain, wondering where the water came from that spilled down several levels and lightly sprayed into the air, when a dashing knight approached. Fortunately he wasn’t wearing real chain mail, just tooled leather over a jerkin and hose.
“I do hope you don’t intend to use those on me,” he said, gesturing to the shears in her hand.
It was difficult to tell if she knew his voice, muted as it was by the fountain and other sounds, but he seemed familiar. So Angelica smiled and unraveled a hank of the golden thread. Holding it up, pretending to measure him, she tried to see through his mask. But it was shadowy and dark, and she couldn’t get a good look.
“No, I do not believe your time has yet come, sir knight. You’ll live to joust for another day.”
He laughed, and she recognized him then. The young and eligible Viscount Harrington, with whom she’d danced at several parties and even once strolled out on a patio, arm in arm. Did he recognize her? Had he sought her out?
“Perhaps you might offer a boon to this lowly man at arms,” he suggested. “It would be my honor to wear your favor into battle next.”
Angelica smiled and snipped off a generous piece of her golden cord. “I vow this is nothing more than a maiden’s favor, not the work of Atropos this night,” she told him, wrapping it around his forearm and tying it lightly.
“It is you,” he said then, smiling beneath his leather mask. “I was nearly certain, Miss Woodmore. It was your hair and the way you move. But now it is confirmed. Along with your favor, might I also request the next dance?”
“Of course. It would be my pleasure,” she replied, replacing her shears and skein in the bag, carefully so the tips pointed down into a corner of the small satchel. Then she took his arm and allowed him to guide her through the people toward the dance floor.
“It’s a waltz,” he commented as the musicians began the new song. “May I?” he asked again, turning to face her at the edge of the dance floor.
A thrill of the forbidden tripped through Angelica, and she gave a little curtsy. “Yes, my lord.”
Her first waltz.
Angelica’s heart beat a bit more rapidly as Harrington eased her into the unfamiliar position of the dance, nearlyembracingher. She was hardly able to contain a nervous smile. They stepped into the rhythm of the music with a bit of hesitation and the slight scuff of her slipper as she learned the step.
They made their way around the room in the three-beat rhythm, making small circles with the triangular step. Angelica enjoyed the freedom of the dance—so different from the line dances and quadrilles where every movement was choreographed and a slight change could disrupt the flow.
Conversation, she found, was much easier with a waltz than when dancing the traditional dances. Instead of constantly separating and then coming back together, she and her partner had the opportunity for uninterrupted repartee.
Harrington suggested they ride in the park someday—an invitation she accepted—and asked about her sisters. Then he said he’d heard about Corvindale taking them in as his wards.
“Yes, that’s true,” Angelica told him. “It’s only been since yesterday and I’m not certain how long we’ll be at Blackmont.”
“You didn’t mention anything about leaving when I came to call two days ago,” he commented, reminding her that, yes, indeed, he had been in her parlor on that day.
The day Dewhurst—Voss—had come and told her about Lord Brickbank.
Suddenly a bit of her pleasure waned.
Brickbank was dead, and, apparently, there was nothing she or anyone could have done to prevent it. The fact had poked at her incessantly, bothering her in a way she hadn’t been bothered since the first time she realized her gift—if one could call it that. This incident had disturbed her, perhaps because it had been so unwelcome. The dream had come upon her with no warning, unlike the other times when she had to concentrate and summon the vision or image to make her prophecy.
