In one particular corner, she noticed the ruddy hair and porcelain face of Juliet Stanton. Theo looked away before she could see more.
“What is your costume?” she asked, taking a seat to watch the proceedings. Although some couples had taken it upon themselves to dance whatever they pleased, she was relieved to see a minuet forming in the centre of the room. “You recognised mine, but I do not recognise yours.”
“Is it not obvious?” He gestured to the horns. “I come as the devil.”
Not for the first time, Theo wished she were anywhere but there. “You said once you intended to cause mischief,” she said. “Is that your intention here?”
His eyes gleamed at her. “Why, would you be amenable to causing mischief with me?”
She glanced away, to the smaller room where refreshments were served. “I’m thirsty. Would you be so good as to get me a drink?”
“Certainly,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The look in his eyes would have made another woman swoon—Annabelle, certainly, would have swooned, and Lady Tabitha would have been positively incoherent.
A week ago, she might have also swooned. Now, thoughts of Nathanial were marring her very own romantic hero.
When Montague came back, he handed her the glass with a knowing look in his eyes. “No one will recognise you. You’re safe.”
Safe from Nathanial knowing I’m here. But she did not bother articulating the thought, and merely took a sip. The wine was rather stronger than she was used to, and she made a mental note to limit her consumption. The last thing she wanted was to compromise her wits.
Still, now shewashere, she may as well make the best of it. “You should ask me to dance,” she said, putting her glass down. “A masked ball is still a ball, after all.”
He offered her his hand, and she took it. As his fingers curled around hers—his hand so much larger, his fingers so much stronger—she was reminded of that feeling in the carriage. A feeling that if he should choose, she would be unable to resist him.
“The world is not watching,” Montague said as he pulled her closer. “You don’t have to fear, little mouse.”
She had been this close to Nathanial when she had kissed him. If she were to reach up, she could kiss Montague. And, despite the conflicting feelings and the uncomfortable sensation that lingered in her stomach, she wanted to.
How were his kisses different from Nathanial’s? She had no doubt both men were experienced.
Who wanted to kiss her more? Which one didshewant to kiss more?
It was a terrible conundrum. One she loved and hated in equal measure.
“Why did you invite me here?” she asked.
“Is not the excuse of spending time with you enough reason?”
She had only had a little wine, but already it made the lights a little too bright, the music a little too loud. The world took on a glassy air as she allowed Montague to guide her through the dances, his hand on her waist and his gaze fixed on hers. It was easier to give in, to allow the stars to sink until they scattered around her as the music swirled and they continued to dance.
Theo had gone to a masquerade.
Nathanial scribbled a quick note to his friend, Lord Walters, and handed it to his valet. “See that this is delivered,” he said. “There’s been a change of plan.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
She might have thought she’d outsmarted him, accepting Montague’s invitation to Mrs Chichester’s masquerade, but he still had friends. The missive he had received just ten minutes previously was still crumpled on the desk. Its writer had been correct about one thing: he did indeed care to know that his wife was attending a masquerade in the company of a certain gentleman.
The girl had no idea what she was letting herself in for, he thought grimly as he donned his costume for the evening: King Charles II. Once he had his mask, which covered all of hisface but his mouth and eyes, he summoned the carriage and journeyed to Mrs Chichester’s house. All the way, he planned what he would say to Theo to make her understand what she was risking.
He did not allow himself to think about what he would do if he walked in to find her kissing another man. Or worse, kissing Montague.
The masquerade was as extravagant as Mrs Chichester’s events tended to be, crammed with milkmaids, servant girls, princesses, and historical figures. He scanned the lines of dancers, refusing to believe Theo would be anywhere but dancing, and eventually found her in a toga that revealed a slip of shoulder, and a diamond-studded white mask. If he had not known her so well—the black hair, braided and pinned to the back of her head, the way she moved with such unconscious grace, her smile—he would never have recognised her.
The man opposite her was undoubtedly Montague. They danced together, but although Montague’s hands lingered on her arms and shoulder blades, and although his gaze never left her face, she made no physical gesture of encouragement.
That was something, at least.
He found a woman sitting by herself and offered out a hand. “Dance with me?” he asked. Here, no one need know anyone’s name; identities were not the order of the day. She rose with a smile, accepted his hand, and he led her out onto the dancefloor. Not beside Theo, but close enough he could watch her.
