Chapter 1
Lady Helena Fairfax lifted the fox mask, a mix of russet and gold, almost childish, and, for a moment, too sly to be hers. Tonight she did not want caution. She wanted company. She took a steadying breath. After three years of marriage followed by two years of widowhood, she deserved a bit of mischief.
She tied the mask firmly. The silk pressed against her hairline, a bracing counterpoint to the warmth rising in her cheeks. It was astonishing how easily one could slip into a role. She had been doing it, in one form or another, all her life.
The clock neared eleven as she crossed the carpet on quiet feet, paused at the threshold, and drew a breath. Behind her lay the hushed safety of an ornate prison. Ahead, a corridor to the carriage and, God willing, her first ungoverned breath in months—and not a single promise attached to it.
London offered a soft, unseasonable April night. As the carriage rattled over the stones, fog curled around the lamps, turning each pool of light into a small, private world. She traced a gloved finger along the fox’s nose and thought of the creature slipping unseen through hedgerows, outsmarting hounds and husbands.
The masquerade’s address was notorious and, to those who mattered, discreet. It was quite perfect, for tonight, Helena longed for anonymity.
When the carriage stopped, a colossus in baroque livery opened the door, his gaze catching on her mask with a flicker of amusement. Helena swept past him, her own name already loosening its hold with each step over marble. Tonight she was not the dutiful widow. She was a vibrant mystery.
Inside, light reigned. Crystal hung from the ceiling, scattering prisms across velvet and gilt. The air was thick with bergamot and jasmine, and beneath it, the unmistakable scent of too many bodies too close together. Laughter ricocheted off mirrors. Shepherdesses and pharaohs mingled with Harlequins, Columbines, and Roman heroes. Helena slipped to one side, crimson a clean slash among pastels and gilt, and pressed her fingertips to the mask’s edge, confirming her invisibility. Eyes skimmed over her and moved on. Relief tasted like champagne.
She lingered near a bright group of women whose practiced flirtations rose and fell like a well-rehearsed chorus. A maid in a domino mask offered a tray. Helena took a glass and turned the stem between her fingers, acutely aware, as ever, of observing even as she longed to immerse herself.
One waltz, she told herself. One kiss. Then home. No regrets.
She had not reached the floor when she felt it. The steady knowledge of being seen, measured, by a mind as meticulous as her own. She turned. Across the room stood a tall man in a black domino mask, serious even amid the revelry. Dark hair threatened rebellion against careful styling. His posture was precise, his attention wholly fixed on her. Something about the breadth of his shoulders, the stillness of him, tugged at a place in memory she could not name.
Helena did not look away.
He approached in three decisive strides, the crowd parting without his noticing. He did not bow or posture. He regarded her with cool composure, blue eyes intent.
“Good evening, madam fox,” he said, velvet lined with gravel. “I commend your nerve. You are the only guest unafraid of a proper hue.”
She lifted her chin. “And I congratulate you on making black look like a choice rather than a deficiency.”
“Appearances,” he replied, “are the point.”
“Then let us get to said point,” she said. Her gaze swept across him. “What is yours meant to convey? Minister of ill omens?”
A brief, suppressed smile tugged at his mouth. “Only an amateur student of them. Tonight’s are most diverting.”
“Perhaps you simply lack practice.”
His gaze sharpened. “If that is a challenge, I accept.”
She might have laughed. Instead, she smiled behind her mask. “Do so at your peril, sir.”
He offered his arm, perfectly poised between sincerity and satire. “Permit me to risk humiliation. Will you dance?”
She hesitated long enough to know she could refuse, then placed her hand in his. Warmth seeped through gloves, making her long for more. “No questions I don’t wish to answer,” she said under her breath.
"I would not dream of it," he said.
The orchestra struck a waltz with sly undertones, and formality dissolved by degrees, breath by breath, until only heat remained. He smelled of clean citrus and wood, a quiet rebellion against florid colognes. They fit—ridiculously, undeniably—as if they had danced a hundred times.
“You are not from London,” he said, low.
“Tonight I am from nowhere at all.”
“Then we are well met, for I prefer the uncharted.”
She gave a sly grin, then said, “How very bold.”
He held her closer, his breath ghosting her ear. “It is a bold night.”
