Sophia’svoice.
It is only your imagination,he assured himself. This was a routine haunting, nothing more than a cruel joke. His mask was itching his face as well. It was making him sweat. He wasn’t thinking clearly, but the evidence was difficult to ignore. Not only did this woman look and sound like Sophia, but she also had a sister named Prudence.
“I warned Prudence against using lace in her design.” Lord Blackstone sighed. “Our hostess has insisted that masks be worn throughout the entire evening. Unless your sister is otherwise unwell, we are staying a while longer. Where is your aunt?”
The masked woman spoke again in her clear, soft tone. “On a chair with a plate of cheese.”
Lord Blackstone’s cheerful expression faded. “I look forward to the day your mother joins us in London,” he muttered. “I cannot tolerate Mrs. Liddle’s neglect. Not only that, but she hardly put a thought into her costume. I shall have to take it upon myself to find new acquaintances for you.” His gaze slid in Isaac’s direction. “And what opportune timing. I have just become acquainted with this mischievous fox.”
Was Isaac to play along with Lord Blackstone’s theatrics? His face was already hot. The similarities that the young woman bore to Sophia had flustered him. A wave of nerves pierced him like an arrow.
Her eyes met his, and his heart beat hard against his chest. Isaac had only seen that shade of blue once—the shade that matched the Cornish waters at sunset. The stoic look she had displayed with her stepfather faded at the impact of their gazes.
Her eyes flashed with recognition.
He stood in silence, his throat raw. He forgot the motions of breathing in and out, becoming a statue under her gaze. The mask concealed much of her face, but now that she was in frontof him, he couldn’t mistake the curve of her chin, the shape of her lips, and the golden-brown tone of her hair.
Was he wrong? Perhaps it wasn’t her. The last time he had seen Sophia, she had been a stepdaughter to none. Her father had been very much alive.
But it had been four years.
The woman’s throat shifted with a swallow, and her eyes lowered to his cravat. Was his reaction making her uncomfortable? Most likely. He scolded himself, urging his mind and heart to relax. If he was wrong, and this was not Sophia, then he was making a very strange first impression on Lord Blackstone’s stepdaughter.
“The hunt is on, is it not, my dear?” Lord Blackstone nudged her with a grin.
“Forgive me, sir, but I only hunt pheasants.” Her voice sent a chill over Isaac’s spine, like walking into an abandoned house alone at night.
He collected himself enough to reply. “There is nothing to forgive. I would much rather not be hunted.”
Her eyes shot up to his again, this time with clear curiosity. And a hint of fear. He had rattled her somehow.
Had she recognized his voice, too?
Her lips parted, as if she wished to say something more, but no words came out. Isaac’s heart raced, his instincts growing stronger. If this woman wasn’t Sophia, then he wasn’t Isaac Ellington—and Lord Blackstone wasn’t an elephant tamer.
“A truce?” the viscount interrupted with a wry smile. “Have the huntress and fox formed a rare alliance? Brava!” He clapped.
Percy joined him with rapturous applause.
Isaac drew a deep breath—his first in what felt like minutes. The air was heavy and tense with dread. He counted the seconds that passed in silence. What could he do? Until he knew hername, he couldn’t ascertain whether he was right or wrong—sane or mad.
Isaac’s voice shook as he tore his gaze from the woman’s face and addressed Lord Blackstone. “Since we are allies, may I inquire after your stepdaughter’s name?”
“You may indeed,” he replied. “Tonight, you may call her Diana—Goddess of the Hunt.” Lord Blackstone was clearly still amused, apparently unaware of Isaac’s tense emotions. “But on other occasions, you may call her Miss Sophia Hale.”
Chapter Three
“And this, my dear, is Mr. Isaac Ellington.”
Sophia’s ears rang, her stepfather’s muffled voice echoing inside her head.
Isaac Ellington.
For a moment, she doubted she had heard him correctly. But then she looked at the man’s face again. She had seen his eyes through his mask. No matter how many years had passed—four to be precise—one could never forget the eyes of the person they once loved. They were the windows to his heart, which he had freely given to her on the cliffs of Cornwall.
Just before he had taken it away.
She stood in shocked silence as heat creeped up her neck. Blood rushed past her ears, throbbing, pounding, making her limbs shake. She didn’t know whether to freeze or to flee. If only sinking into the floor and disappearing were an option. For the first time that evening, she was grateful for the mask hiding her face.
