I hesitated a moment, gauging him, praying I wouldn’t recognize the curve of his jaw or the timbre of his voice.
Thankfully, I didn’t.
I said yes before fear could catch up, the champagne singing through my veins and giving me courage I wouldn’t normally possess.
He was kind enough. Not handsome beneath the mask, but attentive. I categorically assessed him closely, tallying each of his qualities and failures. He spun me clumsily, apologized twice for stepping on my hem, and spoke at length about his estate in Kent with a rehearsed passion reserved for men advertising themselves like livestock at auction.
Perhaps, I considered with chilled practicality, he would make a tolerable husband.
I smiled and laughed when expected. I took note of his hands—clean, soft, and uncalloused. I noticed, however, that his eyes roamed over the room even as he spoke to me, ever searching for someone better.
Not him, then.
Another dance followed. This one with a much older gentleman whose hand lingered lower than propriety allowed, whose voice dropped suggestively when the musicswelled. I extricated myself politely, pulse skittering again with half revulsion, half resolve.
Marriage, I chided myself as I silently marked him off my invisible list, did not require tenderness.
Only a cage large enough to survive in.
By the time I returned to the refreshment table, my nerves had softened into something almost like courage. Heat bloomed beneath my skin. Champagne appeared in my hand again, though I could not remember taking it.
The laughter around me grew louder as patrons indulged in alcohol and debauchery that wouldn’t usually be acceptable.
Then, I felt it.
That prickle along the nape of my neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I told myself it was the champagne. The swirl of masks. Old habits learned from years of being judged and measured by rooms very much like this one.
Still, my chest tightened.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze toward the far edge of the ballroom.
And there, half-swallowed by shadow and torchlight, stood a man who was not dancing.
He simply watched.
Even from a distance, even with half his face concealed, something about him tugged at me with unsettling familiarity. Broad shoulders. Handsome features. The waythe crowd bent nervously around him, as if sensing something sharp beneath his finery.
My fingers curled around the stem of my glass. Our eyes met across the expanse of the ballroom and I could have sworn he smiled.
I looked away, turning to take yet another glass of champagne, and in that singular moment, he vanished into the crowd.
But then I noticed him again and again as I moved through the rooms. By the gaming tables, leaning lazily against a column, watching dice roll as if the outcome meant nothing to him. Near the musicians, his gloved fingers tapping in time with the violins. At the edge of the balcony doors, where couples slipped out into candlelit darkness, his silhouette framing the threshold like a sentry.
Watchingmewith disapproval as another man claimed a dance.
I tried to pretend I didn’t feel the weight of his gaze. I tried to convince myself that champagne and nerves were conspiring to assign significance to a stranger who simply happened to be looking in my direction. But, every time I turned, I found him again. Always there.
Never approaching, but always watching me.
A chill crept beneath my skin.
You’re drunk, I scolded myself.You’re nervous. That’s all.
Still, my steps slowed. My sense of direction dissolved. I couldn’t recall which doors led where, though Ihad crossed this ballroom dozens of times in my youth. The floor felt too soft beneath my slippers, as if it might give way entirely if I pressed too hard.
Laughter burst too close to my ear and I flinched.
