Then Meghan remembered, she was supposed to be the lady, although she was actually just a miss. Her sister and married cousins held the titles of the lady.
“Lady Tremaine,” she mouthed. She sneaked a glance about, waiting for one of her many male kin or her betrothed to jump from the shadows and shout, “Caught!”
The servant’s unblinking stare drew her to the moment.
Meghan fumbled with the ties at her throat. The moment she managed to free herself from the silver cloak, a servant slipped from the shadows and caught the article.
She watched him hurry off.
It was now or never.
Taking a deep breath, she made the long climb of the entryway stairs. Each sleek black marble step should ground her.
It should.
The ball was well into the evening. The assurance didn’t help.
Like a fast-moving wave, laughter and joy-filled shouts swelled with every step that brought her closer. Between the deafening roar of merriment and the absence of lords and ladies in the receiving line, almost all guests—if not all—had already arrived.
Each step taken lent her heart an extra beat.
Her mouth went dry.
What if she were recognized?
As if fate sought to alleviate her worries, Meghan crested the landing, where the butler stopped them. A floor-length gilded mirror had been positioned where revelers could steal one last glimpse before they joined the masquerade.
Meghan stilled.
She did not recognize herself. With a wide satin and organza crystal-beaded gown and arm-length crystal studded gloves, nary a one of her many identifying freckles could be discerned. Her mask made of clear gems that glimmered bright as diamonds covered the expanse of her face.
At a masquerade, disguises were donned and people played at being another, and a wallflower could become something she’d never been and, under the twinkling crystal lights of every chandelier hereafter, would never again be—a diamond.
I am invisible.
Heart hammering, Meghan smoothed her white satin-gloved palms over the crystal-encrusted bodice of her crystal-studded ballgown. With that reminder ringing in her head, Meghan entered Lord and Lady Rutland’s ballroom.
The crystals on her off-the-shoulder appliques chimed softly, like the whole Fairy Court tinkling its approval in time to the gazes swung her way.
Her hands rested just beneath her bosom.
The twelve-piece orchestra, all disguised as jewel-colored harlequins, chose that inopportune time to bring a lively minuet to an end.
Silence fell, thick and impervious.
And yet, for the first time, the entire world looked upon Miss Meghan McQuoid Smith and also—at no one at all.
Gazes swung slowly in Meghan’s direction. Murmurs followed, along with more bold looks. Until the entire room buzzed with the crowd’s fascination.
To give her shaking hand purchase, Meghan used the railing to guide her march on the stairs. With every step taken, there was a pause allowing for the soft pitter-patter of footmen circulating drinks to be heard, amidst a crowd of some three hundred guests.
Too busy searching for her sister and cousin in the suspended audience, it took a moment before the awe-coated whispers reached her.
“A true Diamond…”
Her pulse picked up its beat.
“Sparkles brighter than any diamond…”
