Calliope drifted farther into the alcove. Her costume was more akin to an elegant night rail than a true dress. The only thing that gave the garment structure was Calliope’s own body. The fine material fluttered against her ankles as she walked, giving the illusion that she really was adorned with deep-blue water. The muscles in Mr. Powys’s throat worked—either from unwanted lust or irritation, or both.
Lady Calliope smiled, a wicked grin framed by her gold mask. Unlike the paste gems in Mr. Powys’s, the precious metal threads appeared real. “But I am clever too.”
Mr. Powys scowled. “I am hardly likely to succumb to the overly bejeweled charms of a garish Norman-usurper imitation of the true Arglwyddes y Llyn.”
“Is there a reason we are engaging in a history lesson?” Hannah asked as she marched into the recess with Sophia. Both were wearing black dresses similar to Lady Calliope’s ultramarine one, with fabric snakes sewn into the garments. A very smug-looking Pan perched on Sophia’s shoulder with a tiny eye patch over his lost eye. The bird seemed to be enjoying the raucous atmosphere.
“History!” Pan called gleefully.
Mr. Powys ignored Hannah’s question. Instead, he smoothed his glower into the handsome grin he wore when playing romantic heroes on the stage. “Furies; how appropriate.”
“Lady Calliope lent us the costumes,” Sophia explained.
“My oldest two sisters and I once dressed as the Erinyes for one of my brother’s balls,” Lady Calliope explained. “I thought they were fitting for tonight.”
“I wish I could be the third.” Charlotte’s voice floated into their alcove, and Matthew instantly stiffened. Memories from their parting in the garden ripped through him. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and beg her to forget what he’d said. But nothing had changed. They were still from two different worlds.
“You are a Fury in spirit.” Sophia slung her arm around Charlotte.
“Murder! Murder!” Pan trilled happily.
Matthew’s hand tightened on his fake rapier as he gazed at Charlotte in her golden mantle and vibrant fuchsia gown. Instead of the stomacher and decorative petticoat adding color contrast, the dress sported lighter panels of pink at the sides. Leaves the hue of the dress had been embroidered on the strips, and they seemed to rustle as she walked. The gauzy material at her neck was a more fashionable take on the starchy neck ruffs of Queen Elizabeth’s court. Charlotte had left her red tresses unpowdered, a fitting tribute to the auburn-haired queen.
Her mask was gold like Calliope’s. A strip of pink gauze hung below the curve of the visor. It helped to obscure Charlotte’s entire face, as it would be most dangerous for her reputation to be recognized by anyone but Hawley. Still, Matthew could see her red painted lips through the sheer fabric. Their sensuous, upturned tilt caused curls of heady emotion to unfurl inside him.
He wanted to caress, to taste, to worship her. But he couldn’t give himself leave to do so, even if the lady herself permitted it.
“Are we certain Hawley isn’t here?” Mr. Powys asked. “Perhaps we just aren’t able to recognize him in his costume.”
“My brother is vain,” Matthew said quietly. “He wouldn’t show up heavily disguised. He wants to be recognized and admired.”
“Matthew is right,” Lady Calliope agreed. “My brother says he prefers a half mask attached to a handle. He only occasionally uses it to obscure his features.”
“How often does Blackglen host these events?” Sophia asked as she scanned the crowded ballroom.
“Regularly during the Season,” Lady Calliope said. “Perhaps twice a month, maybe even thrice.”
Hannah, who had no qualms discussing money, lifted the veil attached to her mask to reveal her gaped mouth. “How does he afford it? He must be burning more candles than a poor family does in several years—and they’re beeswax.”
“Not to mention he has crammed more posies into this ballroom than could fill the carts of every Covent Garden flower seller,” Sophia added.
“Be glad for that,” Mr. Powys said drily. “At least their perfume partially masks the odor of so many people under one roof. Rich or poor, all people smell the same when stuffed like pigs in a pen.”
“You could at least attempt not to insult your host.” Lady Calliope playfully brandished her Excalibur in Mr. Powys’s direction.
He batted it away easily with his staff. Unfortunately, Lady Calliope assumed a fencing pose. Mr. Powys, who was no stranger to staged swordplay, took up an exaggerated defensive position.
Charlotte suddenly gasped, and Matthew felt like she had sucked in his very breath—for there, on the steps leading down into the ballroom, stood Hawley dressed as another Sir Francis Drake, complete with two flintlock pistols. Knowing the viscount’s penchant for chaos and his disregard for anyone’s safety, the weapons were very likely loaded, hopefully with only powder and no lead.
“Hawley has arrived,” Alexander announced to the group.
“Oh my, he is a popinjay,” Hannah said. “He fairly struts like a peacock.”
“He’s padded his doublet to appear more muscular,” Sophiaadded. “He did not cut such a fine form when I saw him in the Black Sheep.”
“Fine form!” Hannah repeated, flinging one arm with enough force that the snakes appliqued onto her gown seemed to quiver in sympathetic amusement. “He is ridiculously bulgy. He looks like a walking caricature of Sir Francis Drake.”
“Fool! Fool! Fool!” Pan cackled as he lifted his gray foot to his face, as if embarrassed on Hawley’s behalf.
