He would not let that happen.
His feet were on the move. He wasn’t sure how, but somehow the blonde had cheated. No one had that kind of luck.
Oh, yes, he would find her, and she would tell him what her game was.
And she would give him the ring.
Tonight—this entire last year—would not be a complete loss.
He understood it wouldn’t fully redeem him in Papa’s eyes, but it was a start.
What level of hell had that bubbly blonde card sharp come from, anyway?
3
Tilly stepped into the awe-inducing ballroom of the Royal Pavilion and thought she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for when she’d embarked upon this little wild night.
She’d gotten the best night of her life.
This masquerade ball was everything she’d ever dreamed a masquerade ball would be—sumptuous, opulent, and mysterious, with all these aristocrats decked out in their finest. It was clear they all recognized each other behind their masks and were playing a big game of pretend of not knowing each other.
But wasn’t that the point?
How could a little wild night be had if one was being their ordinary, old self?
With a mask on, anyone could be anyone.
Even her.
It was freedom—and it was fun.
And, lawks, the champagne. How it flowed without end.
And the dancing, oh, the dancing…
She loved to dance, and she’d had no shortage of men—lords—vying for her hand.
Her, a lady’s maid.
But they didn’t know that, did they? As long as she kept her mouth mostly shut—one dropped aitch and the jig would’ve been up—she could be anyone. These lords didn’t know Tilly Birdwell from Eve of Garden-of-Eden fame, and she didn’t know any of them, either.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true.
An hour ago, there’d been one lord she’d recognized.
She would’ve known him anywhere, even after nine years, for he’d made promises to her once.
None of which he’d kept, if she was keeping score.
Sir Felix Mortimer.
She’d even come face to face with him.
And though she’d felt her heart in her throat, his gaze hadn’t lingered on her for even the split of a second—not like it once had.
Not like when she was sixteen.
At five and twenty, she reckoned she was now too advanced in years for his tastes.
