The fragrances of designer perfumes and subtly scented candles mix in the air as I dive deeper into the crowd. A masked man in a Renaissance costume approaches me.
My first thought is relief that it isn’t Julian. My second thought is disappointment that it isn’t Henri.Damn!I should really stop expecting to bump into him here. He’s on the other side of the Alps. And even if he is in Mount Evor today, he’d be partying somewhere else. He could be at the Pombrio Assemblies, at a friend’s estate, or at a pub—anywhere, really, as long as that place doesn’t have the wordroyalin it.
“A beautiful night for a mystery, isn’t it?” the man who isn’t Henri or Julian says. “May I have this dance, Mademoiselle?” He offers a gloved hand.
I take it, my voice deeper as I reply, “Mystery is the Pombrio Carnival’s middle name.”
We join the waltzing pairs, and I find myself quite content. He’s a decent dancer. His small talk isn’t too excruciating. And yet, as we spin, I can’t help but scan the crowd.
Could that man over there be Henri?What about that one? After ten years, would I even be able to find him in a costume?
The dance ends.
My partner bows. “Thank you! I thoroughly enjoyed our dance. May I get you some refreshments?”
I decline politely, and he retreats into the crowd without insisting, correct in his interpretation of my clues. A perfect gentleman who recognizes a “no” when he gets one and moves on without taking the rejection as an insult to his masculine pride.
I wish all men were like that!
I catch a glimpse of Audrey thanks to her pirate garb, which is a fun contrast to the sexy dresses around her. She’s watching me from a distance just as she said she would.
Fine, whatever.
I set off through the ballroom once more. The lilting music fills the air, guiding the waltzing couples in a collective routine so graceful and well synched that you’d think it were rehearsed. The laughter, the rustle of silks, the flirtatious exchanges left and right, and the clinking of glasses add to the revelry.
With clear intent in his focused gaze, another gentleman in period costume makes his way toward me. He looks pleasant enough. There is absolutely no reason I shouldn’t welcome another dance with another stranger.It’s why we’re all here, after all!Yet, I immediately break eye contact and take a sharp right so I can slip away into the crowd.
And then time stalls.
Holding a drink in his hand, Henri leans casually against the wall like he owns the world.
CHAPTER TWO
An ornate mask partially veils Henri’s face. He’s sporting a neat beard now, which is a change from the clean-shaven boy I once knew. But something in the shape of his tall, athletic body, the cut of his jawline, his hair, his posture, and the way he tilts his head as he surveys the crowd leaves no doubt in my mind that it’s him.
A heady cocktail of emotions swirls inside me. Henri hasn’t seen me yet, so I take the opportunity to ogle him some more.
He’s wearing a Regency costume consisting of buckskin breeches and a white linen shirt with ample ruffles at the wrists and front. Yet, despite its decadent refinement, the garment fails to hide the masculine contours of Henri’s torso. In fact, it somehow highlights them.
Have his shoulders grown even broader than when he was twenty?Has he been working out?
His breeches fit him impeccably, accentuating his narrow hips and showcasing his strong, long legs. I nearly drool imagining what his firm ass must look like in those tight Regency pants.
Dammit, Henri!
My feet move of their own accord. Like a moth to the flame, I draw closer, while my heart launches into a drum solo. Fortunately, I have the presence of mind to maintain a safe distance.
Just as I’m losing my nerve and readying to turn around and flee, our eyes lock.
He’s standing too far away to recognize me, right?It’s hard to tell from here. My heartbeat ratchets up when his lips curve into a crooked smile, and he starts to walk toward me. Every alarm bell goes off in my head, and every instinct in me screams to run. But my feet, traitors that they are, refuse to move. As Henri closes the gap, I remain rooted to the floor, transfixed.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he says. “Enjoying the carnival?”
That’s how you’d greet a stranger, right?
I reply in my fake voice, “Yes, quite.”
He doesn’t blink. Not a flicker of recognition in those eyes. Either he’s a better actor than I thought, or my careful disguise is paying off… or our relationship simply didn’t leave a lasting impression on him.
