The question was so quiet and hesitant that Malcolm almost believed he’d conjured it up, but the anguish in Miss Leigh’s gaze faded from view, leaving it full of her heart, and even a fool could see that it beat for him.
“Only for tonight, Miss Leigh.” Yet another lie, but like the rest, this was a good one. One final night of playacting, and in the morning, they would begin a new chapter.
Drawing in a deep breath, Miss Leigh nodded and slid her arm through his. Thank heavens for the masks, for Malcolm was beaming beneath his like the fool he was. Miss Leigh cared about him. Not his fortune or family, but him.
The musicians struck up the opening measures of the next song, and Malcolm led his Miss Leigh into the figure, taking their place amongst the rest. Standing across from her, he held her gaze and found himself grinning once more, for she watched him with unadulterated joy. It was gone in a flash as she quickly schooled her expression, but Malcolm saw the display, and it settled deep into his heart.
Miss Leigh desired him. He knew it, and she knew it. There was no disputing that. Despite his apparent lack of wealth and status, she longed for him and was willing to throw aside caution. For him.
*
Mistakes came in many forms—even in the guise of strapping men with eyes that shone like the ocean on a sunny day and a smile that could melt the heart of even the strongest of women. Rosanna knew she was making a massive misstep tonight because embracing this impossibility for even a few hours would only bring them both heartache. However, knowing that did not keep her from making it.
She wanted to pretend. Just for a moment.
There was no future for her and Mr. Malcolm. The poets claimed love was the pinnacle of importance, and though she embraced that belief, it came with a caveat. Love was not some unchangeable, immovable object.
Plenty rode off with their new husbands, certain the future was filled with flowers, sweets, and undying declarations. But then life began in earnest, and when the months turned into years and the cares of daily life intruded, it was easy for love to wither and die. Some might argue that such a weak sentiment was not love at all, but having seen it again and again, Rosanna couldn’t believe the daydreams that said a love once forged was unbreakable.
Love wasn’t iron or steel. It was a seed. Planted in courtship and sprouting with marriage, it required constant care or it failed. One couldn’t expect a bountiful crop if one did nothing to tend to the delicate creation. Hardships and trials often led to neglect, allowing the seed to wither and die beneath the pounding winds and torrential rains.
A groom had no home. No employer would allow him to keep his wife in his staff quarters. There was a reason many servants remained unmarried. At best, spouses lived apart, able to see each other once a week, if fortune favored them. What love could survive that solitude?
Even if that hurdle were overcome, how quickly would it die when Mr. Malcolm discovered his wife had no skills to help with their household? Or when she tired of scrimping and saving every last farthing? What infatuation could withstand that strain?
Rosanna’s heart shuddered at that cold description of her feelings, but she wouldn’t allow herself anything more than “infatuation.” Yes, Mr. Malcolm felt like an old friend whom she’d known for years and not weeks, but that wasn’t significant. Even if he was more interesting and engaging than any gentleman she’d ever met. And made her weak at the knees with even the slightest glance in her direction.
This was a mistake. Rosanna frowned, her brows tugging at the mask on her face.
But then she compounded her sins by looking at Mr. Malcolm. A plain white oval covered his face, hiding the majority of his features, but his eyes peered through, shining with the vitality and humor that seemed an ever-present part of his personality. Mr. Malcolm viewed the world with a perpetual grin.
Then the first notes of the music began, and her feet moved on instinct, drawing her through the figures. Mr. Malcolm was a surprisingly fine dancer, moving through the steps with the grace of a society gentleman. The rapid beat had them shifting through the lines, and Rosanna lost herself to the music and the moment, forgetting about the regrets that she’d face tomorrow and the fleeting joy tonight would bring.
They say a poor partner makes a set last forever, and it was absolutely true. Unfortunately, so was the opposite, and despite knowing this dance wasn’t any shorter than any other, Rosanna was surprised to find the minutes sped by. Sooner than she’d like, their time rolled to a close, and Mr. Malcolm escorted her from the floor.
But he remained at her side as much as was possible in such a venue. Other gentlemen claimed dances, pulling her away, and yet Mr. Malcolm waited at the side for her to finish, taking up his post once she was free again.
The evening flew like a lark on the breeze, speeding along with little consideration for her feelings or desires. Every interruption that pulled her away from Mr. Malcolm was a curse, shortening their limited time together, yet there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn’t claim every dance, and Mama was determined that she dance with every masked gentleman in attendance in the hopes that it was their mysterious host behind the covering.
And all the while, Rosanna found herself thinking about the plain figure at the side of the gathering, watching her as she moved through the steps. It was abominably rude of her to ignore her partners, but if this was to be her one moment with Mr. Malcolm, then she wasn’t going to waste it by turning her thoughts to whatever gentleman was standing opposite her. Not that any of them noticed, for like Mr. Woodhouse, they were often more interested in cheering their luck at having secured a dance with the coveted Miss Leigh and speaking at length about themselves.
With each passing set, her stomach sank as the time of reckoning drew ever closer. For all that Mr. Malcolm wanted “this night,” their tale was like that of Cinderella, and the magic would end when the clock strikes twelve. He couldn’t risk being seen after the unmasking.
And when the final dance arrived, Mr. Malcolm appeared at her elbow, offering up his arm in silent invitation. Rosanna slipped her hand through it, clinging to it. They took their places, and she found herself considering all the possibilities. It was ridiculous. Of course, it was. In the past few weeks, she’d had this silent argument with herself.
Why was fate so cruel as to finally introduce a man who captured her attention so? Who valued her as no other did? Who turned her tears into smiles? In whose company every hour flew by in a heartbeat?
Marrying Mr. Malcolm was out of the question, and courtship only existed to test the waters; there was no point in considering one unless matrimony was possible. Even if the man in question made her laugh as no one else did. Minded her words. Played with children to give their mother a moment of quiet. Rescued damsels and squired them about at the risk of losing his livelihood.
Rosanna’s feelings for Parker had been but a flight of fancy, born of desperation for something better than a cold marriage and a life as a wealthy man’s ornament. In all her years hunting for a husband, no other man had touched her heart in such a manner. And he was beyond her reach. The impossible beau.
Rosanna’s heart sank with every step, knowing each drew her closer to the end of their fantasy. Mr. Malcolm grinned at her—though she couldn’t see the rest of his expression, his eyes were alight, and she imagined how his lips stretched wide and the brightness that shone in every inch of his face.
Her heart cracked.
“What is the matter?” he whispered as they passed.
Rosanna’s heart burned at that small sign of consideration, and the crack opened larger. Her vision blurred, and she forced herself to take in a deep breath and hold it. She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but her lips trembled.
