She told herself she hadn’t yet decided whether to attend. The idea of a masquerade seemed indulgent and unnecessary. However, the idea had settled beneath her skin, persistent and irrational. She told herself it was an obligation, a social expectation, but some part of her craved the escape.
The gown was already ordered. The mask was chosen. The invitation was accepted weeks ago. It would be noticed if she didn’t attend. And there would be resulting gossip. She let out a deep sigh. She had no intention of being the brunt of that.
Leticia tapped the folded letter against her palm.
A single dance wasn’t a scandal. Unless one kept thinking about it the next day.
She set the letter on the dressing table and turned back to Alice, who stood waiting near the armoire.
“Something with shape,” Leticia said again, more firmly this time. “And the green slippers.”
Alice’s brows lifted slightly, but she offered no comment. Only a nod, and the faintest suggestion of a smile.
Leticia turned her attention back to the letter, still folded on her dressing table.
She should have forgotten him by now.
The dance hadn’t lasted more than five minutes. He had said nothing remarkably, that maddening phrase,not uninteresting, and her name as though it were a secret he meant to carry away with him. Yet there had been something about the way he stood. As if accustomed to command, but unused to amusement. As though he didn’t quite know what to do with someone who answered him honestly.
He had danced like a man who followed patterns, not instincts.Each step was precise, measured, not mechanical, but as if he’d been trained to move with efficiency, rather than joy.
It had intrigued her. And more than that, it had stayed with her long after the music ended.
She stood, pacing lightly before her mirror, absently adjusting the fall of her sleeve. Memory slipped in where discipline should have been of a summer afternoon at Ridgemoor, Erica laughing in the garden, tossing bread to the ducks with unapologetic aimlessness.
“You can’t always be composed, Leticia,” words she’d deflected at the time with a practiced smile, though they’d pricked sharper than she let on. Only now did she begin to understand the warning behind them. Erica had said, tugging a blade of grass between her fingers. “Someday you’ll want to be entirely unreasonable, and I do hope I’m there to see it.”
Leticia hadn’t known whether to be flattered or insulted. She smiled, of course. That was what one did. But even then, she had felt the divide between them. Erica was carefree and radiant, and herself… reliable.
She glanced at the clock on the mantel, at the small velvet drawer in her dressing table where the masquerade mask had been tucked away since it arrived from the modiste.
She hadn’t so much as lifted the lid. Perhaps she was afraid of who she’d find behind it.
A knock came at the open door, followed by the unmistakable silhouette of Lady Eastbury. She wore her dark shawl wrapped elegantly over one shoulder, a small book in her hand, and the faint scent of lavender trailed after her.
“You’re up early,” her aunt said lightly. “Good. I’ve been awake for hours and had no one to share in my indignation at the latest from the Morning Post.”
Leticia turned. “What has society done now?”
“An article named a viscount’s pug one of the ten best-dressedattendees at Lady Withersby’s garden party.”
Leticia blinked. “Was it well dressed?”
“Impeccably,” her aunt allowed. “But I object to its inclusion on principle.”
Leticia smiled despite herself and gestured toward the chair near the window. “Shall I prepare a protest? Or merely have Alice remove the fashion section before your tea arrives?”
“No, no. Let the world be absurd. It makes our restraint appear virtuous.” Her aunt settled gracefully, added, with the slightest arch to her brow, “I hear your friend Miss Notley is preparing something especially grand for the masquerade.”
Leticia raised a brow. “Already?”
“She’s had it planned since July, I suspect. She merely let the rest of us catch up.”
There was a pause. Leticia folded her hands. “You’re looking forward to it?”
“I am.” Her aunt smiled softly. “There’s a kind of delicious freedom in not being recognized. Anonymity, just for an evening, can make one surprisingly bold.”
Leticia considered that. “Or dangerously foolish.”
