Spying the anxious eyes behind the mask, Aideen dashed over. “You look delightful, Cordy. Like a…lamb let out in a spring meadow for the first time.”
“Oh, good. That is the effect I was after. I didn’t want to appear like mutton.”
“Gracious no, you look beautiful. Now Lord Winterbourne is–”
“Here I am, loveys. I understand I’ve two beauties to escort.”
They both whirled and stared open-mouthed at the stunning gentleman before them.
Of course, she had always known Lord Winterbourne was a handsome man, and tonight, she had to acknowledge they would be the envy of every female as they entered the ballroom together.
Byronesque black curls fell perfectly to broad shoulders, and nestled in his artful hair was a pair of red horns – still better made than her own. A black-and-red mask obscured his features with leering demons painted upon it. Flashing white teeth as usual – heaven knows the powder he used – above an immaculate cravat and black jacket. But the waistcoat was a poppy red, devilish and bright. In his hand he held a rather dangerous pitchfork.
“That is a beautiful coquelicot waistcoat, Jack,” she sighed, wishing she could wear such a colour. Alas, it caused her complexion to resemble an old rag.
“Ah,” he said, rushing forth to kiss her hand. “Why didn’t we marry? You appreciate the prevailing fashion like no one else. Instead you married His Colourlessness.”
Cordelia giggled, and Jack sketched a bow. “And who do we have here? But an innocent lamb with flesh so very…succulent.” Her friend tittered yet more and Aideen wacked his arm with a claw.
“Tonight, we are Lady Hellcat and…” She turned to Cordelia.
“Erm, Lady C. Lamb?”
“Oh no, lovey,” said Jack, “that’s already taken by the scandalous Caroline and one is more than enough, I assure…ewe.” He perused her from foot to ear. “You shall be Miss Peep.”
All agreed, Cordelia sprang for the door, but Jack grabbed hold of Aideen’s arm, dragging her to one side.
“Why the bloody hell is Miss Cordelia Greenwood, the ton’s darling and absolute innocent, going to the Miltons’? I’ll be hung, drawn and fleeced of my favourite waistcoat if anyone finds out, especially Oakdean.”
“She wants a night of freedom. Before the tedium of marriage.”
Jack peered carefully into her mask. “Rakecombe’s hurting you, isn’t he?”
“Nonsense, I just–”
“As I thought, you’re in need of my assistance.” He patted her arm in an avuncular manner, so at odds with his physical aspect. “My rules are normally for the gentlemen, but I don’t suppose women are much different, especially you, Aideen.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or affronted. “What rules?” she nevertheless asked, intrigued.
A wide grin split his face, a devilish twinkle to the fallen angel’s eye. She peered down for the cloven hoof.
“Why, the rules of the rogue, my dear Aideen. And we will start at number one. A little jealousy never goes amiss.”
Chapter Fourteen
Lambs to the slaughter.
Caligula’s hand slid to Aideen’s bottom, so she stuck a claw in the despotic emperor’s stomach and with a guilty grin, it withdrew.
So far, the masquerade had been splendid – sublime dancing, highest-quality champagne and superb lobster patties. The ballroom echoed to the sound of merriment as Caligula waltzed her across the floor. She’d already twirled with lions, wolves, a Zeus and if she wasn’t mistaken the Prince Regent – the real one.
The palatial townhouse resembled a Roman villa, Bacchus’ feast being the theme: fountains dripped with wine, statues disrobed in the corners and guests reclined on low couches, devouring grapes and figs with their fingers.
But as the night wore on, she realised how apt that word was. Because the ball was wearing. Wearing and false.
Caligula bowed as their waltz came to a welcome end and then toddled off, probably to find a lady not averse to bottom patting…or his beloved horse, and Aideen took herself to lean against a mighty statue of a semi-clad Venus.
Gazing out at the multitude, she recognised the wife of an earl disappearing into the gardens with a younger man, their gaze intimate.
