“Are you well?”
“Yes, indeed. I… I was just thinking that this Cotswold land is somewhat magical. It alters one’s perspective.”
His lips curled. “Come dance with me?”
Hebe clasped his outstretched palm.
For she could think of nothing she’d like to do more than dance in a decadent ballroom with this exotic creature of man.
“YOURMAJESTY,”Beatrice whispered, “are you as magnificent as they say?”
The sultan’s lips brushed her earlobe, stubble grazing, and she shuddered in the night air.
“More so,” he whispered back as his gloved hand snatched her tight and Beatrice could feel the dig of his ruby buttons, the curve of his sword.
She’d known it was Redmond O’Conner as soon as those direct onyx eyes had met hers upon the dancefloor. The question as to how on earth he had managed to attend this masquerade was immaterial, lost to his embrace, and now they were here on the terrace as the steps to a quadrille were a needless skill for a stable master to have learned
It would be so easy to succumb, to allow his fingers to wander, but that had always been their problem, succumbing to passion without thought for the consequences.
So the years of experience, of losing this man, hauled Beatrice from his embrace, and she took herself to the terrace shadows to gaze out over the formal gardens lit by the moon, to gain her breath and poise.
At length, she twisted to find he had not followed her. Hands to hips and chin lifted.
Redmond’s opulent costume suited his lean frame and those eyes gleamed with rough fire behind the smooth mask of black. The turban had been discarded, revealing his thick dark hair, the moon crystallising those silvered strands.
“I told my niece…” She cleared her throat. “I told her when we chose our costumes that a masquerade reveals a person’s true character. By what they wear and how they act in disguise.” She breathed the warm air, felt the weight of her past – both good and bad.
“So why a Romany queen?” he queried. “Do ya long to be wild and free? Unhindered by man or law?”
Forever misunderstanding each other.
And Beatrice sighed, aware she was about to reveal a part of her inner heart… “My costume,” she declared, “says that if I’d not been a daughter of society, but a Romany queen all those years ago, no one would have prevented me from being with my first love.”
She heard his catch of breath, his youthful beloved curse.
Heart thrumming, she strolled towards him and touched a single finger to his burgundy kaftan, plucked at the fur trimming about his throat.
“And your costume? A sultan? A harem of women at your beck and call. Is that what you wish for? As do most men.” Maybe he had changed more than she knew.
He shook his head. “Ya misunderstand, Bea.” A crooked smile split his face. “For if I’d been a mighty sultan all those years ago…” He leaned so close, lips caressing her cheek. “Then not one damn person would have had the power to take me away from my true love.”
Beatrice closed her eyes – wishing they could step back in time, wishing their guises tonight could have been forever – till she heard, nay, sensed him take a step back.
“But the truth of it is, Bea, on the morrow, I’ll still be a stable master and you… You will always be a lady.” He took another step from her and bowed. “In that, nothing will ever change.”
And with the strike of a midnight gong, he twisted, slippered feet soundless across the terrace.
15
THE HORSE OF HOPE GALLOPS BUT THE ASS OF EXPERIENCE WALKS
Lord Ernest unclasped her feather-trimmed cloak at the throat, fingers lingering, and then swept it from her shoulders with the ease and swiftness of a shepherd fleecing a sheep.
“Hebe, I… I know ’tis late but would you care to see the music room?”
With a silent cock of brow, she surveyed the man who’d posed such a rakish invite. His antler mask had disappeared at midnight, yet ivy still tangled his throat, and his hair was as though a northern wind had tousled it just so.
“I mean… If you are not too weary from the masquerade?”
