Page 23 of The Gilded Masquerade

“Neither I—nor others—will forgive me if I forsake Anne. I would be, and rightfully so, considered the most self-centered cur. I cannot win.”

The clock on the mantel chimed half-past four. Staring into the fire “Les Patineurs” waltz echoed faintly in his memory. The image of the stranger’s dancing hazel-green eyes locking with his and the lingering taste of her lips, calmed his restless spirit.

“Thank you, Grayson. That will be all.”

His valet respectfully bowed, deeper than usual. At the door, he paused, turning halfway back into the bedchamber. “If I may add … regret, sir, is the one guest who never leaves when invited. Which decision would you regret more?”

Regret.

The door closed softly behind him. He stood alone, staring at the firelight licking across the turned bed and his nightshirt, knowing sleep would not come easily—if at all.

Darcy lay in bed watching snowflakes drift in circles in the pre-dawn darkness beyond the window. He had not slept more than thirty minutes when thoughts roused his waking. He had hoped to rise with clarity after his conversation with Grayson, but he felt decidedly more confused, still unable to render a verdict on his future. The mysterious woman who did not wish to be identified tormented his dreams. Imagining her very pleasing figure—as Richard had espoused and as he attested—and her porcelain skin, full lips, and intoxicating disposition, he could not rest, given to all sorts of ungentlemanly, shameful musing beyond their kiss in the library. He pushed the lurid images from his mind, considering her intelligence on a wide range of interests and her natural grace and beauty, branding her more than an ornamental debutante who could please his roused desires. Perchance she could be his equal on all accounts and to let her go before even forming a proper acquaintance would be regrettable. For what type of acquaintance could they have made when masked or under his mother’s watchful eye? Ah, but they had unmasked and made more than an innocent acquaintance, hadn’t they? And she had awoken something in him he had never experienced before.

The fire had diminished to glowing embers and although chilled, he threw back the blanket, slid into his slippers, then donned his dressing gown.

Though Grayson would likely be asleep for another thirty minutes, he could not wait to discuss what lay heavily on his mind. Skulking from his bedchamber, he crept across the hall to Grayson’s quarters, careful not to disturb his young sister at the end of the corridor. He lightly knocked and waited. “Grayson,” he whispered, rapping again, then opened the door.

“Mr. Darcy!” the older man exclaimed, bolted from the blue. “Have I overslept? I am terribly sorry, sir.”

“My apologies for prematurely waking you.”

“Are you unwell?”

A match strike, a breath of sulfur. Suddenly a warm glow of light filled the room.

“I am as well as can be expected.”

“How may I be of assistance?” Grayson asked, sitting fully up and casting back the linen.

It fascinated him that the man’s gray hair was still perfectly coiffed. Gesturing to the chair he asked, “May I?”

“Of course.”

His gaze fell to Howells’ novel The Rise of Silas Lapham on the table beside him. “Grayson, I find myself in need of an ally who is not a relation.”

Clearly still half-asleep, the man repeated, “An ally, sir?”

“Yes. May I prevail upon you to abet in a confidential matter?”

“I am at your service, always. If it is an honorable endeavor, as I have no doubt, then all you need do is ask. It is … my purpose.”

“Very good.”

“Is this regarding Lady Anne or your cousin?”

“It is about the young lady, the American.”

A slight smile appeared on Grayson’s lips, an unusual occurrence since the man lacked expressions of delight or dismay.

“You approve?” he asked.

“It is not my place, but, of course, it depends on what you are considering?”

“Last night, you spoke of regret. I would be remorseful if she were to depart Derbyshire without her understanding how appreciative I am for … our waltz. I wish to secretly contact her.”

Grayson shook his head. “Highly improper, sir, shockingly indecorous.”

“Yes, of that I am quite aware, but she is no ordinary debutante. She is a …” he softly smiled “… dauntless American rose.” Queen of the Flowers.