Page 28 of The Gilded Masquerade

“If she could read such a letter from you!” he joked, not to question Caroline’s education, but one did need to be proficient in the skill of translating the doctor’s unsightly handwriting.

“A doctor’s malady,” Charles laughed.

“Then, you should cure yourself, sir, for your correspondence is entirely vexing to read through to your signature.”

They shared a good laugh.

“I do apologize for not having included your sister in the guest list. My mother was exceedingly particular in her motives for the evening,” he said.

“Think nothing of it. I am quite in agreement regarding Caroline’s absence. There could be no suitable reason to include her when you are expected to make a betrothal announcement this evening. If you had, then I should find myself administering smelling salts for the entirety of the festivities.”

“I will have to disappoint you and all who have championed the match between me and my cousin. Alas, tonight is not the night to make such a declaration.”

“Phew.” He shook his head. “Thank goodness.”

“Do you not approve of the match, Charles?”

“As her physician, yes. As your friend, no. But I do not, specifically, treat matters of the heart, only the state of a patient’s overall physical infirmity.”

“And how is Anne this evening?”

“Unchanged, but she is at her wits end. Kind as she is, she could not resist railing on about …” he leaned to him and whispered. “Lady Catherine.”

“Rightfully so. Did she speak to you of her wishes?”

“Andalusia?”

He nodded, noticing Miss Crossworth’s exit from the ballroom, her nose leading the way, searching left and right, as though a dowsing rod divining for water.

“I am all in, should that be your charted course,” Charles said.

“Thank you. I must take leave, but please, enjoy the merrymaking, Charles. There is a plethora of young ladies from which to choose tonight. Although, I would caution you away from the Americans,” he selfishly added. “Let us meet again over breakfast.”

They happily shook hands, and he continued hotly down the corridor to the library.

Once there, he closed the door behind him, leaned against it and breathed a sigh of relief. The third of the evening. Yes, here he could find harmony. He chuckled, adding to his thoughts, “and the rarity of an exquisite rose hiding behind a chair.”

Within the hearth only embers remained and he banked the fire, followed by the extinguish of all but one spirit lamp, which he carried to his reading nook. The library appeared closed for the evening should Miss Crossworth or any other guest find their way within.

In the luminosity of soft candlelight, he sat in his favorite chair and closed his eyes, shutting out the falling snow beyond the window and the din from down the hall. Could he not escape his recollection of the American? Nay, she was everywhere within; her redolent jasmine fragrance still hung in the air as though her calling card. He let out a deep sigh. Surely the answers to his many vexations would come. Surely the good Lord would give him clarity. He would not ask for anything further beyond the fulfilled Christmas wish of a waltz but what to do with the lingering memory? How perceptive of Richard to claim the recollection of those sparkling eyes and his lips touching her hand would lay claim to his heart in sweet torment.

The library door opened with a creak then closed.

He blew out the candle, then bolted between the floor to ceiling bookcases. The shame of desperation! No doubt Miss Crossworth had sought to compromise him!

There was another creak from the opening door followed by the running patter of slippers toward his hiding place, then a swish of skirt in his immediate proximity. Someone was in the book stacks with him!

The door to the library closed again, this time with a lock. “Hello? Mr. Darcy,” Miss Crossworth called out into the dark.

Frozen in the corner like a statue, he hid in the shadow, pressed against the Shakespearean volumes. A sliver of moonlight fell across the entrance to his hiding spot, kissing a glittering gold evening gown as it moved backward toward him until, finally, the woman had nowhere to go but into the blackness—directly into him.

He clutched her waist and hand. She gasped.

“Sssshhh,” he whispered in the lovely American’s ear, delighting in her back pressed against his chest. His arm slid around her tiny waist. Oh, dear Lord, keep me from kissing her ear.

Miss Crossworth called out again. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, come out, come out.” Could he truly censure the conniving woman when every scandalous, ungentlemanly desire for the one in his arms, filled his head?

The American rose relaxed onto him; the subtle pressure against him did things to him.