Page 5 of The Gilded Masquerade

Continuing down the corridor called to mind her visit with Father to the Cooper Union arts and science college. She had been only thirteen and already seeking out the company of engineering and mathematics books.

There, at the end of a long hallway, a slightly ajar carved door of dark walnut bid welcome.

The faint scent of pipe smoke and balsam floated down the hallway from the gap. The library. It must be!

“Just one peek,” she murmured, but instinctively knew nothing good ever came from risk-taking born from curiosity. She pushed the door open with innate temerity.

The two-story room of rich mahogany was an absolute sanctuary: arched bookcases on both levels soared toward a frescoed ceiling of Stammel’s “Four Last Things,” a settee faced a crackling fire which cast pools of golden light over the Persian carpet, and velvet drapes the color of mulled wine framed towering, mullioned windows. The beauty of green and holly berries draped the mantle and the balcony railing. In almost every corner, books waited like treasure for discovery.

Her pulse quickened, and she took two steps into the sanctum, promptly closing the door behind her.

“My word,” she breathed, filling her lungs with the odor of centuries of knowledge. “Hello, lovelies. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered a quick curtsey.

As though in a dream, she floated through the stacks, gloved hand lightly brushing the spines whispering to her in the gaslight—authors and titles she had yet to call acquaintances. One book stood out, speaking directly to her heart with its gorgeous spine: Language of Flowers. Sliding it off the shelf, she carefully turned a few pages to admire the plates, then pressed the treasure to her chest, continuing her exploration of the library with a new friend. The sound of her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she took in every detail of the room, passing ancient tapestries and Thomas Gainsborough landscapes.

It was here, at the back of the library within a deep bow window, that she found a palpable peace within a cozy reading nook meant for no more than two. Again, the faithful presence of Christmas holly touched her heart.

With the book in hand, she had no time to lower herself into the comfortable armchair when two gentlemen entered the library. Sharp, strained British voices were in the midst of a disagreement.

The door slammed.

She froze, then promptly ducked behind the high-backed chair, her skirts whispering treacherously against the floor.

“I most certainly will not marry Anne, Richard. There is no future there,” came a low, tense voice.

“Cousin, your mother expects an announcement shortly,” the Richard fellow replied—lighter in tone, though clipped with exasperation. “And the entire county presumes it is already settled business.”

“It is not settled,” the first snapped. “This nightmare disguised as duty has followed me since birth.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping aloud.

“Think of the merits … the exchange of property,” Richard said.

“Think of the detriments. She is ailing, cousin. Her constitution is so fragile she cannot walk the length of Rosings without assistance, yet conspirators would have me bind my entire life to her care—as though marriage were a charitable appointment.”

“That alone need not condemn the match.”

The man scoffed. “A match you would not agree to if in my shoes. I am not permitted a wife—only an obligation. Am I expected to love what has been secured for me as an inheritance? I do not wish to receive the distinction of widower before fatherhood.”

“You do not find the—”

“Civility be damned,” he interrupted, voice filled with frustration. “What I find is that I am too selfish to become not Anne’s husband, but rather her guardian. It is not matrimony. There would be no felicity, no enjoyment of the marriage bed, no future heirs, no freedom to live as I deem.”

“And yet, Lady Catherine believes it will lead to affection,” Richard gently said.

“I resent she presumes my heart so cold it may be appeased by land to secure her heiress daughter’s care. Cousin, my conscience is greatly torn, for I am not entirely insensitive to the sad condition. There is a demand for the utmost charity, yes. Yet, I must consider my own happiness.”

Poor man! Marriage is merely a calculated real estate transaction between two amenable investors. This man yearns for love.

Richard drew a deep sigh. “Arrangement aside, if not Anne, then whom? Lady Anne has been patient enough and demands someone of lineage, standing, and well, someone who can tolerate you.”

Lady Anne? Is this the son who has been “caught” by his cousin in an arranged marriage? Is this the mirth-filled Colonel Fitzwilliam I danced with? She wanted to peer around the chair to see the men, but, terrified of being discovered in such an indecorous position of trespassing and eavesdropping, her gaze remained fixed on the brocade back of the chair. God help me. Send them away! Oh, why had she not listened to her uncle’s warning?

“God help me,” the son said, as though reading her thoughts.

“I recognize the distaste of a joyless union, but it is the way of things.” Richard huffed. “Take a mistress after your vows. I will not judge you.”

The son chuckled wryly. “No, you dare not.” He groaned. “You do not understand. I apologize for upsetting your merrymaking this evening. Please, leave me to my misery.”