Page 6 of The Gilded Masquerade

Their footsteps drew closer. She crouched lower, her bustle almost touching the floor. The weight of her gown nearly toppled her over, so she silently placed the book on the floor to take hold of the chair.

“Poppycock! I am at your service. Who else can advise you? A judicious friend—Charles, perhaps?

“I wish not to plague upon him.”

“Then, Grayson?”

“He will only dutifully echo my mother, his employer. Besides, his counsel never extends beyond my comfort or appearance, even when asked for his opinion.”

Richard spoke earnestly, “I understand more than you surmise. You are in search of someone who meets your heart’s needs, a lady who will provide you affection and the intellectual challenge you thrive on. In the absence of that, what exactly do you want, Darcy?”

A moment of silence fell between the cousins.

Feeling utterly sympathetic for the man she held her breath, curious for the answer, too.

Then, softly, came the reply, “I desire … peace.”

Richard snorted, his empathy clearly discarded. “Peace is for monks. Heirs must marry—someone, anyone who is willing to spend a lifetime with you. Take your pick. If not our cousin, then there are at least two dozen amenable women in the ballroom to choose from.”

“Yet, my mother is very selective as to whom I am introduced. I scarcely dance, which, by the by, is quite satisfactory, but how else can one advance a proper acquaintance?”

“Then a chaperone or the steward shall!”

“Wickham, the steward will not if he does not know the lady.”

“Then I shall! The American beauty is quite amiable.”

Does he refer to Miss Chanler or me? She had yet to meet other Americans at the ball.

“Surely you jest. A barely tolerable Yankee?” He groused then laughed without humor, just mockery. “I think not.”

Indignant, her mouth slackened. You are no gentleman!

“I will know my future wife when I see her. Neither Anne nor a brash American are suitable. I refuse to be sentenced to a miserable union out of dutiful compassion,” Darcy muttered.

“Yes, even I must admit the American’s toothy smile was disconcerting. She laughs as if determined to be overheard. A lifetime spent with her would be an act of charity, indeed.”

Aghast, she considered if she had laughed when dancing the gallopade. She must work on controlling her responses, even if she dearly loved to laugh. Were her teeth too big for her face?

“An emotional, brash wife does not suit Darcy standards.”

Brash!

Insult aside, his frustrated tone squeezed her heart, for it hid a deeply buried melancholy. In fact, Lady Anne’s son’s argument aligned with much of how she secretly felt. Expectations could crush anyone’s spirit and longing for freedom of choice, yet she must, for the sake of her sisters’ futures. Hiding her nature was a contrary state to living.

Before she could ponder the man’s unrest, Richard cheerfully exclaimed. “Don’t be so down in the mouth. Let us soldier on! It is Christmas! We shall enjoy the masquerade and take leave of introductions altogether.”

Silence.

“Darcy, if you do not reappear soon, your mother and Lady Catherine will together unleash the full wrath of two disappointed matchmakers, and I may be forced to take up arms against my beloved aunts in your protection.”

There was a low grumble, a muttered oath, and then—mercifully—retreating steps.

Silence returned; her pulse steadied.

That was a close call.

Closing her eyes, she exhaled, patiently waiting for the door to latch.