Masquerade, Page 3

  Her irritation increased with her growing discomfort in the stuffy ballroom. Despite the fact it was too early for the unmasking, she removed the velvet, which had begun to chafe the sensitive skin beneath her eyes, and stuffed the mask in her knotted purse.

  Refusing several invitations to dance, Phaedra kept her eyes fixed on the doorway. She studied the few late arrivals, one portly gentleman whose garters peeked out beneath his breeches, the other a gangly youth who'd affected the style of the Macaronis, his hair a mountain of powdered frizz.

  Damn Muriel. Why must she play at these games? Phaedra would never be able to guess which man might be the marquis. Thrusting aside another hopeful dance partner, she moved forward, determined to end this nonsense by making blunt inquiry.

  The next instant she froze where she stood. Another man strode in behind the other two. Sweeping off a great cloak of black silk lined with scarlet, he flung it to a footman, the candlelight playing over a broad pair of shoulders covered by a cream-colored satin coat in the first mode of elegance. His white-powdered hair was pulled back in severe style, tied in a queue at the nape of his neck. He wore no domino, his only effort at disguise the silver mask concealing the upper portion of his face. Why then, Phaedra wondered, did he possess such an aura of intrigue?

  Perhaps it was the way he moved. He stepped forward into the room, conveying an impression of aloofness, of isolation even in the midst of the crowd.

  Phaedra jumped as the bone sticks of a fan rapped her on the shoulder. She tore her gaze from the man to confront Muriel's glinting eyes. "Well, my dear, may I not present you to the marquis? It is a meeting I would not miss for worlds, I assure you."

  Phaedra nodded, her heart giving a sudden thud. She followed Muriel, hardly watching where she was going, her eyes drawn to the man who was as yet oblivious to her existence.

  He must be handsome, she decided from what she could see of his features, but in a cold sort of way. His lips were frozen in an expression of hauteur; his jawline was perfectly chiseled, as though carved from granite.

  "My dear Marquis," Muriel said, propelling Phaedra forward. "You have arrived at last."

  "Bon soir, mademoiselle." As he turned from greeting Muriel to encompass Phaedra in his bow, she saw the eyes that glittered behind his mask, narrow slivers of ice-blue. Try as she would to suppress it, a shiver swept through her.

  “My lord, you must allow me to present a dear friend of mine," Muriel began, but the marquis interrupted her.

  "Introductions at a masked ball, mademoiselle?" he mocked. "You will destroy all the evening's mystery."

  Muriel giggled. "Alas, sir, I fear my friend is far too eager for your acquaintance to await the unmasking. Lady Grantham, may I present Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais. My lord, the Lady Phaedra Grantham. "

  "Enchante, madam." His voice was low and seductive, steel sheathed in velvet.

  Phaedra saw no sign that he even recognized her name. Yet he must, since he had obviously felt it his duty to keep her in exile from London.

  "I trust my name is not unknown to you, monsieur." What had come over her? Her speech held none of the haughtiness she had rehearsed during the coach ride from Bath.

  Brushing aside the lace at his wrist, the marquis produced an enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, flicking it open with a careless gesture. Phaedra watched him, her eyes riveted on every graceful movement. As he raised a pinch to one finely chiseled nostril, his mouth tipped into a slight frown.

  "Grantham? Now, where have I heard ... Ah, yes." He snapped the snuffbox closed, his eyes returning to Phaedra. He studied her with cold assessment. "You are Ewan Grantham's--er, how do you English put it-Lord Ewan Grantham's relict?"

  The words broke the spell of his fascination as effectively as a slap in the face. A surge of heat rushed through her. How dare he treat her as if her entire life and being were summed up by her marriage to Ewan?

  "No, my lord," she snapped. "That is not how I would put it at all. I think perhaps you might know me better as Sawyer Weylin's granddaughter from Bath."

  "Indeed?" he asked, his attention wandering past her to the ballroom.

  "I trust you have no difficulty in recalling his name. It would seem that my grandfather sets great store by your advice. A fact I find most astonishing."

  "It always pleases me to be a source of astonishment to a lady."

  He favored her with a brief nod, the king dismissing a peasant girl. "Your pardon, madame. Another recent acquaintance beckons me," He walked away, leaving her speechless with anger.

  Muriel snickered behind her fan. "Oh, lud, Phaedra. How very disappointing. I had expected something a little more spectacular. After all, you are passably pretty. I vow the marquis took more notice of Sophie Grandisant, in spite of her prominent front teeth. "

  "I have not done with him yet," Phaedra said.

  Never had she encountered the likes of such arrogance-not even in those dreadful days of her marriage, when Ewan Grantham had held his untutored bride up to ridicule before all his fashionable friends. She had learned a great deal since the time when one snub would have sent her, teary-eyed, to cower in some corner. She had learned enough to be able to teach the marquis that she was not so easily ignored. With quick strides, Phaedra placed herself directly in Varnais's path.

  “My lord," she said. "I came here tonight expressly to meet you."

  He flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his waistcoat. "How flattering."

  Phaedra became aware of more than one head turning in their direction. She longed to draw the marquis off into some secluded nook to conduct this conversation, but Lady Porterfield's ballroom offered no such place. Lowering her voice, she said, "They are now forming sets for the minuet."

  "Do I understand you to be asking me to dance, my lady?"

  "Yes, I am," she replied doggedly. She must be mad! This was beyond the pale, even for the untamed Phaedra Grantham. She had the satisfaction of at last obtaining a reaction from Armande de LeCroix.

  "How very-" She thought she detected a slight quiver of amusement in that smooth voice, but he went on, "How very original your English customs are, my lady. I had no idea."

  Once more Phaedra became aware of the dozens of eyes trained upon her. Dear God, where would she find a hole large enough to crawl into if he refused?

  One corner of his mouth twitched. "Ah bien, how could I maintain my honor as a Frenchman if I refused such a request from a beautiful woman?"

  With that he offered her his hand. A blood-red ruby ring set in heavy gold contrasted with the bronzed strength of his fingers. She placed her own within his grasp, bracing herself for the chill. To her astonishment, the hand gripping hers was warm, sending a current rushing through her that made the heat of the ballroom seem as nothing. As he led her onto the floor, the buzz of voices threatened to drown out the music; but to Phaedra, all sound faded into insignificance. She felt as if she were alone with this enigmatic stranger, who made her pulse race with but a touch.

  As the opening strains of the minuet sounded through the ballroom, Phaedra gave herself a mental shake. The rest of society, the fops, the silly chits like Muriel Porterfield, might be content to stand in awe of this man. But Phaedra was determined to find out exactly who this marquis was, what sort of mischief he might be brewing with her grandfather. He was a far cry from the elderly busybody she had expected. So why the devil had he advised against her return to London?

  Gliding toward his lordship, her skirts rustling against his legs, she tried to penetrate what lay behind the mask. But his eyes were so hypnotic and piercing that she averted her gaze in confusion. She regarded his shoe buckles, the firm-muscled calves encased in white silk stockings, the tight-fitting knee breeches that clung so well to his lean hips.

  "Well, what think you, madame?" His soft voice startled her.

  "Of what, my lord?"

  "Of the buttons on my waistcoat. I told the tailor they would never do."

  "Buttons?" s
he repeated, wrenching her eyes away from their admiring perusal of his masculine form. "I-no, my lord, I see nothing wrong with your-your buttons."

  "But I affirm that there is. If they so hold a lady's attention that she never looks up to afford me one glimpse of her beautiful eyes, then I think my tailor has greatly erred."

  Flushing, Phaedra looked up at once. Was he mocking her? She could tell nothing from the dry tones in which he spoke.

  "That is better."

  "I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to seem rude." Her apology was swept away as they were separated by the movement of the dance.

  Why did he never smile? His lips were set, immovable, but at least his eyes did not look so cold as she'd first seen them. Or was it all a trick of the candlelight?

  When they came together again, she said, "I was not staring at you, but merely watching my steps. It has been a while since I danced the minuet."

  Even as she spoke, Phaedra winced in pained remembrance. The crowded assembly room, Ewan's foot hooking around her ankle, tripping her into the line of dancers. "Your pardon," Ewan had called out as he had hauled her up from the floor. "But I fear my wife tries to gallop through every dance as if it were an Irish jig." Then as always, the cruel, cutting laughter.

  Phaedra became aware of a strong hand at her waist, another clasping her palm. With a start, she came back to the present, realizing that she had almost blundered into the next set, but Armande discreetly guided her back into position.

  "There, you see," she said, feeling her cheeks burn. "I did try to warn you. As my husband was wont to say, I am not plagued by an overabundance of grace."

  "If there was grace found wanting, my lady, it would not be any fault of yours, but your partner's."

  His lips came startlingly close to her ear until she felt the warmth of his breath. How could any voice so deep, so undeniably masculine, be also soft and caressing? She wondered if he could feel the tremor that passed through her and hailed with relief the next pattern of the dance that separated them.

  What was she doing? she wondered as she circled the room. She had not informed him as she had planned, that she could do without his interference in her life. She had not asked him even one question. Now Armande had her by the hand again, pulling her close, outwardly maintaining all the formality, the ritual of the dance, while his fingers teased the sensitive hollow of her palm.

  "My lord," she said, trying to bring her disordered wits together, "I fear I have a complaint to lodge against you."

  He spoke as if he had not heard her, his voice pensive. "How sad you appeared a moment ago, my lady, so far away. As if some unhappy memory had risen to haunt you."

  Phaedra nearly snatched her hand away. What sort of man was this, that he could read her innermost thoughts? She began to regret greatly that she had removed her own mask. The marquis had her at a decided disadvantage.

  "My grandfather, my lord," she said, firmly steering him toward the one topic she wished to discuss. "You have been at great pains to convince him I should remain in Bath. Why?"

  "Now that I have seen you, I almost regret my advice." The look which accompanied these words made her pulse skip, made her nearly forget he had evaded her question.

  "Only almost?" she challenged.

  "I naturally assumed you would wish to live in seclusion, to be alone with your grief. According to your grandpere, it was your own idea to remove to Bath, n'est-ce pas?"

  Phaedra could not deny this. The trip to Bath had been her doing. After Ewan's accident, she had desperately needed some time alone, not to grieve, but to reconsider her future prospects away from the presence of her domineering grandfather. But that had always been a temporary measure. She now coldly informed the marquis, "I never intended to be banished to Bath for the rest of my life. I have had more than enough time to recover from my husband's death."

  "And yet your widowhood is most recent." The unfathomable blue eyes skimmed over her gown, lingering for the briefest moment upon the creamy swell of breast exposed by her decolletage.

  Phaedra stiffened, mustering all her defenses. Did he, too, look to criticize her for abandoning her widow's weeds? What right had he to judge her? He understood no better than anyone else the six years of subtle hell that she had endured. When Ewan died, her tears had been tears of relief rather than sorrow.

  "Yes, my widowhood is recent. Too recent to suit me. Ewan should have been in his grave a long time ago." She looked at Armande to gauge the effect of her bitter words.

  His eyes widened a moment before resuming their normal hooded expression. "There is no sadness at all in your heart for his death? Not one regret?"

  “No!"

  "But I understand your husband was a most-" He hesitated, as if searching for the correct word, "A most estimable man. Young, handsome, and intelligent."

  Phaedra was so weary of this eulogizing of Ewan Grantham. So charming, so handsome. Such a tragedy that he should perish so young, in such a gruesome riding accident. Now that he was dead, society would make him a saint, casting herself into the role of black-hearted villainess who had not shed one tear for that ‘estimable’ man. Even this cold, emotionless marquis took Ewan's part. It was so unjust, for Lord Varnais did not know the truth of her life with Ewan. But if he wished to be as ignorant as the others, to perceive her as shallow and heartless, who was she to disappoint him?

  As they went down the dance, Phaedra said, "Now that you mention it, I do have one regret. Ewan died in the autumn, and I was obliged to wear black for the Christmas holidays. I do so loathe black. It is not at all my color."

  "I would have thought black most becoming to you. Such a foil for that magnificent, fiery hair. "

  Now she was certain that he mocked her. "La, sir, but you Frenchmen are smooth-tongued rascals. Are all those in your family so clever? I have never heard the name de LeCroix before. Where are you from?"

  "France, my lady. It is where most Frenchmen are from."

  "Have you been in London long?"

  "Scarcely long enough."

  Phaedra bit her lip in vexation. The man was a master of evasion.

  "It is a perilous time for you to be enjoying yourself in London, my lord, is it not? Our two countries are drawing so close to a declaration of war. It is expected any day that your king will side with the American colonists, championing them in their quest for freedom."

  "That is a strange phrase to spring from the lips of an English lady. I suspect you have been reading too much of that-what is the name of that rogue- Robin Goodfellow?"

  "Yes, I have heard a little of his writings.” Phaedra's eyes swept down and she pretended to concentrate on her steps. "But many others have been discussing the likelihood of war between England and France. What is your opinion?"

  Armande shrugged as he took her hand to circle her around him. "The prospect interests me not. I am not a soldier."

  A diplomat then? Phaedra wondered. No, the marquis seemed far too uncompromising for such a role. Maybe he had been drawn to London by business interests. But none that he would disclose.

  Each gambit that she flung out met with little success. The marquis fielded her questions with polite boredom until Phaedra seethed with frustration. She flattered herself that she could set any man talking, but never in her life had she encountered anyone as icily reserved as Varnais. His very reticence excited both her curiosity and her suspicions. If the man possessed no interest in politics or business affairs, then what did he have in common with Sawyer Weylin?

  "I was wondering," she said. "Have you known my grandfather for long? When did you first become acquainted?"

  She felt a sudden tension in the fingers touching hers. After a heartbeat of hesitation, he replied tersely, "At a coffeehouse in Fleet Street. And now, my lady, I believe our dance has ended."

  To her intense disappointment, Phaedra saw that this was true. The last notes of the music had died away and she knew little more about Armande than when she had first stood up with him. As she
sank into the final curtsy, he bowed over her hand, raising her fingertips to graze them with his lips.

  Phaedra was seized by an impulse she could not have explained, not even to herself. Her fingers shot upward, tugging at the strings above the marquis's ear which held his mask in place. The tie came undone, the mask fluttering to the floor.

  His lordship straightened, anger flashing in his eyes. The anger passed quickly, leaving a cold stare in its wake. Phaedra's breath caught in her throat at her first full view of Armande's face. He was more handsome than she had supposed, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His brows were dark slashes above those ice-blue eyes. But never had she seen any man's face so dispassionate. He might well have still been wearing a mask.

  "I am sorry," she said, "I fear my curiosity got the better of me."

  He said nothing, bending to retrieve the mask. As he did so, his coat shifted, revealing a silver hilt of a rapier that nestled beside the silk-shot folds of his pale blue waistcoat.

  Why had she not noticed the slender sheath before? A tiny gasp escaped Phaedra as she stared at the hilt devoid of all ornament, a stark bit of steel wrought for lethal service, not fashion.

  "Is something amiss, my lady?" With slow deliberation, Armande refastened the mask about his face.

  "I was but noticing your sword. So few gentlemen wear them nowadays, especially not to a ball."

  "The streets of your fair city are teeming with danger for the unwary. I wear the sword.for protection. It also provides an excellent deterrent for the overly curious."

  Was that meant to be a warning to her? Phaedra arched her neck and stared defiantly up at him. "Yes, I daresay curiosity could be a nuisance to a man who had something to hide."

  Before she could prevent it, he cupped her chin firmly between his long, powerful fingers. There was nowhere else for her to look except into the hypnotic depths of those eyes peering at her through the slits of the mask.

  "Your grandfather described you to me as a young woman with an excessively inquisitive nature. It would have been far better if you had taken my advice and remained in Bath. But now that you are here, I suspect you are intelligent enough to understand me when I say how very much I dislike anyone trying to interfere with my affairs."