Page 1 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter One
The Masquerade Ball
Home of the Earl and Countess of Berridge
The mask made her feel brave. Forged of red velvet and gold leaf, it hid the scar that slashed through her brow and veiled the blind eye that had once gleamed bright blue.
No one would stare. No one would flinch.
Confidence was a costume, stitched into the seams of her gown.
Beneath it lingered the girl whose world had splintered with the crack of a whip.
Tonight, Clara wasn’t the woman marked by her father’s rage. She was not a victim. She was a mystery. A scarlet-lipped shadow who might pass as perfection.
She had come alone, slipping into the ballroom with the last of the guests as the orchestra played, her facade as finely crafted as the mask she wore.
Only her brother, sister-in-law, and a few trusted friends knew her true identity.
To the rest, she was a stranger—The Crimson Contessa—draped in Venetian silk the colour of blood and flame.
Gold embroidery laced the bodice like delicate filigree, catching the candlelight with every purposeful step.
It was more than a costume. It was a transformation. For a few precious hours, she could be someone else. Every admiring glance tonight belonged to the woman she pretended to be, not the scarred recluse.
A smile curled her lips.
No one pitied her here. For the first time in her life, she felt free.
No one knew this was the first step in an adventure of a lifetime. Despite compiling a list of ten tasks she wished to complete before retiring to the country, she had two goals tonight.
To waltz with a man who wasn’t paid to tutor her. That said, why stop at one dance or one man? Judging by the numerous gentlemen gazing her way, filling her card wouldn’t be difficult.
Doing so would help her achieve her second goal.
To rattle the ever-composed Lord Rutland, her brother’s insufferable friend.
He was far too confident, far too accustomed to making her feel small.
And, as the viscount was to announce his betrothal in a fortnight, the ball was her only chance to put the rakish lord in his place.
Finding him would pose no challenge. The dimple in his chin had a careless elegance, as if in a moment of mischief, God had sculpted the perfect jaw to torment hapless women. Heaven knows how many impossible promises had fallen from that bold mouth.
She scanned the sea of masked figures, searching for the lord amongst the couples dancing, oddly relieved he wasn’t there. In truth, she didn’t care who he danced with, but ladies flocked to him like birds to a sunlit statue, unaware marble could be so cold.
He wasn’t speaking to her darling sister-in-law, Elsa, or the countess dressed as a princess of Troy. Clara longed to join their conversation and discuss the guests’ costumes, but the moment she did, Lord Rutland would know precisely who she was.
A man approached, cutting through the crowd in a striking Tudor ensemble, complete with a fur-lined cloak and bronze mask. Brown hair framed a strong jaw, though his blue eyes lacked the sparkle of a certain viscount’s.
“King Henry, at your service,” he said, offering a bow.
Clara studied him, trying to summon the strength to act coy. “Which Henry?” she asked, though it was obvious based on his red velvet doublet.
“The Eighth,” he replied with a mischievous grin.
“I do hope you’re not looking for a wife, Your Majesty. I’m rather fond of my head, and I hear your dreadful gout means you’re not one for dancing.”
The man tilted his head back and laughed so loudly that people around them stared. “Gout is an excuse to avoid endless waltzing. One must conserve one’s energy for more important matters, like charming beautiful ladies.”
Oh dear! His efforts were all show and no subtlety. Unlike this gentleman, Lord Rutland had natural charisma. Compliments fell from his lips like grace from a fallen angel, unexpected, a little wicked, and all the more convincing for it.
“How do you know I’m beautiful?” she asked with playful defiance. But even as she spoke, something twisted inside her. Her scar made her feel anything but. Still, she held his gaze with her good eye, willing herself to stay composed.
“A woman with your magnetic presence must be beautiful.”
Unease stirred. Coming here was a mistake. A lady wanted to be adored when she removed her disguise, not pitied. She should have stayed at home. It was ridiculous to think she could fool anyone.
“Would you care for champagne?” King Henry said.
Eager to end this conversation without being rude, she nodded. “Yes, please.” Henry could always drink it himself if he failed to find her.
Once alone, she gathered her wits and took a deep breath, but another prospective suitor appeared, offering his hand with a polite smile and no introduction.
“Would you care to dance the cotillion?” he asked, his voice smooth, his hair golden, his simple black domino marking him as a man with nothing to prove.
She hesitated for a moment before allowing him to lead her onto the floor. As the dancers arranged themselves into neat lines, she moved through the opening figures with cautious concentration, each step a memory slowly recalled.
Yet something tugged at her attention. Her gaze drifted, almost of its own accord, to the man standing near the marble fireplace. He wore a dark velvet coat, and his black-and-silver harlequin mask shimmered in the candlelight as he watched her intently.
She would know that confident stance anywhere.
But her body’s reaction to finding the viscount proved alarming.
It made no sense. He always treated her as Daniel’s little sister, protective and fond, but nothing more.
So why did her pulse flutter in her throat like a trapped bird?
Why did heat surge through her veins as if he were a stranger who might ruin her with a single look?
His grin said he knew what kind of reaction he stirred. With languid grace, he pushed away from the wall and moved to the edge of the dance floor.
Damn the man. He could affect her with nothing more than his potent gaze. He couldn’t know it was her, yet he looked at her like she was the only woman who deserved his attention.
The scoundrel.
Had he forgotten he was to announce his betrothal in a fortnight? It was a match made for duty, not desire, a union neither party wanted. If he resented the prospect, he never showed it. He wore obligation as easily as his harlequin mask—a flawless facade hiding whatever truths lay beneath.
Did that not prove how cold he truly was?
She turned her focus back to the dance, but her steps faltered. His presence pressed against her like a storm front, invisible yet impossible to ignore.
Fool! He’s merely searching for his next mistress.
But that wasn’t true.
When he married, he’d made it clear no woman but his wife would share his bed. But he disliked Miss Woodall, and by his own account, the lady would sooner suffer a painful death by poison than marry him. It was so confounding.
Not that Clara cared who he married or bedded. By the night of his betrothal ball, she would have completed her tasks and be on the road to Henley.
She turned with her partner in the final chassé-croisé, but her slipper caught on the hem of her gown. Her balance faltered and she stumbled. Before she could fall, a firm hand closed around her elbow.
It didn’t belong to her dance partner.
She looked up and met Lord Rutland’s arresting blue gaze. Oh, those eyes. A lady could drown in them or bathe until her skin turned wrinkly.
“A slip of the foot, Contessa?” he uttered in a warm, teasing tone. “You’ll find I’m a much steadier partner, should you wish to continue the dance.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. Thank heavens she wore a mask. At least a blush blended nicely with her costume. And who’d told him she went by the name The Crimson Contessa?
“Ah, mio signore ,” she said, adopting the lilting accent of her Italian housekeeper. “I am quite out of breath. Though I daresay other ladies would be delighted to benefit from your skill.”
Though she smiled, she silently cursed. The brief touch of his hand on her elbow had her heart racing like a skittish colt. Dancing with him now would be pure folly.
“Share a drink with me. A glass of champagne,” he pressed, leading her off the floor towards an alcove, quite certain she would accept.
“King Henry has already secured my refreshment,” she said with a graceful tilt of her lips. “You are most gallant, signore, but I would not dream of keeping you from more willing company. Buona notte . Do try not to break too many hearts before dawn.”
His smile lit his eyes, and for a moment she forgot to breathe.
Foolish heart. The organ fluttered like a debutante’s fan.
“The night is still young,” he said, his voice rich with suggestion. “The garden is enchanting in the moonlight. I’d be happy to escort you, Contessa. I imagine you might prefer fresh air to the suffocating company of the ballroom.”
Such a scintillating invitation would have most women darting for the French doors before he’d finished the sentence.
“ Sì , the night air, it does hold a certain allure. But I take my walks alone, signore . A lady must be careful, even in charming company.” Her gaze lingered on his harlequin mask. “And I know better than to follow a man who wears the face of mischief.”
“What do you know of mischief?”
Clara laughed as if she were a woman of experience, not one forced to confront harsh realities. “I know it always begins with a bold question like that.”
He leaned in slightly. He might look the picture of devilish temptation, but she knew the truth. Duty tethered him in heavy chains. A man about to marry for obligation, not love, had no business toying with women behind a mask.