Page 47 of A Lady of Means (Roses and Rakes #1)
Chapter Thirty-Seven
M. Honnimers to launch sequel to follow up Adelaide at publisher’s mansion. A long-awaited book making its debut at a masquerade? The fictional events had certainly better rival the fanfare in store at another one of Ludlowe’s lavish parties.
- Scandalous Lives of London
* * *
Noelle had offered to postpone the launch of her second book after Moria’s wedding.
Moria wouldn’t hear of it, arguing that any drama detracting from her own personal one and able to quell the attention she received, was more than welcome.
And if it happened to be a masquerade to rival that of Noelle’s first book launch?
That just meant Moria didn’t have to sit at home.
Moria had an idea in mind for a costume, which Olivia immediately loved; but Noelle said it was macabre, even for her.
She’d gone through the remnants of dresses left behind at Letitia’s seamstress shop and had found two dresses that they’d worked to sew the two halves together into one dress.
When Letitia had questioned literally all of these sartorial choices, Moria had shrugged.
“It’s all about the symbolism here, Letty. ”
The origin of one half was a white wedding gown, in the fashion of Queen Victoria’s; and the other half was a mourning gown.
Both had bodices made of lace and high necked, one had long sleeves, the other had puffy ones.
There was even a white veil and a black one sewn in two layers on top of the other.
Underneath, she wore her hair in an elegant coiffure, and a black and white mask.
When she stepped back from the mirror, she admired her handiwork.
“Only you would devise something this…devastating…for a party,” Noelle said from over her shoulder.
Moria quipped, “I’m always devastating at every party. That’s the point.”
Noelle took her hands in her own, looking down at her from their height difference. “The point of this particular party, I will remind you, is enjoyment.”
She was in her usual costume as Adelaide, her trim figure highlighted by an emerald-green dress, a departure from her signature red for this new book’s themes about greed and envy. But with her breasts pushed up, and her hips accentuated, she looked devastatingly good.
“Forget being devastating for a moment and enjoy a night with the ones who love you, free flowing champagne, and your freedom.”
Moria gave her sister’s hands a firm squeeze. She didn’t tell her sister about the agreement that she and the Duke had come to, or that while being the center of scandals had cost her, Moria wasn’t sure who she was without it.
As Moria walked down the stairs of Pomfrey House’s ballroom flanked by Letitia and Bridget and Kathleen, Moria shrouded in white and black, her friends turned out for a party in increasingly more scandalous costumes, the feeling was like…being back in the house she grew up in.
Many felt nervous in a ballroom, in a crowd of this magnitude, but the closely dancing bodies and reverberating music and lively aura gave her clarity.
Moria’s shoulders were straight, her head held high, as she descended the stairs.
She was immediately met at the bottom of the stairs by a suitor requesting a dance.
“The Lady isn’t dancing tonight,” Letitia answered for her in her best imitation of a posh accent.
The suitor eyed Moria’s attire, bowed, and departed.
“Only you could attract suitors in a costume like that,” Noelle said, eyeing her as she took a flute of champagne from a tray held by a masked footman dressed as a highwayman.
“Maybe it will deter them long enough for us all to dance…not with suitors, but together.”
Moria linked arms with the women around her. They had held her when she cried, they’d dried her tears, they’d listened. They were here with her tonight, to celebrate Noelle and her work.
It was Kathleen who led Moria onto the dance floor.
When the strings of the violin started, Henry slipped out of the shadows and slipped an arm around Kathleen’s waist, the others moved to accommodate him.
Kathleen tipped her head back on a laugh, it was so full of surprise and joy and adoration it made Moria’s eyes sting.
I’ll never know such open affection from a spouse like my sisters, will I?
But the music was playing, and the masked, costumed dancers were moving, so Moria turned on her most devastating charm. She pivoted and locked arms with Letitia, who spun her into Noelle.
Gretchen and Carina linked arms with her on either side. Moria looked at Carina’s costume.
“Your costume, Carina, what on earth are you?”
Carina pointed to the felt ears attached to her coiffure, “I’m a mouse, obviously.”
Moria laughed, looking at Letitia who made a face while she danced side to side with Bridget as though she were looking down at her cleavage, ever in character.
Moria tipped her head back as the sounds of joy escaped her for the first time in a while.
Her mask slipped down on her face, and Noelle righted it for her.
She changed partners and swayed elegantly with Kathleen until it was time to change partners again, and this time it was Bridget.
Her companion said in a lowered tone: “Don’t look now but there’s a man staring at you.”
Moria only gave a little laugh, the champagne going to her head as she said, “There usually is.”
They kept moving to the music, and just before Moria changed partners with Letitia, Bridget whispered, “This one looks… familiar.”
The music warred with Moria’s heart beating in her chest. The champagne had made her vision feel a little fuzzy around the edges, but she glanced over her shoulder in the direction Bridget had indicated. The man was too far away to make out more than an austere black shape.
He made his way a little closer in the crowd, and she noticed a scar on his face interrupted by his mask. Bridget had been right, even with shorter hair the man did look familiar, as familiar as her name and the breath in her lungs; but it couldn’t be him.
Her throat constricted, her knees felt a little wobbly. It wasn’t beyond her to conjure figures in crowds; she’d done the same thing when she’d lost Marcus, seeing him everywhere until she’d faced the earth-upending reality that he really was gone.
She was interrupted by the music ending abruptly, the sound of a gong chiming from the top of the same stairs she’d entered on half an hour earlier.
At the top of the stairs was Fitz, a radiant dark-haired woman beside him wearing a green dress and beaming up at him beneath her mask.
Fitz waved a hand, and the footmen interspersed within the crowd, delivering more French champagne for a toast. Moria’s companions linked arms with her on either side.
“Friends, foes, we are gathered here to celebrate the next adventure of our dear Adelaide. I won’t keep you all from your enjoyment of the festivities, but my companion has some words she’d like to share.”
The man caught her attention again. Moria felt a chill titter up her spine. His profile and the bulk of his shoulders were so similar to Devyn’s. Was there a way to ask him to remove his gloves so she could see his tattoos? How would he recognize her?
Moria kissed her companion’s cheek. “I have to go.”
Bridget followed her vision and muttered something that sounded like “Good luck, you’ll need it if she finds out you missed her moment.”
Moria intended to bump into the man, causing him to spill his drink like she’d done to gentlemen countless other times for some end or another; but when she bumped into the man, he grabbed her wrist.
Searing hot awareness broke out all over her body.
The way his shoulders bunched beneath his coat, his purposeful strides, the way his dark hair curled at his nape. Those gorgeous lips. If it weren’t him then she needed spectacles like Noelle’s.
He turned, leading her by the wrist, and escorted her to the edge of the room. If it really were Devyn, she’d follow him anywhere. Wouldn’t she? But what if it wasn’t?
Finally, they reached an alcove, she pulled her hand free of his and untied the gold cord draped over the alcove until it fell into a curtain. He held it back with one hand and ushered her inside.
Pushing back his mask, he said, “Willow trees, and now curtained alcoves, we have got to stop meeting like this.”
Moria gave a little whimper, bottom lip catching between her teeth and her vision going wobbly with tears. She threw back her veil and launched her body into his arms as he wrapped them around her.
“Devyn, thank god!” she cried into his shoulder as he leaned down to hold her.
She’d almost forgotten how incredibly tall he was.
One of his hands almost wrapped around her waist. His body was so solid and familiar and warm like the trunk of a willow tree that offered the consolation and safety she’d been searching for.
The feeling of his calloused finger pads wiping at her tears was a very real sensation, not a fever dream at all.
For what felt like an eternity and not nearly long enough, the two of them stared at each other in disbelief. Due to the small alcove opening and their need for each other, there was very little of their bodies that wasn’t touching.
And still, she needed him closer.
She took him in next with her hands, roving his scarred face, his shorter hair, his nape, down to his chest and arms, like she was looking for the places he’d been put back together. She could find the places he hadn’t been put back together and do the job herself.
She landed on the cane in his right hand and then met his eyes. A profound ache, like he was her phantom limb, throbbed through her.
“I was hit in a skirmish outside Bajgah and taken prisoner for six weeks until General Dennie liberated us.”