Page 49

NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

S arah entered the ballroom alone. Her friends had offered her escort, and she appreciated their support, but she had teetered between avoiding the event utterly and eager anticipation; she simply did not know which sentiment would win out, and thus chose a solo entry, if she entered at all.

It was very late, crowds shifting amidst the smells of wax, sweat, and pomade, the music swelling as the dancing had long ago begun, laughter and the excitement of anonymity surrounding her.

Unfortunately, her independence meant she could not identify her friends, and she was late enough that the crush would have made it difficult, even had they not been masked and costumed.

She was not unaware of the admiring gazes from masked harlequins, kings, and magicians, and did her best not to be self-conscious.

The gauzy layers of her gown, draped artistically in a classical style, showed off her figure to advantage, she knew, even while her headdress seemed to discourage any approaches.

She had come this far but hesitated to go farther; she had not even told him…

Richard …whether or not she would come tonight.

She was competent and spirited, but never had she been so at sea.

Her only real experience in l’amour was with a single gentleman who might or might not be in love with another woman.

He had said he was not, and she knew he believed himself to be telling the truth.

She was alarmed, however, by the intensity of her desire to believe it too.

Would she turn a blind eye to an obvious mismatch in order to have him?

He was a passionate man, but was that passion for her?

Or was she merely a convenient receptacle for his unrequited feelings for another?

“Sarah!” a voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked around for the speaker.

The tall, willowy, blonde female was swathed in forest green velvet, her mask a sculpted array of bronzed leaves with gilded edges, a matching sparkle of gold thread shining from within the intricate embroidery of her domino—a spectacular Salix Babylonica , a most distinctive tree in the landscape of lesser species surrounding her.

Georgette joined her, all smiles—a completely different demeanour from the last few days .

“You are happy!” Sarah blurted. “What has changed?”

“Me. I have taken the bull by the horns, so to speak.” At Sarah’s look of confusion, Georgette laughed. A gentleman in a formidable bull’s mask loomed behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, smiled, and took the bull’s hand.

“You must have been the only one who missed the excitement, Sarah. Mr Anderson has proposed marriage before the whole company, and I have accepted.”

“Oh!” Sarah cried. “Why, this is wonderful! Surely your father will?—”

“My father has already given his blessing,” Georgette interrupted with an appraising glance at Sarah’s costume. “I must admit, I almost did not recognise you. You were right not to wear the pink domino. You look far more exotic as you are. Deliciously wild.”

Behind her, the bull—could it truly be Mr Anderson?—gave a small bow and added, “You look enchanting, Miss Bentley,” which reminded Sarah that he had said he thought her handsome, and caused a blush.

“Has Fitzwilliam seen you?” Georgette enquired.

“If he has, he has not acknowledged me.”

“He is dressed as Zeus, complete with a thunderbolt.” Georgette turned back to her masked bull. “I saw Lilly leave the ballroom with Saye. I suspect she will soon be a bride as well. Has anyone seen Elizabeth? Someone said she had the headache.”

The first notes of a waltz began to play, and Mr Anderson tugged her closer in a masterful manner. He plainly could not care less about the whereabouts of their friends, and Georgette seemed to forget her questions, and everything else, as he swept her onto the dance floor.

Georgette and Anderson. Lilly and Saye. Elizabeth and Darcy. They each, somehow, overcame every obstacle encountered on their paths to happiness. Is not a determination to confront your own problems the reason you chose this costume, Sarah? For courage?

Head high, she peered around more carefully.

Thanks to Georgette’s description, she soon found him, surrounded by a crowd of men and women, telling some story that was making everyone laugh.

Wide shoulders, narrow hips, strong forearms bared beneath his white, short-sleeved tunic, he exuded masculine strength as well as bonhomie.

The tunic’s trims were golden like his mask, complemented by a swath of gold satin robing, exposing his muscular calves strapped in leather.

Miss Barlowe, clad in the scanty costume of a shepherdess, was practically fondling the metallic thunderbolt at his side, staring up at him adoringly.

Sarah wore no mask, but Lady Aurelia’s maid had painted her face in artistic layers of gold and bronze tints, adding paste stones that glistened eerily in a multi-hued gaze.

Her headdress, however, was all Sarah’s own work, made up of different coloured silks, each fashioned with a startling realism. The maid had shuddered to see it.

“I don’t know as how ye’ll convince many to dance with ye, miss,” she had warned.

All for the better , Sarah had thought. Dancing was not her greatest skill; a light and pleasing delicacy would never be her strong suit.

But now, nearly facing Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, she wondered if she had made yet another mistake.

He, undoubtedly, was a brilliant dancer, a master of every social grace.

Courage, Sarah . She stepped closer to the golden circle of his admirers.

His sharp gaze captured her at once. Appreciative eyes travelled up and down her form, widening slightly in surprise; a slight grin tugged at his lips. But it was Mr Withers—dressed quite unflatteringly, she thought, in jester’s threads—who spoke first.

“Ho-ho! Thought you’d show up as a creepy-crawly of some sort!

I was right, was I not?” He neighed his horsey laugh, joined in immediately by the ladies nearby, with Miss Barlowe’s titters the loudest of all.

Ignoring them, the colonel strode directly to her, reminding her startlingly of the god he portrayed, all power and light.

He reached out to touch her headdress, smoothing his hand down one of the entwined figures covering it.

“Is this a warning to me?” he asked. “Will you turn my heart to stone?”

“I cannot tell if you are laughing at me behind your mask, as do your friends, or if you truly wish me to answer,” she replied.

“I will never wear a mask with you,” he said, startling her by wrenching his off and tossing it behind him. It clattered to the floor, bouncing off Miss Barlowe’s starched petticoats. “Will you answer my question?”

“I have always admired Medusa,” she replied obliquely. “Athena, a fabled beauty, could think of nothing worse than a scourge of ugliness, and yet, great power accompanied her curse. Medusa is foreign, forthright, and fearsome. Dangerous.”

“Also, I would guess, you love snakes.”

She grinned up at him. “I had a pet grass snake once. He was very pretty, yellow collared and every shade of green. He would rest coiled upon my neck and shoulders, which my young brother found impressive.” Her smile faded.

“But I began to worry he was unhappy, caged in London, when he belonged near forest and open sky. I brought him to Hampton’s estate and released him.

He is there still—only last spring, he greeted me on the banks of its biggest pond. They live for many years, you know.”

“I did not know, but I am unsurprised that you do.” He touched again one of the entwined serpents covering her head and shoulders. “Would you dance with me, Medusa?”

“Ah. Dancing.” She shook her head. “My dancing master says I have two left feet, but Lilly claims it is only that I am so distracted by the music and beauty of the dance and the dancers, I forget to mind my patterns. Either way, your sandals will be safer with Miss Barlowe.”

He laughed. “Have you ever tried a waltz? This one still has some life in it. Come.” He put out his hand, and she could not think what else to do but take it.

At the edge of the dance floor, he stopped.

“There is only one imperative to enjoying a waltz. You must allow your partner to lead. You must have confidence that he will never tread on your toes or hurl you into other dancers. He will protect you, guide you, look after your happiness with every bit of strength he possesses. Even if you make a misstep, he will not falter or fade or fumble.” He stared directly into her eyes. “Can you trust me?”

A dance was not all he wanted, and she knew it.

But it was a start. A beginning. She set her hand upon his broad shoulder, resting her other in his own.

She did not keep him at arm’s length; she could feel the heat from his body.

Consciously, she forced herself to allow him…

admission to some secret, private sovereignty. To have faith in him…in them.

She succeeded for a few minutes, allowing him to whirl her through the other dancers.

But just as she was thinking, ‘ This is so much fun, perhaps I am even good at this! ’ she caught sight of the stares of women and men alike, their masks not disguising open-mouthed curiosity, frowns, perhaps disbelief.

Abruptly, her feet tangled, and she would have tumbled them both to the floor, except that her partner was a man of strength, control and balance, a man who could not be tripped up.

He slowed his step, carefully leading her through a half-speed beat until she calmed. “Look at me, Sarah,” he said. “Never mind the others. They do not exist. It is only you and me. It is only us.”