Page 3 of A Reckless Courtship (A Chronicle of Misadventures #3)

3

SILAS

T he young woman with the butterfly mask gripped Silas’s arm with two hands like a barnacle on a ship, while two inebriated men stared at him as though he had just dumped out the last pint of gin in England.

His arm was wrapped around the woman protectively, though he had no memory of putting it there.

The woman looked up at him through the slits of her mask then, without warning, she smacked the arm she held. “What sort of gentleman leaves his wife in a maze such as this?”

Silas blinked. This butterfly barnacle was apparently also his wife.

“Wife?” repeated one of the men standing a dozen feet away, swaying ever so slightly.

Silas looked at the woman holding onto him—the woman who had adamantly refused his help only two minutes ago, only to run into his arms, hit him, and call him her husband. Just now, her wide eyes looked up at him, a near-plaintive light in them.

He understood what was expected of him and cleared his throat. “My apologies, dearest. I could have sworn you were right behind me.”

“You were too busy admiring the shrubbery, no doubt.”

Silas’s brows raised, but he did not miss his queue. “Erm, yes. My obsession with finding the perfect topiary has become almost unmanageable.” His gaze flitted to the men, who were watching this exchange with befuddlement. He sympathized. “May we help you, good sirs?”

Their slackened jaws closed.

“No,” said one. “We were only…” The man looked to his companion for assistance.

“Attemptin’ to help the lady find you.”

The other nodded vigorously, apparently satisfied with his friend’s quickness of mind, even under the influence of strong drink.

“Ah,” Silas replied. “That explains why she was running from you. My cherished wife is sadly reluctant to accept help. It was very noble of you, though. As you see, I have now been reunited with my sweet…butterfly, so I thank you.”

The men simply stood and smiled.

The woman’s grip tightened on his arm.

“However,” Silas added, “I must insist we not take any more of your precious time.”

One man gave an awkward attempt at a bow, and the other followed suit. Heads held high, as though they were beacons of chivalry rather than drunken opportunists, they passed by Silas and the butterfly. She retreated into him slightly as they did so.

The men’s footsteps faded, and silence reigned between them until the sound disappeared completely. Silas did not attempt to break the silence. Instead, he waited to see what would happen next in this incomprehensible sequence of events. He was burning with curiosity to find out.

The woman’s grip loosened suddenly, and she took a step away from him. Her blue eyes were accentuated by the light of the nearest lamp and the colorful beading of her mask. There was a hint of wariness in her gaze as she regarded him—the man she had assigned the role of husband.

She was the strangest creature.

“You spoke of Mr. Fairchild,” she said in a clipped voice. “Do you know where he is?”

Silas frowned. “I do not. I have not seen him since he went to meet you and your mother.”

The woman opened her mouth as though she might speak, only to shut it again.

“Shall I help you find him?” Silas asked.

“That will be unnecessary.”

The tip of his mouth quirked up. “I have been sharply—nay, violently—reprimanded by you for leaving you in these gardens, ma’am. The pressure I feel to redeem myself as a husband is immense.”

It was dark, but he could swear her color was heightened as she responded. “You are not my husband, sir, as you well know.”

“I do know it. I am glad to see you share this important bit of knowledge. I was unsure of that, as—if I may gently remind you—it was you who came tumbling into my arms and assigned me the role.”

She looked the slightest bit stricken. “I needed those men to think I had a chaperone.”

Silas considered this. “You might have made me your brother.”

Her forehead knit just above her mask. “I have no brother.”

“But you have a husband?”

Her lips pressed together for a moment as though she was considering how to respond. “No.”

“May I return you to your mother, then? Or did you shake off her chaperonage on purpose?”

“Of course not,” she responded with a hint of offense. “She is near the Rotunda with a friend.”

“Very good. Shall we, then?” He took a step forward and put out his arm for her to take.

She did not accept it. Instead, she looked at it and then at him.

“What is it?” he asked, torn between amusement and consternation.

Her hands gripped the skirts of her domino. “If you must know, I am trying to decide whether I should trust you.”

He let his arm drop to his side again, amused, intrigued, and exasperated all at once. “And this is a decision you make after fashioning me as your husband.”

A little twitch at the corner of her mouth was quickly tamed—unfortunately, in his opinion.

“I explained why I did so.”

He nodded. “And now that the threat of those men has passed, you have fashioned me into the next threat. What, pray, do you assume my designs upon you to be?”

She hesitated.

“Do you suppose me a spider who lures pretty butterflies into his web? In this case, the butterfly flew into it willingly.”

“If you call desperation willingness,” she said.

“Fair enough. And what do you propose to do if you venture off on your own again, and another man, more threatening than myself, were to come around the next corner? Will you pin your hopes on there being another in whose arms you can take refuge?”

She glanced over her shoulder as though only now realizing the possibility of such a thing. Apparently satisfied that the prospect he painted was not an urgent one, she turned back to him. “I can only apologize for the unpleasant situation into which I forced you, sir.”

“I never said it was unpleasant. Unexpected, certainly. But I quite understand why you did it. I am merely pointing out that, if one of us has designs upon the other, anyone who had observed the last two minutes would assume it to be you.”

Her brows knit. “I have no… designs upon you, sir.”

“Nor I upon you.”

She searched his face with unchecked skepticism. “You do not mean to…kiss me, then?”

A little scoffing chuckle escaped him. The woman seemed to traffic in saying and doing the unexpected. “Would you like me to?” His gaze flitted to her lips instinctively. They were certainly kissable.

“No,” she said. “That is, I would not kno—” Her lips pressed together, stopping whatever she had been about to say. “No,” she said decisively. “I would not.”

He smiled at her strange way of answering. What is it that she would not know? “I am not in the habit of kissing unwilling women, and when you are not throwing yourself into my arms and calling me your husband, you have made it fairly clear you would not welcome such an intimacy.”

“I would not,” she repeated firmly.

“Very well, then. Shall I escort you to your mother, or would you prefer I leave you to the rough-and-tumble crowd wandering these paths?”

Her pink lips pressed together as she considered the options. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of voices somewhere nearby, then looked at him again, more urgency in her eyes. “I believe I can trust you not to...”

“Kiss you,” he finished for her, controlling his amusement with effort. Did she think he kissed every woman he came upon? The implied slight to his character made his tongue unruly. “At this point, the only way I would even consider such a thing is if you yourself begged me to do so.”

A breathy laugh escaped her.

He raised his brows. “Is it so impossible to believe you might wish to kiss me?”

“Yes.” Her smile made his heart skitter despite the bluntness of her response.

He had a sudden desire to change that answer—or to understand it, at the very least.

“I have your word, then?” she said, eyes fixed on him intently.

He put his hand over his heart and gave a small bow. “I give you my word as a gentleman, ma’am.”

She seemed satisfied with this bit of fanfare. “Good. Then I accept your offer—and thank you for it. But I cannot return to my…mother just yet. I must find my…sister first.” She looked around, frowning slightly. “I thought she would have returned to find me by now. Do you know where the Cascade is?”

“No. But I have heard of it, and I can find it.”

She looked at him with a hint of skepticism—her preferred manner of regarding him, it seemed.

He put a hand over his heart again. “I swear I shall help you find this Cascade you speak of if it is the last thing I do.” He offered his arm again.

“I sincerely hope it is not the last thing you do.” She took his arm.

“Your concern for my welfare is touching.”

She glanced up at him with a small smile, her eyes twinkling much like the beads on her mask.

His breath caught in his throat, for a more engaging face he had never seen—even half-covered.

“Perhaps you should tell me your name,” he said, looking away. He would not risk scaring off the butterfly again. He had come to these tree-covered walks for peace and quiet, but he did not at all regret what he had found instead.

Silence met this suggestion, and he turned his head toward her. The wings of her butterfly mask glinted with each lamp they passed, the light gliding along the golden threads. Was she still so mistrusting of him?

“You are safe with me,” he said gently. “I swear it.”

She met his gaze, the weight of her vulnerability there, and he felt a swooping sensation in his chest that caught him off guard. Had the lack of women and romance for the past two years of his life made him so vulnerable to a pretty face?

“Miss Easton,” she finally replied. “Mr. Fairchild is my cousin’s cousin. The woman you referred to is my aunt, not my mother.”

“I see.” He guided them left. “And you became separated from them?”

“I was with my cousin when my dress caught on the shrubbery.”

“Should we not return to your aunt, then? It seems likely your cousin might have done so once she realized you were not with her.”

She shook her head. “I cannot return to Aunt Louisa without Felicity. I promised I would watch over her and assure she did not get into a scrape.”

“Like being kissed by the men prowling these paths?”

She glanced up at him, and her eyes narrowed. “You are making fun of me. Does it never occur that a woman is kissed at Vauxhall?”

“Oh, undoubtedly it does. I would wager there are a few kisses being stolen even as we speak.”

She seemed to consider this. “And yet you tease me. But never having been here before and having been warned against such a thing, how was I to know that kissing me had never crossed your mind?”

“Well, I never said that , did I?”

Her head came around, and her eyes searched his. “You are teasing me again.”

“Upon my honor, I am not.” Part of him wished to see how she would react to know that he had now thought of kissing her half a dozen times. But he had promised she was safe with him, and he meant to keep that promise, so he broke his gaze from hers with the excuse of trying to determine where to turn next. He thought he heard the faint sound of rushing water nearby.

They met two men in the path, and Miss Easton retreated into him slightly, but she pulled away once the men had passed.

“You have not told me your name,” she remarked.

A sudden explosion had her grasping his arm just as she had when she had first come running into him. He held her to him, but his shoulders relaxed when he realized the source of the commotion. “You are safe, Miss Easton. Look.”

She pulled her head back from his chest, and he pointed above them as another explosion occurred. Her grip tightened for a moment, then relaxed as she drew in a quick breath.

Her eyes were wide as she watched the bursts of light in the night sky. “What is it?”

“Fireworks.”

Another blast occurred, and the tightening of her grip was almost imperceptible this time.

“Is it…safe?” she asked, her eyes reflecting the bright lights. “They look as though they shall rain down on us.” She drew back as the lights fell in the sky and faded into blackness.

“Perfectly safe,” he replied. “Well, perhaps not perfectly, but the danger is generally past once they are in the sky.”

Her gaze was fixed on each explosion, but his was fixed on her. Rarely had he seen such wonder and amazement. It was innocent, artless.

She took note of him watching her and tore her eyes from the fireworks. Her hands dropped from his arm. “They are well enough, I suppose.”

Silas smiled in bemusement. Why was she pretending not to be amazed now? “Quite so. Not worth lingering for, certainly. We should continue on.”

Miss Easton’s eyes shifted upward at the next explosion, then back down reluctantly. “Indeed. Lead the way.”

She took his arm again, and they continued their walk toward—he hoped—the Cascade. Sure enough, the sound of rushing water, punctuated by the blast of fireworks, grew louder, and the next corner they turned opened up to a view of the waterfall.

They both stopped, searching amongst the throngs for familiar faces.

“What is your cousin wearing?” Silas asked.

“A silver domino.” Miss Easton rose onto her tiptoes. “Ah! I think I see her. Yes! That is her and Mr. Drake.”

“Good,” Silas said absently, for his own gaze was fixed on the gold domino walking away from the Cascade.

It was Sir Walter Bence.