Page 34 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Emilie guessed there were at least two hundred people attending the Peregrines’ masquerade that evening when she arrived on Dartois’ arm.

All along the painted wall, candles in ornate golden scroll sconces shone out across the crowds, their light reflecting off the polished metal disks that formed the back of the clever lighting fixtures. Above them hung glittering chandeliers, hundreds of candles alight, adding to the heat of the rooms.

Lit by the myriad of candles was a series of grand portraits hung around the top of the room which Emilie took to be the ancestors of their hosts. These solemn figures from bygone ages stared down upon the multitude, the painted figures clad in silk suits with deep-fronted bodices, red heeled shoes and great cascading periwigs.

Yet for all the illumination and ancestral observants, the crowd below remained anonymous. Emilie walked through a sea of strangers in masks of all kinds. Gentlemen and ladies obscured their identities with anything from simple eye coverings to theatrical creations and, as was the purpose, the mystery provoked a feverish glee.

Some, Emilie knew, would enjoy their identity being a secret for the night and give nothing away, using the opportunity to say things they’d otherwise keep to themselves, or flirt with someone they desired. Others would be too easily recognised, and yet others would have no patience for such games and within moments introduce themselves or pull up their masks to reveal their identities.

Emilie remained behind her mask, happy for the protection it provided in this unknown environment. Despite the amusement palpable in the gathering, she found Lord and Lady Peregrine’s event far more austere than what she was used to.

Aside from the gilt candleholders and crystal chandeliers, the decor was simpler, with muted tones and neoclassical decoration. The people were equally as different. Aside from their masks, they were far more staid than their French counterparts. Despite wearing a new gown from an English dressmaker, Emilie felt out of place with her bright silk and rouged face.

The mask Dartois had chosen for her covered only her eyes, and so the powder, rouge and patch she wore were on display. She noticed several women staring openly at her, clearly not recognising her from their usual Societal circles, and she saw the judgement in their eyes.

Emilie and Dartois moved from one reception room into another, the crowds only growing, and Emilie’s discomfort with it. She knew her place in Paris. She was considered a mistress, but that was accepted. Here she was… what? An alien.

The idea of escaping into the city with the funds from selling her old clothes suddenly felt stupid. How could she manage it when everything about her was so different?

Her breathing grew shallow, her palms slick inside her gloves, her heartbeat speeding. What if she couldn’t escape? What if giving in to Dartois was all she could do?

The sound of the crowd grew louder. Someone laughed in her ear, the noise piercing. Another hailed Dartois, and the Marquis walked off through the masses to greet them.

Emilie was left alone, the people swirling around her. The thought of giving into Dartois caused bile to rise in her throat. Nausea followed close behind. The feeling swelled. She was going to vomit. People pressed in around her. She was going to vomit right here in Lord and Lady Peregrine’s ballroom. She was going to—

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Cadeaux.”

That voice.

Her brow furrowed and her eyes welled with tears.

That familiar voice.

She almost whispered his name, her eyes darting up from the floor and meeting those unmistakable hooded brown eyes behind a black mask.

The Duke of Tremaine.

How? How was he here? How had he survived that shot? She didn’t care. He was here.

“Your Grace.” Her voice was barely audible above the crowds.

“I trust I find you well?” he asked, those eyes of his, which had so often displayed bored indifference, were now full of earnest concern.

Emilie swallowed, blinking back the tears, then turned away to suck in a breath, trying her hardest to calm the emotions which stormed within her. “I thought you were…” She trailed off, unable to finish that horrible sentence.

In the melee of the crowds, the Duke reached out and touched her arm, his gaze containing such gentleness. She wanted to grab hold of that hand, to hold it to her chest, to cry with relief that all she had feared was not true.

“I am—I am well,” she finally replied. “But how are you here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” Tremaine said, his tone gentler than his words.

“I thought you were… ” She raised a hand, touching his shoulder lightly and then dropping it again before anyone noticed.

“I was—a souvenir from the Marquis. But only winged. I have the generosity of your fellow countrywoman to thank for my salvation.”

Emilie wanted to hear everything, but the jostle of the crowd reminded her they were not alone, and they did not have much time.

“I am only angry at myself for putting you in such a position with my arrogance. I thought I knew the state of play, but I was wrong. Mademoiselle Cadeaux—Emilie—I am so very sorry.” His voice cracked over those last words and suddenly the crowd around them melted away from consciousness and it was just them alone.

That was the first time he had used her Christian name. She hadn’t realised he even knew it. It sounded so right on his lips, it was spoken with such kindness and care.

“I am only thankful for your quick wit in leaving me that note hidden in your letters. Once I found your apartments it was the only reason I was able to find out where you were at all.”

She remembered scrawling that letter. The interruption. Hoping she had said enough. Hiding it quickly among the letters she had piled up to send and the horrible feeling of having to leave—

“Lutin!” she blurted out, her eyes dropping to the floor, hoping the small shadow might magically appear.

“He’s all right.” Again the Duke touched her arm lightly, the connection soothing. “He’s safe and well.”

“Oh.” She felt the tears welling in her eyes again. “Leaving him was the most dreadful thing. To think of him an ocean away is just—”

“Then I may bring some comfort. I brought him with me to England. He is with my valet at present.”

Emilie’s eyes widened in surprise and then a delighted smile took over her lips.

“It was a mutual dislike at first,” the Duke explained. “Your petit diable did the unmentionable in one of my best pairs of dancing pumps. I’m pleased to report, though, since that bumpy start, they’ve become quite civil—friendly even. I believe Lutin prefers his company to mine now. Traitor.”

His words flowed light-heartedly, but she could see the humour did not fully touch his eyes. The funning was for her. He was trying to calm her. When he removed his hand from her arm again, she felt the loss acutely.

“I am so happy,” she whispered. A tear finally escaped her rapid blinking and traced through her powder.

Tremaine drew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it discreetly to her.

“Please,” he said in a low tone, “do not worry—not about Lutin, nor about… I shall not see you harmed.”

She could not speak. The lump that had formed in her throat at his arrival would not move and it had grown. His words—those kind and caring words—they undid her.

“Tell me you are well?”

It was a question and yet it was spoken as a demand. As though he could bear no other response than a positive one.

“At least physically,” he said by way of concession. “Has he—”

She could see Tremaine was not able to finish the question. The implication hung between them, all manner of endings to that question horribly present.

Again she remained silent, not through choice, but because the care shining from his eyes was something she had never expected, nor could she fully understand it. This man had taken a bullet trying to save her. He had gone down with it, and yet here he was, coming for her again. The emotions such thoughts evoked were so strong she could barely control them. Even if she had wanted to, she could not have spoken, for how could someone respond to such kindness?

“Bonsoir, Your Grace.”

Dartois’ greeting came from behind her. She saw the Duke’s whole frame tense. His jaw clenched, and his hands formed fists at his side. Catching his gaze again, she willed him with her eyes not to react.

“Or,” said Dartois, coming around to stand between them, “is it Lord Avers? I confess I have never been good with names. But then, I do not know many gentlemen who go by a different name in Paris to that which they bear in London.”

What was he talking about? Emilie looked at Dartois and then at the Duke. The former appeared as though he had won some verbal game while the latter continued in stony silence. Avers? Who was this Avers? Was he really the Duke of Tremaine? Had he been lying about his identity as well as his purpose in Paris?

“Ah, I think you know my beautiful companion?” Dartois stretched out an arm to the woman who stood behind him who had, until that moment, been obscured from their view. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Gravesend.”

“My Lord, how delightful it is to see you in London again. We were quite lost without you.” The woman stood at Dartois’ side, tall and slender, with fair colouring and fine features, a beautiful dress of pale pink silk hugged an enviable figure and a diamond necklace glittered on her neck.

Her effect on Tremaine—or Avers—or whatever he was known by, was acute.

Emilie saw him jolt at her appearance. His composure, beneath the mask, faltered and then fractured completely. As it broke, she saw deep shock marked in his eyes and open mouth, and her heart ached for the man before her. This confident English Lord, who had been so sardonic and aloof and yet displayed such kindness and care towards her, suddenly appeared vulnerable. Everything within her desired to reach out and smooth away the hurt with a gentle caress.

“Your Grace,” Avers said between gritted teeth.

His voice sounded alien to Emilie, formal and rigid.

“May I congratulate you on your recent marriage to the Duke,” Avers said politely. “He is a fortunate man.”

Whatever effect this woman had on Lord Avers, it did not appear mutual. She remained unaffected and bestowed a condescending smile across the party.

“You’re too kind.”

“I do not think he is, Your Grace,” Dartois said. “Not fortunate but clever. Any man who allowed you to slip through their fingers was a fool indeed.”

The Duchess laughed, the sound light and musical—and practised.

“My companion, Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” Dartois said, finally presenting Emilie.

The young Duchess only gave the briefest incline of her head, and her pretty lips pursed slightly. Her Grace knew exactly what sort of woman was being presented to her. Despite this, Emilie curtseyed low. When she rose, Avers was still staring at the woman.

Dartois began saying something about the Duke of Gravesend’s vast estates and the Duchess glowed with pride while Avers listened. Emilie watched him, the fractures in his composure slowly closing over and the shock now only visible in his eyes. She saw a muscle bulging at the corner of his jaw where he clenched his teeth. For this woman to have such an effect on him, she had to be…

A deep ache started in Emilie’s chest. This was the woman he loved. The one who’d broken his heart. And to still have such an effect on him could only mean his love for her had not died.