Page 70 of Dukes All Night Long

Falstaff stood by his uncle, the duke, both dressed in finery.

The duke wore shades of gray with an impressive mask depicting a weathered face that resembled the wind or perhaps a very old tree, while Falstaff dressed in black with an unremarkable black mask.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the magistrate, wearing servant’s livery.

He blended in well. Maybe that was what it took to investigate people well, to go overlooked and unnoticed. He vaguely heard his uncle speak.

“Eh?”

“You look like a highwayman,” the duke said.

Falstaff grinned. He rather liked that idea.

The duke said, “I meant to say I don’t like this idea of you trying to catch a thief. It’s unseemly for a young man like yourself. I think you should put aside this silly idea and just enjoy party. Why don’t you dance with some of the ladies here instead?”

Falstaff’s mouth dropped open.

The duke continued. “I’m not getting any younger, and it’s high time you went and made a good match. Any young lady would do, provided she’s from a good family and has a proper dowry.”

Falstaff loosened his collar. He didn’t want his uncle to start playing matchmaker.

The duke looked at him thoughtfully. “What about that young woman?” he asked, pointing at a stunning beauty in a midnight-blue gown.

She walked by another young woman in a white, silk dress covered head-to-toe with feathers, including her mask.

The pair rather looked like the midnight sky alongside a goose.

Falstaff said, “Uncle, I need more than just a pretty figure and a few feathers. Besides, I want—”

The duke cut him off. “In my day, all a man needed was a handsome dowry, good breeding, a few smiles, and that was it. None of this biding your time or anything like that.”

Falstaff raised an eyebrow. That mentality is probably why some men make very bad marriages , he thought.

The duke said, “What about that Clara girl, Miss Butterfield?”

“Miss Butters? No, absolutely not,” Falstaff said.

“Why not? She’s perfectly good-looking. She comes from a good family, and she likes you. That’s a lot more than some men can say for their wives.”

Falstaff grimaced. Miss Butters, of all people. “She’s unsuitable.”

“You don’t like her, you mean,” the duke said.

“Tell you what. Find a pretty girl to dance with tonight and talk to. Otherwise, I will assume that you are not taking your future seriously, and I will make an introduction for you to someone I choose. And I will tell Miss Butterworth that you would like the first two dances with her.”

Falstaff shot his uncle a level look. “Excuse me.” He marched away when he realized he had no idea where the woman in midnight blue was.

He stood by and gazed around the milling costumed guests, when he spotted the woman in the white, silk dress covered with feathers, which strongly reminded him of a goose.

Then he felt a tap at his shoulder. Falstaff turned.

It was the woman in midnight blue. His pulse quickened.

This close up, he could see she really was beautiful, down to her shy smile.

Her eyes glittered with intelligence. Even wearing an ornate blue mask, and something about her seemed familiar.

The peachy color of her lips teased him.

She said, “I overheard what you were saying. You’re here to catch a thief. I’d like to help.”

Falstaff blinked at her. “You, catch a thief? I don’t even know you.”

“Nor I you, but that didn’t stop you asking a lot of questions as you showed me the way up the stairs earlier,” she said with a slight smile.

He grinned in recognition. So it was the maid, the water-drenched one from the carriage outside, and bold too.

He hadn’t pegged her to be so daring. She was here mixing with the Ton and dressed up as a guest. “What are you doing here?” He took her by the elbow and whisked her away behind a tall column and a large, potted plant.

“Does your mistress know you’re here? Are you wearing her dress?” He eyed her up and down. Her dark, gauzy midnight-blue dress looked stunning. And she had dimples. Lord, she had dimples when she smiled. He’d never realized until that moment that he rather liked dimples.

“Yes, she knows. But no, it’s not her dress. She thought she’d do me a kindness by letting me attend the ball. She pinched the dress from her sister, who is currently in London.”

Falstaff raised an eyebrow. “Your mistress is the goose. No, sorry, the swan.”

“She wants it to be a swan.” They both peeked from behind the leaves of the potted plant.

Miss Azalea was graceful, but a swan, she was not. Miss Potts’s mistress moved through the crowds of people talking and laughing.

“Your mistress is very kind,” Falstaff said. Perhaps I was wrong about her , he thought.

“This thief you’re trying to catch. Who is it?” Miss Potts asked Falstaff.

He tensed. Miss Clara Butters, in a lilac costume with far too many ruffles, was talking with Miss Azalea and looking around as if searching for someone. He tugged at his collar.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, uh… this thief.” He swallowed as Miss Butters moved closer, craning her neck to search for someone over the crush of people. “They only target parties where the Ton will be at. Jewels will go missing. Diamonds, necklaces, anything.”

“I see.” Miss Potts’s voice faded in the distance as Falstaff focused on the ever-nearing form of Miss Butters. His childhood friend stood but a few feet away.

Miss Potts was looking at him expectantly.

Miss Butters was almost upon him. He looked at Miss Potts nervously. “I’m dreadfully sorry about this.”

“Pardon? Sorry about what?”

“This.” He took firm hold of her chin and pulled her into a kiss.

*

Lucy’s eyes widened in surprise, then closed of their own accord. He was a good kisser. His lips were soft yet firm. It was a warm, pleasurable touch. Falstaff was tender, even if it was a surprise.

She heard a sudden gasp, then a muttered apology and a few hurried steps away. But she didn’t care, as his hand curved around her lower back and pulled her closer while she ran her hands up his back and through his silky hair.

She felt his left hand squeeze her bottom, and she jumped. He broke off the kiss and grinned, and her eyes flew open.

Blue. His eyes were light blue, like the sky or how Lucy imagined the ocean might look.

But she had acted foolishly. She was no longer a young woman looking for a husband at the bequest of her family.

She was a maid at a party whose mistress had kindly let her attend.

She had no business kissing a young man, none at all.

Then again, neither did a young lady looking for a husband. It was quite scandalous either way.

She met his eyes and they were warm and inviting. The light blues had given way to black liquid pools in his desire.

Falstaff opened his mouth to speak, and she turned on her heel and walked away.

She looked around over her shoulder, blushing, and soon was glad they had been hidden by the column and potted plant.

Lucy looked about for her mistress but couldn’t see her anywhere.

It was strange, but never mind. She would simply stand off to the side and be a wallflower and have a calm, enjoyable evening.

Absolutely no more kisses, even if her body had other ideas.

*

Falstaff watched Miss Potts—Lucy—go. He reached for her but touched only empty air. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He wanted to apologize, but… he wasn’t sorry for kissing her. Was it wrong to start a relationship with a lie?

“Well, who was that?” Miss Butters filled his vision, her hands firmly on her hips.

Falstaff glanced at her, his eyes still watching Lucy leave.

He wanted to go after her. He wanted to take her by the hand and pull her back behind the potted plant for more.

He knew he deserved a slap for his insolence, but he didn’t care.

He just wanted to see her again. But he couldn’t go after her, and now she had disappeared into the crowd of guests.

“Falstaff,” Miss Butters said.

“What? Yes, I’m here.”

“You weren’t listening to a word I said. Who was that?” Miss Butters asked.

“It was… nobody.”

She huffed. “Never mind. I don’t want to know, but I think it’s a bit much for you to be kissing a random woman at a party when you don’t even know her. She could be anyone. Not that’s any of my business, but…”

He ignored her. “Excuse me,” he said, walking on. He wanted to find the woman and explain, but instead, the magistrate stood in his path and said, “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Miss Butters asked. “And who are you?”

Falstaff cleared his throat. “Magistrate Wilkins, meet my good friend, Miss Clara Butters. Miss Butters, Mr. Wilkins.” He moved towards the bottom of the stairs, where a number of guests gathered.

Miss Butters followed close behind. “A magistrate? But why? I didn’t invite him. You do have peculiar acquaintances, Falstaff.”

In a moment, the duke stood behind him as the magistrate disappeared into the crowd.

“Falstaff,” Miss Butters whispered, “what are you doing? Everyone is watching.”

“I’m making an announcement,” he told her.

Setting a trap for a thief , he thought.

“You are? Oh, my goodness. Oh, my.” She put a hand to her cheeks, which had suddenly turned pink. “Falstaff, this is so sudden.”

At a nod to the musicians, they quieted, and soon, if the guests weren’t already watching and listening, they were now. Falstaff tugged at his collar as the duke muttered, “I hope you know what you’re doing, boy.”