Page 17 of My Viscount’s Madness
Chapter 17
Masquerade
P eers and debutantes filled the dance floor of Lady Crawford’s ballroom. Marguerite recognized half the Ton behind their disguises, though Lord Guildford remained conspicuously absent from the crowd. She adjusted her mask—silver threads of filigree weaving with pearls matching the embroidery on her white silk gown.
Behind their masks, society’s usual restraints loosened perceptibly. Ladies laughed more freely, gentlemen spoke more boldly, and even the most proper matrons seemed to embrace the evening’s air of mystery.
A naval captain in peacock blue danced with a merchant’s daughter, their ranks forgotten behind matching golden masks. Two young ladies whispered secrets they’d never dare voice with faces uncovered. Even Lord Morton, notorious for his coldness, had abandoned his usual corner to lead his wife in a sprightly cotillion. The safety of anonymity transformed the Ton’s control into something wilder, more dangerous.
“I cannot believe you convinced him to attend,” Dinah murmured beside her. Rich crimson silk draped her tall and slim form, shot through with golden details. “Though perhaps the masks provide sufficient cover for his sensibilities.”
Marguerite’s fingers traced the edge of her mask. “He hasn’t arrived.”
“Hasn’t he?” Her sister’s knowing smile curved beneath her own disguise. “Then who is that gentleman by the doors, whose entire bearing screams constant vigilance?”
Marguerite turned, her breath catching at the sight of him. His shoulders filled the doorway where he stood. The upper half of his face was covered by a black satin mask, but she recognized him immediately. Unlike the more elaborate costumes worn by other gentlemen, no excesses marred the perfection of his black evening clothes—save for the single white rose in his lapel that matched the ones woven through her hair.
Their eyes met across the crowded room. Even through the mask, she recognized the moment he saw her—his shoulders aligning infinitesimally, his chin lifting as though preparing for battle.
“You watch him differently now,” Dinah observed, her voice pitched for Marguerite’s ears alone. “Less like a convenient shield and more like…”
“Like what?”
“Like a woman who’s discovered her heart has betrayed her careful plans.” Her sister’s knowing look pierced even through her mask. “Be careful, dearest. Such discoveries rarely remain private in our circle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Go to him,” Dinah urged softly. “Before he convinces himself to retreat.”
Marguerite moved through the crowd, wanting to run to him but unable to do so. She caught only fragments of the other dancers—a flash of emerald silk here, a gentleman’s laugh there. Her attention remained fixed on the man who watched her approach while he stood still, watching her tenderly.
“My Lord.” She dropped into a curtsy before him. “I confess, I had begun to doubt your attendance.”
“I considered remaining away,” he whispered. “Though someone once suggested that healing requires facing one’s fears.”
“A wise observation.” She offered her hand, and without her gloves as required by the masquerade’s traditions, the brush of his skin against hers felt shockingly intimate. “Then perhaps you might allow me to help you face them?”
The roughness of his palm pressed against her softer skin. She caught the flash of his grey eyes through the openings in his mask.
“The last time there was a ball,” he said quietly, “you were forced to make excuses for my absence.”
“And this time?” She allowed him to guide her toward the edge of the room, away from the dancers that swept past them and still made him tense.
“This time, I am more concerned with your presence than their judgment.” The orchestra struck up a waltz. Marguerite watched his eyes as he recognized the tune—the same one they’d danced to at the village fair.
“Shall we?” She squeezed his fingers gently. “Unless the memories prove too strong?”
His other hand settled at her waist, drawing her closer than what would be considered appropriate. “Perhaps it’s time to make new memories.”
They moved onto the floor together, finding their balance with the ease of partners who had learned to trust each other’s movements. The masks created an illusion of privacy, as though they danced alone rather than surrounded by society’s elite.
“You move differently tonight,” she noted as he guided her through a turn. “More… certain.”
“Perhaps because I’ve found something worth fighting my demons for.” He squeezed her hand slightly, sending sparks along her skin. “Someone who makes the battlefield seem less daunting.”
The admission cost him—she saw how his jaw tightened beneath his mask. Still, his hold remained steady, drawing her fractionally closer with each revolution until propriety existed only in memory.
“You’re trembling now,” she murmured.
“Am I?” His fingers flexed against her waist. “Perhaps it’s merely the effect of having you in my arms again.”
Warmth crept up her neck to stain her cheeks, but her mask mercifully hid her blush. Since their kiss in the barn, since his apology to the Hayworths, something had changed between them. What had begun as a simple solution to their problems now threatened to become the most significant risk either had taken—one that could shatter both their hearts.
Their steps followed the music, yet she felt his hand at her waist guide her away from the crowded center. His attention never fully settled on her; instead, he swept the room even as he led her through in perfect circles. He kept them near walls, keeping space between themselves and other couples, ensuring no one could approach without his awareness.
“Tell me,” she said softly, “what you’re thinking.”
His finger found the sensitive spot where her pulse met her wrist, cradling her hand as though it were something delicate. His touch was so light it might have been imagination—save for how her skin tingled where his finger touched her. The gentle pressure spoke volumes that propriety forbade him to voice.
“I’m thinking that you’re the most beautiful woman in the room, even half-hidden behind that mask. I’m thinking that every man here envies me this dance.” His voice dropped lower. “And I’m thinking that I would very much like to kiss you again, propriety be damned.”
Her heart stammered against her ribs at his bold declaration. Behind the black satin of his mask, his grey eyes burnt dangerously and stole her breath.
“Such words,” she managed, “from a man who once insisted on keeping his distance as a rule.”
“Perhaps the mask makes me brave.” His hand at her waist urged her forward until their bodies nearly touched. “Or perhaps I’ve grown tired of pretending indifference.”
The waltz drew them past clusters of masked revelers, each turn bringing them closer to the French doors that led to Lady Crawford’s conservatory.
Marguerite caught glimpses of their reflection in the ballroom’s mirrors—they danced together as though they’d done so a thousand times before, and the darkness of his attire complemented her white silk’s radiance like night and day.
“Indifference?” She barely recognized her own voice. “Is that what you’ve been pretending?”
His fingers tightened around her hand. “You know it’s not.”
The music played louder around them, but Marguerite heard only the roughness in his voice and felt only the heat of his palm. When had their arrangement shifted from convenience to something that made her pulse race at his slightest touch?
“The conservatory,” he murmured as they turned again. “Might we…?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. As the waltz ended, he guided her through the doors with one hand at her elbow and the other never leaving her waist.
The dense foliage of Lady Crawford’s Conservatory was a world apart from the ballroom. Here, amid the lady’s prized orchids and climbing roses, the rules of society seemed as foreign as the exotic flowers surrounding them. Their footsteps echoed against the tiled floor as he led her under a hanging bunch of petunias.
“We shouldn’t be here alone,” Marguerite said, though she made no move to leave.
“No.” Tristan’s hands settled back on her waist. “We shouldn’t.”
But neither stepped away. Instead, he drew her even deeper into the shadows, away from the petunias to the foliage that provided cover from prying eyes. Something about the smell of jasmine and how his eyes stared into hers made her weak in the knees.
“The masks,” he said quietly, “make everything feel like a dream.”
His fingers rose to trace the edge of her mask, following the silver filigree until they brushed against her cheek. Marguerite’s breath caught at the contact.
“And if it’s not a dream?” She placed her hand over his, where it rested against her face. “If this is real?”
Instead of answering, he lowered his head until their foreheads touched. Through the openings in their masks, their eyes met and held.
“You make me forget,” he whispered. “The memories, the pain, all of it fades when you’re near. And that terrifies me more than any nightmare.”
“Why?”
“Because I never meant to feel this way.” His other hand curved around her neck, thumb brushing against her pulse. “This was supposed to be an arrangement of convenience, nothing more.”
“And now?”
His answer came not in words but in the press of his lips against hers. Unlike their kiss in the barn, this had nothing uncertain about it.
Marguerite’s fingers curled into the lapels of his coat, drawing him closer as the kiss deepened. The edge of his mask pressed against her cheek, a reminder of the pretense that had allowed this moment of abandonment.
When they finally parted, they were panting unsteadily, but neither moved away. His forehead rested against hers once more, his hands still cradling her face as though she might disappear if he released her.
“We can’t stay here,” she managed after a moment. “Someone will notice our absence.”
“Let them notice,” he said as though in surrender. “Though I suppose we must maintain some semblance of propriety.”
“Must we?” The words left before she could catch them.
A harsh sound escaped him, more of a grimace than a laugh. “Unless you wish to create a scandal that would make even Lord Edgecombe’s rumors seem tame.”
The mention of their adversary broke some of the spells. Marguerite stepped back, though her hands remained pressed against his chest.
“Will you return to the ball?” she asked quietly. He leaned close enough that his breath stirred the curls at her temple.
“Can I do otherwise?” His thumb brushed across her lower lip. “Though I warn you, another dance might prove my undoing. I can scarcely keep from touching you now.”
Her lips parted at his boldness. “Then perhaps we should avoid dancing altogether.”
“Perhaps.” But his smile beneath the mask suggested he had no intention of keeping such a promise. “Though I find myself rather appreciating the advantages of masquerade balls. Know that none of this was pretense.”
“No?” She smoothed his white rose where her fingers had creased it. “Not even our convenient arrangement?”
“Especially not that.” His smile held a touch of self-mockery. “Though I suspect convenience ceased being our primary motivation some time ago.”
They rejoined the ball separately. She preceded him by several steps, though every fiber of her yearned for their intimate connection. Still, she felt his attention follow her progress through the crowd, just as she found herself tracking his movements at the edge of her vision—each stolen glance exchanged reminding her of their shared moment among the flowers.