Page 44 of Seven Nights with the Wicked Duke (Regency Beasts #3)

CARNIVAL OF SIN

A bigail adjusted her mask for perhaps the millionth time since she walked in and willed herself to mingle, observe, and take in every scene, every little detail.

She had to. That was, after all, what she was here to do. What she was paid to do.

“This is for observation only,” she muttered to herself. “You are not doing any harm; you are merely looking.”

She didn’t know what to expect when she slipped into Blackwell Estate. The only thing she had to work with was the rumors that reached everyone’s ears. The notorious dinner parties, hosted by the wealthy and all-powerful Duke of Blackwell. Just that word, ‘notorious.’

Was it reckless of her to tread into unknown waters without an escort, and without having told anyone? It was. She just realized that she was walking into a place that surely hid secrets of its own.

Relax, Abigail. How bad can it be?

The moment she stepped foot inside, she knew why the Blackwell dinner parties were whispered about behind fans and over brandy with knowing looks.

The grand ballroom of Blackwell Estate had been transformed into a scene straight from the canals of Venice as she had seen them in the engravings of Canaletto.

Just filled with an explosion of colors and textures.

Hundreds of candles flickered in crystal chandeliers, their light glinting off gilded mirrors and the delicate sequins adorning the guests’ masks.

Ladies glided across the polished marble floor in gowns of satin and silk.

Emerald greens, sapphire blues, and ruby reds swirled amidst the crowd.

Feathers, either from ostrich, peacock, or pheasant, trembled atop elaborate headdresses, catching the light like living jewels.

Masks concealed as much as they revealed.

Some were simple, elegant things made of porcelain and ribbon.

Abigail was particularly happy for that last feature of tonight’s party theme.

She could hide behind the mask she was wearing.

Though neither her mask nor her dress could hide her financial status.

Sure, her dress was made of silk, a deep burgundy color, but if one looked closely, they would notice it was outdated and worn too many times. It was actually the best dress Abigail owned, and she tried to modify it for the occasion without ruining it for further use.

Being a vicar’s daughter, such luxuries were out of reach. Even though, with a twist of fate, her father inherited the title of a baron, their financial status hadn’t been elevated.

Her mask, though… Abigail was afraid that her mask would draw attention for a different reason than revealing her identity.

Her mask was no jewel-encrusted marvel like the others, but a labor of love.

The base was a discarded papier-maché half-mask, painted by her hand in a riot of color.

She had mimicked the iridescence of a peacock not with gemstones, but with careful layering of paint and talent.

One lone peacock feather curved upward from the side, salvaged from an old hat.

She was pulled out of her musings when laughter rippled through the room.

Abigail remembered that she was here to do a job. She should mingle, get what she needed, and slip away as fast as she could before she was discovered. She was not invited to the party, and despite the disguises and the relaxed atmosphere, she was scared that soon she would be outed.

“What a beautiful mask!” she heard a voice beside her.

A man with a harlequin mask stood next to her, shamelessly letting his eyes rake over her body.

“Let’s dance, little bird,” he proposed.

Abigail felt blood drain from her cheeks. Her eyes drifted to the dance floor, where the music swelled. A waltz, that scandalous, intimate dance where partners pressed sinfully close.

“I… I don’t dance,” she lied, her voice barely audible over the violins.

Harlequin tilted his head, his smirk visible even beneath the mask. “Then why wear a mask at all, little bird? Masks are for those who wish to play.”

Abigail was afraid that she was caught red-handed as the one who not only didn’t belong here, but also the one who was here —for lack of a better word—to spy on them. She needed to think fast and get away from the situation.

“Perhaps I merely want to play a different game,” she said with all the confidence her desperation allowed, and walked away.

The moment she stepped into the light, she was mesmerized by a lively game of truth or dare, where a lady wearing an exquisite dress was following the prompts of the onlookers, recreating them with her body in a slow, provocative way.

“Well done!” They all applauded her.

“How about you?” Someone pointed at Abigail.

She was happy she didn’t faint on the spot. She shook her head almost violently in refusal.

The man with the harlequin mask joined the others. “This lonely peacock is not playing by the rules.”

Abigail felt all the eyes on her, and cold sweat ran down her spine. She was going to be exposed. Her eyes caught movement at the other side of the ballroom, and she pointed there. The game that was played there seemed benign—at least no provocative poses were seen.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” she offered as confidently as she could. “I am expected at that game.”

Abigail didn’t wait for any reactions and boldly made her way to that group. She joined the circle and even dared to hold a glass of brandy, as she saw most of the attendants do. She hoped to linger a little, do what she was here to do, and then slip away.

But it seemed that she had sorely miscalculated the situation. The moment she came closer, everyone looked at her.

“Finally,” a woman said. “It seems that we now have our last contestant.”

Oh, no.

“Let’s see how our little peacock will fare in our game,” a rich, deep voice rumbled.

The voice reverberated through the air like a bow drawn across cello strings. Abigail felt equal parts terrified and intrigued to see the owner of that voice. So, she slowly turned to look upon her challenger.

The moment she turned her head, her mind seemed to hush in primal recognition.

Here was danger incarnate. There was no escaping this man.

He was wearing a simple black half-mask that did absolutely nothing to protect her from his blade-sharp jaw or the sinful curve of his mouth, curved in a slight smirk.

There was a faint scar on the side of his lower lip that took nothing from the power he held.

He was dressed in a deep black outfit that hugged his massive body.

A barely tamed beast in the clothes of a gentleman.

“The rules are simple, little peacock,” he said as he straightened up. “Three exchanges. No touching. No names. You may use poetry, wit, or plain wickedness, but the first to blush, or retreat, loses.”

What?

The confusion must have been evident on her face because that devil of a man came closer in a daring, open way.

“A flirt battle, little peacock.”

Mercy.

“I shall go first.” He drew even closer. “You seem to be a… novice in the game. Though with your current complexion, you are practically doomed.”

Abigail knew for a fact that she was not a blusher. She had been a hard worker all her life, pressured more than any other lady of the ton to be as delicate as they were. But still…

“Tell me.” He leaned closer, his breath caressing her ear. “Do you always attend parties just to lurk in the shadows, or is tonight an exception?”

Her eyes went wide. Was he watching her? Was she caught red-handed? She struggled to keep her breathing steady, let alone give an answer.

His chuckle pulled her out of her wonderings. “Your turn, little peacock.”

She looked up, craning her neck because, next to her short stature, the man loomed over her like a giant. Then, his eyes…

Good heavens, his eyes…

Green. Not the soft green of meadows or emeralds, but the violent, shifting green of a storm-lit sea. And she was drowning.

Abigail swallowed hard. Words. She needed words.

“I—” Her voice came out embarrassingly thin. “I find shadows lend… p-perspective.”

Brilliant. Now she sounded like a nervous governess giving a botched geography lesson.

But then she heard herself add in a low, yet slightly firmer voice, “Not all of us need an audience.”

He threw his head back with a rich, surprised chuckle that drew eyes from across the room.

“But yes. We all look at the beautiful plumage.” He leaned in and pinned her with a heated look that stole her breath. “And forget that the peacock has sharp talons. Are you here to wound me, My Lady?”

The height difference alone gave her vertigo. Combined with the natural, clean, seductive musk of his body, she was feeling dizzy.

“Because if that was your purpose,” he murmured, his voice a dark, velvety rasp, “you’ll have to come much closer.”

Abigail’s soul nearly left her body. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t even said something overtly crass. Yet her knees trembled, and her heart thrashed like it was trying to escape.

“I…” she managed, her voice no more than a whisper.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her tongue had turned traitor. Words refused to form. A breath, shaky. Her eyes dropped to the floor, unable to bear the full weight of his gaze.

“Aww,” a feminine voice came from the onlookers, “she is adorable.”

“She might be,” someone else commented, “but she is also blushing.”

Abigail didn’t even dare to state the opposite. She was ablaze, and she found it hard that there was no trace of evidence on her cheeks of the flames that consumed her.

“You are blushing,” the dark man mused, his voice a low purr meant only for her. “You lost, little peacock.”

A relief.

She seized the opening and fled into the crowd, slipping through the swirl of masks and brocade like a shadow escaping the flames. She had to get out. Now. Before someone unmasked her, literally or otherwise.