Page 1 of The Earl’s Scarred Bride (Taming the Gillets #2)

CHAPTER ONE

" H arriet, do stay where I can see you," Elizabeth Cooper chided gently, adjusting her sister's domino mask. "Lady Morrison's masquerade balls are notorious for impropriety, and I won't have you caught up in any scandal."

"Elizabeth, you worry entirely too much." Harriet's eyes sparkled behind her elaborate butterfly mask, the gold filigree catching the light from the dozens of candles illuminating Lady Morrison's ballroom. "Besides, isn't the whole point of a masquerade to be a bit mysterious?"

"The point is to be mysterious while maintaining proper decorum." Elizabeth touched her own mask self-consciously, ensuring it still covered not only her eyes but the upper portion of her birthmark as well. The black silk creation was far more modest than her sister's, but it served its purpose admirably. For once, she could move through society without drawing the usual pitying glances or barely concealed grimaces.

"You sound exactly like one of the matchmaking mamas," Harriet teased, but she looped her arm through Elizabeth's as they made their way deeper into the crowded ballroom. "Though I suppose you've spent enough time among them to pick up their ways."

Elizabeth smiled despite herself. "Someone had to ensure you were properly introduced to society after your debut. And since Father showed about as much interest in the task as he did in mine..."

She let the words trail off, but Harriet squeezed her arm in understanding. Their father Luke Cooper, the Baron of Trowbridge, had made his feelings about Elizabeth's prospects quite clear over the years. What use was there in spending good money on a proper season for a daughter whose appearance would inevitably drive away any potential suitors?

"Look," Harriet whispered excitedly, drawing Elizabeth from her dark thoughts. "There's Lord Ashworth. I'd know that proud strut anywhere, even behind that ridiculous lion mask."

"And how, pray tell, are you so familiar with his lordship's...strut?" Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, though the effect was somewhat lost behind her mask.

Harriet's cheeks flushed becomingly. "One does observe things during the season, dear sister. Speaking of which..." She nodded toward a cluster of elegantly dressed matrons near the refreshment table. "Your usual compatriots await."

Elizabeth recognized Lady Weatherby's distinctive laugh among the group. The woman had taken Elizabeth under her wing shortly after Harriet's debut, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of genuine kindness. Either way, she'd introduced Elizabeth to the other chaperones and match-making mamas of the ton, giving her a place to belong during the endless balls and soirees where she would otherwise have been relegated to the shadows.

"My dear Miss Cooper!" Lady Weatherby's voice carried over the music as Elizabeth approached. "We were just discussing the most intriguing piece of gossip. Do join us."

Elizabeth slipped into the circle of women, accepting a glass of lemonade from a passing footman. "I trust this particular piece of gossip is more substantial than last week's speculation about Lady Pembrooke's mysterious illness?"

"Which turned out to be nothing more than a stubborn head cold," Lady Rutledge added with a disappointed sigh. "But this, my dear, this is something altogether more exciting."

"The Earl of Stonefield has returned to London," Lady Weatherby announced, her eyes gleaming behind her peacock-feathered mask. "And he's made it known that he's seeking a bride."

"Stonefield?" Elizabeth frowned slightly. "The rake who reportedly broke three engagements last season?"

"Four," Lady Ashworth corrected, fanning herself vigorously. "Though one can hardly blame the man. He's wealthy enough to be particular in his choice."

Lady Weatherby nodded sagely. "And handsome enough to break hearts without trying. My Isabel nearly swooned when he danced with her at Lady Rockingham's ball."

"And proceeded to dance with three other young ladies that very evening," Elizabeth pointed out. "Hardly the behavior of a man seriously seeking marriage."

"Ah, but that was before," Lady Rutledge leaned in conspiratorially. "Word has it he's finally ready to settle down. Something about needing an heir now that he's inherited the full extent of his father's estate."

Elizabeth's retort was cut short by a sudden flutter of excitement rippling through the ballroom. The music faltered for a moment as heads turned toward the entrance, where a tall figure had just appeared.

"Who is he?" Lady Weatherby whispered, clutching Elizabeth's arm. "Looks quite mysterious."

Elizabeth studied the newcomer with growing unease.

His black wolf mask covered the upper half of his face, but there was no disguising his commanding presence. He stood well over six feet tall, his broad shoulders and athletic build evident even beneath his perfectly tailored evening clothes. Unlike the other gentlemen who affected fashionable languor, he moved with the fluid grace of a predator—each step deliberate and controlled.

His evening attire, while impeccable, eschewed the more flamboyant trends popular among the ton. The black coat was cut to emphasize his powerful frame, the white linen of his cravat pristine against the olive tone of his throat. Dark hair, just a touch too long to be entirely fashionable, curled slightly at his nape in a way that made Elizabeth's fingers inexplicably itch to touch it.

Though the mask obscured much of his face, she could make out the strong line of his jaw, currently set in what appeared to be habitual arrogance. His mouth was well-formed, the lower lip fuller than the upper, curved into a slight smile that held more warning than warmth.

When he turned his head to survey the room, she caught a glimpse of eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it—deep blue like the ocean during a storm.

He was exactly the type of man who could make a woman forget her better judgment.

She forced herself to look away, disturbed by how her pulse had quickened merely from observing him. "Leave that stranger and just think," Lady Ashworth sighed dreamily, "one of our young ladies could be the next Countess of Stonefield. Your Harriet, perhaps, Miss Cooper? She's certainly beautiful enough to catch his eye."

"My sister will marry for love, not title or fortune," Elizabeth replied firmly, though her heart was still racing traitorously. "Besides, I've heard enough about the earl's reputation to know he's not the sort of man I'd wish to see Harriet matched with."

"Oh, my dear," Lady Weatherby patted her hand indulgently. "The worst rakes often make the best husbands. Once they've sown their wild oats, they appreciate the value of a good marriage all the more."

Elizabeth was about to respond when she realized she'd lost sight of Harriet among the whirling dancers. Excusing herself from the group, she moved to the edge of the ballroom, scanning the crowd for her sister's distinctive butterfly mask.

"Looking for someone in particular?" a deep voice inquired from behind her, making her breath catch in her throat.

Elizabeth turned, finding herself face to face with an elaborately crafted wolf's mask. He was the same stranger she’d seen a few moments before.

Something about his proximity made her skin tingle with awareness. "My sister," she replied, proud that her voice remained steady. "Though I don't believe we've been properly introduced, sir."

"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of a masquerade?" His voice dropped lower as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "The freedom to speak without the burden of names and titles."

"I find names and titles serve a rather useful purpose in preventing unwanted liberties," she managed, though her body betrayed her with a slight shiver.

"And yet you haven't moved away," he observed, a dangerous smile playing at his lips. "Tell me, do you always keep such a tight rein on propriety, even when your instincts suggest otherwise?"

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm beneath her mask. "My instincts, sir, are perfectly aligned with propriety."

"Are they?" He tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "Then why do your hands tremble when I step closer?" As if to prove his point, he moved forward, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact through their masks.

"Perhaps they tremble with indignation at your presumption," she countered, though they both knew it for the lie it was.

His low chuckle sent another shiver down her spine. "Your butterfly, by the way, was seen heading toward the maze. Though she wasn't alone."

Before Elizabeth could respond, he stepped back with a mocking bow. "Do be careful in the dark, my lady. One never knows what sorts of...creatures one might encounter."

He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Elizabeth unsettled by both his words and her body's traitorous response to his presence. The night air carried the sweet scent of Lady Morrison's prized roses as Elizabeth stepped onto the terrace. Her eyes scanned the shadows, counting three couples taking advantage of the relative privacy—all properly chaperoned, she noted with relief—but none wearing her sister's distinctive mask.

"Harriet?" she called softly, not wanting to draw attention from the ballroom behind her. No response came save for the muffled giggles of a young lady whose companion was presumably whispering something terribly amusing in her ear.

Elizabeth's fingers worried at her fan, a nervous habit she thought she'd broken years ago. The terrace wasn't particularly large, but several paths led down into the gardens below. Surely Harriet wouldn't have ventured further without informing her? Her sister could be impulsive, yes, but she wasn't reckless.

Through the maze pathways, she caught fragments of hushed conversation and gentle laughter. Following the sounds, she turned a corner and froze. There, on a stone bench bathed in moonlight, sat Harriet, her golden butterfly mask gleaming. A gentleman in a raven's mask sat entirely too close, his head bent toward hers in intimate conversation.

"I shouldn't," Elizabeth heard her sister whisper, her voice trembling with what sounded like suppressed excitement. "It isn't proper, meeting like this."

"Since when has propriety ever led to happiness?" the masked man responded, his tone gentle but persuasive. "Sometimes we must be bold to grasp what we truly want."

Elizabeth had heard enough. She stepped forward from the shadows. "Harriet Cooper, what do you think you're doing?"

Her sister jumped up from the bench with a small cry of surprise. The gentleman in the raven mask rose more slowly, maintaining his composure even as Harriet clutched at his arm.

"Elizabeth! I...I was just..."

"Getting yourself compromised in a dark garden?" Elizabeth advanced on them, her fear manifesting as anger. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Miss Cooper," the masked man began smoothly, but Elizabeth cut him off.

"Whatever explanation you're about to offer, sir, I suggest you keep it to yourself and depart immediately." Her voice shook with barely contained anger. "Unless you'd prefer I summon Lord Morrison's footmen?"

The stranger in the raven mask bowed slightly. "Until we meet again, my lady," he murmured to Harriet, pressing a kiss to her gloved hand before melting into the shadows of the garden.

"Harriet, what were you thinking?" Elizabeth demanded as soon as he was gone. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if?—"

"Nothing happened," Harriet interrupted, lifting her chin defiantly despite the slight tremor in her voice. "We were just talking."

"Talking leads to compromising situations far too easily at masquerades," Elizabeth replied sharply. "Come, we need to return to the ballroom. The unmasking is in less than fifteen minutes."

As they made their way back through the maze, Elizabeth couldn't help but notice how unusually quiet her sister had become. Harriet, who normally chattered endlessly about everything and nothing, kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground ahead.

The distant clock began to strike the quarter-hour, and Elizabeth felt her heart race. Less than fifteen minutes until the masks came off, and somehow she knew their evening was about to become far more complicated than a simple game of hide and seek in a garden maze.

The ballroom seemed impossibly bright after the darkness of the garden, the crystals in the chandeliers casting rainbow fragments across masked faces that now seemed more ominous than mysterious to Elizabeth.

The first chime of midnight rang out across the ballroom. All around them, masks began to fall away, faces emerging like butterflies from chrysalises. Elizabeth's fingers trembled slightly against her silk mask as she lifted it away.

Her gaze was drawn inexorably to the far side of the room where the gentleman in the wolf's mask stood. As he removed his mask, Elizabeth found herself staring into eyes as dark and dangerous as a storm at sea. His features were aristocratic, handsome enough to justify all the gossip she'd heard, but it was the calculating intelligence in his gaze that made her breath catch.

The Earl of Stonefield. Of course. She should have known from his commanding presence alone.

His eyes swept the room deliberately until they found hers, and Elizabeth felt a jolt of awareness course through her body at the intensity of his stare. His lips curved into that same knowing smile she'd seen behind the wolf's mask, and she forced herself to look away.

"Harriet," she whispered, turning to her sister. "We should?—"

But Harriet's face had gone pale behind her butterfly mask, her eyes fixed on something—or someone—across the room. Before Elizabeth could ask what was wrong, her sister had grabbed her arm.

"We need to leave," Harriet said urgently. "Please, Elizabeth. I'm feeling rather faint."

Elizabeth wanted to question her sister's sudden desire to depart, but Harriet's fingers dug into her arm with surprising strength. Whatever had spooked her, it seemed best to make their excuses and return home.

"Of course," she agreed, though she couldn't resist one final glance at the earl.

He was still watching them, his expression unreadable save for that dangerous smile.

Their carriage rolled to a stop before their townhouse, and Elizabeth was surprised to see lights still burning in her father's study. The Baron of Trowbridge rarely waited up for his daughters' return from social engagements.

"Ladies." Marty, their butler, greeted them at the door with unusual solemnity. "Your father requests your immediate presence in his study."

Elizabeth's sense of unease deepened. "At this hour?"

"He was most insistent, miss."

They found their father standing by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand. He turned as they entered, and Elizabeth was struck by the strange mix of triumph and tension in his bearing.

"Ah, good. You've finally returned." He took a long sip from his glass. "I trust the masquerade was entertaining?"

"Yes, Father," Harriet answered automatically, though her voice trembled slightly.

"Excellent. Then you'll be pleased to know I've arranged a most advantageous match for you." His eyes glittered in the firelight. "The Earl of Stonefield has done us the great honor of requesting your hand in marriage."

Elizabeth turned to her sister, expecting to see shock matching her own, only to find Harriet looking away, tears gleaming in her eyes.

"Harriet?" she whispered. "Did you know about this?"

But before her sister could answer, their father's voice rang out with terrible finality: "The Earl of Stonefield will have a bride in a week's time. That is all either of you need to know."

"This is madness," Elizabeth protested, her mind still reeling from the connection between the commanding figure at the ball and this sudden announcement. "Surely Harriet should have some say in?—"

"Say?" Their father's laugh was harsh. "What say does a daughter need when her father has arranged such an advantageous match? The Earl of Stonefield is one of the wealthiest peers in England. His connections alone?—"

"His connections?" Elizabeth's voice rose despite her best efforts to remain calm. "What of his reputation? The broken engagements, the scandals?—"

"Enough!" The baron slammed his glass down on the mantle. "The match is made, the contracts drawn. Harriet will be a countess, and our family's position will be secured. That is the end of this discussion."

Elizabeth watched helplessly as her sister seemed to shrink into herself, those earlier tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. She wanted to argue further, to fight this sudden pronouncement that felt more like a sentence than a celebration, but years of experience had taught her the futility of challenging their father when his mind was set.

"May we be excused?" she asked instead, her arm going protectively around Harriet's shoulders.

The baron waved them away dismissively, already reaching for the brandy decanter again.

As they climbed the stairs to their chambers, Elizabeth could feel her sister trembling beneath her arm. She waited until they were safely behind the closed door of Harriet's room before speaking.

"Harriet, what's really going on? That man in the maze?—"

"Please," Harriet whispered, sinking onto her bed. "Not tonight, Elizabeth. I can't...I just can't."

Elizabeth knelt before her sister, taking her cold hands in her own. "A week isn't much time, but perhaps if we speak to the earl, explain that your heart?—"

"The Earl of Stonefield isn't known for changing his mind once it's set," Harriet interrupted, her voice hollow. "You heard the gossip yourself. Four broken engagements, yet he's still one of the most sought-after matches in London. What chance do I have of refusing him?"

Elizabeth felt her heart constrict at her sister's defeated tone. She thought of the earl's predatory grace, the calculating intelligence behind his smile, the way he'd watched them from across the ballroom. Something about this entire arrangement felt wrong, but she couldn't quite grasp what.

"Get some rest," she said finally, pressing a kiss to Harriet's forehead.