Page 13

T HE GOLDEN HAIR DID NOT tumble from the powdered wig.

Nothing tumbled from the wig. His hair was cropped.

And he was the most handsome man she had ever beheld—almost too handsome to bear.

And here she had ripped his wig from his head and growled at him.

Her heart tumbled. What have I done? “Y-you are not the highwayman?”

“My lady, whatever are you about?” He snatched the wig from her hands.

“I admit, I didn’t put much thought into my costume, but I most certainly would not dress myself as a common thief for a masque.

” He repositioned the wig and tugged his coat, returning himself to rights. “I am a nobleman—a knight.”

She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, and she turned to the window, mortified.

Thank the Lord I had the good sense to hide him behind the greenery before accosting him.

“I am so sorry, Sir Sebastian. I-I thought I recognized you.” What possible explanation could she give other than the truth, even though the truth would cause a scandal?

“And this is how you always treat your friends at a masque?” He chuckled, grasped her elbow, and turned her to face him.

He was a striking fellow with his broad shoulders and seemed so familiar, especially with his deep timbre …

If she had paused long enough, she would have realized he did not possess the Scottish articulation of the bandit.

And then there was the matter of his cropped hair.

Bash had run his fingers through his hair often enough that she knew he was proud of it.

Why would a gentleman crop his hair so? Perhaps he wore a wig most times.

But it was out of fashion for his age. “Again, I thought I recognized you. I do not possess many gentlemen friends, so my answer would have to be no. I do not make a habit of accosting my friends.”

“Oh dear. That would make me not a friend then, and I had hoped to get to know each other.” He settled his mask back in place. “Shall we continue to our dance? I believe the minuet will give us ample time to converse and perhaps rectify the situation of us not being friends?” He grinned.

“My train—”

“However, I suppose a hidden place such as this is more conducive for a private conversation.”

She could hold her train for a single dance—especially for one as boring as the minuet.

She inclined her head and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor, her blue wings fluttering as they took their position in line toward the middle, the guests about her murmuring.

If Muriel had not blessed her with a thoughtful trunk holding fashionable gowns, including a costume for tonight, they might be murmuring for another reason altogether.

“So, Lady Larkby. How is your husband?”

He kept her hand in his, their arms spread as they waited for their turn to perform the slow, graceful steps of the minuet, but as they had seven couples before them, it would be a while, which was why she did not care for this old-fashioned procession.

“M-my husband?” she called over the string orchestra.

“Yes, how is he doing these days?”

She blinked. She did not know her husband’s first name—fictitious though it may be.

She hadn’t thought this part through. Living in Bath, as the famed authoress, surely her readers would wish to meet the man to whom she dedicated all of her books.

Should she allude to being widowed? It would explain the lack of a husband in her terrace home.

She had skirted as many questions as she could tonight, playing the enigmatic eccentric noblewoman.

Her stomach twisted at the thought of what she might have said during those initial few moments of sheer panic at the first batch of interested gentlemen.

She honestly could not recall the conversation.

She would need to become more fluid in her lies regarding her name, but after a single evening parading about as some titled lady, she was reconsidering being out in society.

She could not afford to surrender her nom de plume, but to lie constantly about her name?

She would rather be considered a recluse and refuse all invitations.

She would need to consult with Charlotte though, as it affected her as well.

After her first ball, she might wish to attend more.

“My husband is no longer with us,” she choked out.

“Well, this is all quite a shock to me.” He shook his head, as if clearing the clouds from his eyes. “I-I can hardly believe he is gone.”

Her belly churned—and not because of the oysters she had consumed—and the ballroom began to feel impossibly warm. “D-did you know of my husband?”

“Know of him?” He pulled his lips in and shook his head again. “He was closer to me than any man on earth, and to find he has a bride—and now that he has passed.” He closed his eyes and turned his head, lifting a fist to his mouth.

He is going to cry. Lord, help me. He is going to cry in the middle of the dance floor.

She thought she had done significant enough research to determine the title was no longer in use.

And here she had proclaimed herself the widow of the man.

The oysters were definitely threatening a second appearance.

“Sir Sebastian, I beg of you, escort me from the dance floor at once and we can further discuss this in the corridor, away from the crush.”

He bowed his head to her, and she shot an apologetic smile to the nearest lady, placing a hand over her stomach and hoping to convey that she felt ill, which she did indeed.

Sir Sebastian led her toward the corridor.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his shoulders shaking.

He was clearly overcome with emotion, and it was her fault.

A gentleman would never display such emotion unless he was devastated.

She couldn’t have felt worse than if she had collapsed on the dance floor and been trampled by each couple performing the minuet.

Lord, give me the courage to tell him the truth, and let him keep silent.

The moment they were within the corridor, with the moonlight shining through the glass dome upon his tear-filled eyes that … were no longer tear filled? His eyes hardened, and her heart skipped with dread. “Sir Sebastian?”

He tucked them behind a colonnade, keeping her between him and the wall, and lowered his voice. “You must cease your falsehood at once.”

“Falsehood?” she squeaked.

He lifted his brows, folding his arms over his broad chest. “I happen to know that the gentleman of that title is very much alive, which leaves little doubt that you are not who you say you are. What is your real name?”

“What?” Her lungs tightened. “W-what do you mean you know the gentleman?”

He gestured to himself. “Imagine my surprise, when I returned to Bath to visit my grandmother, to discover I have a wife I did not wed.”

“Sir Sebastian Larkby of Lark Manor?” She pressed her hand to her throat. “Good heavens.” The room spun, and she crumpled.

Bash lunged forward and caught her before her head struck the column.

She looked too pale beneath the netting.

What if she did not awaken like last time?

He didn’t dare dump water on her again, lest she remember him as surely as he remembered the searing touch of her lips.

He knelt with her, holding her up against his chest. Her head listed back, her ivory neck gleaming in the candlelight.

He shouldn’t have teased her so. The moment he knew it was Evie, he wasn’t even angry about her taking his title.

After all, he had taken her funds. He hadn’t known at the time that Evie was an authoress using his family’s name.

She had simply been Evie. If he had taken a moment to discover her identity, he would have ascertained what she was about, but he had been in such a rush to return to the Prince Regent that he hadn’t done his due diligence in discovering whom he had abducted.

But he couldn’t address her as Evie until she told him her name, and yet he couldn’t go about calling her Lady Larkby either.

She moaned, stirring in his arms. She clasped his lapel.

“My lady?” He gently shook her. He really should carry smelling salts to revive this maiden who supposedly never fainted yet kept collapsing in his arms.

Her full lips parted, her thick lashes blinking slowly as she focused upon him. “Why am I in your arms … What happened?”

“You fainted, my lady.”

“Fainted? That does not sound like me.” She attempted to rise, but groaned. “I never faint.”

He begged to differ, but as he was not playing the role of the highwayman, he suppressed the urge to correct her and held her fast. “There is a first time for everything.” And in your case, a third time.

“Perhaps it would be best to take a moment. I have found that when ladies swoon, it is best they catch their breath before rising.”

“But what would people say if they saw me in your arms on the floor of the Assembly Rooms corridor?”

“We are married apparently. No one would think a thing of it. Speaking of which, I think it might be best you cease using my title before it’s too late.” He lifted his brows.

“Oh my heavens.” She slowly pushed herself from his arms.

She looked frail. Not at all like the girl from the stagecoach who was all fire and courage. Had his robbery and their adventure caused her to fall ill? Another stab of guilt pierced his gut.

“I-I can’t.” Her breath shallowed, and she flipped open her fan, flapping wildly. “My nom de plume is how I make my living.”

He nodded. “I discovered that you were an authoress when I heard the rumors of my having a wife, but you must understand my point of view. Surely you have family that can support you?” He knew she had a stepbrother, albeit one she was running away from, as well as a marriage.

He gritted his teeth. Bash was a cad for what he’d put her through.

He would see to it that he returned her funds this very night, with interest, for her to find upon awaking.

He did not care if she thought it strange.

This woman was desperate, and he’d played a part in that desperation.

He took her small hand in his. She was trembling. He had brought her to near panic.

She gripped the neck of her fan and inhaled a bracing breath, calming herself. “A family that considers me burden enough to promise me to one of the worst sorts of men.”

He stiffened. They had been together for a day and yet she had never once confessed that the gentleman she had been fleeing was evil …

He had assumed she only wished for a love match.

This complicates matters. “Do you not have enough from your living to sustain you until you find a suitable position? Perhaps as a governess?”

“One cannot simply become a governess any more than any gentleman should become a clergyman because he is a second son. It is a calling as well as a vocation, and I can assure you from firsthand experience with teaching three little terrors that I am positive I am not well suited to the job.” She rested her face in her palms. “La, what am I going to do now?”

It was his fault again. This woman had done nothing to him and yet he had robbed her stagecoach at gunpoint , a fact she most likely did not recall, given her tendency of swooning around him, and now he was robbing her of the use of his name.

But what else was he to do? He had determined not to marry.

As a Yeoman of the Guard, he was placed in nearly as many dangerous situations as those on the front line might encounter, since the Prince Regent trusted him with important matters of state that sometimes needed to be kept off record.

And if he were ever caught, he’d potentially lose not only his title but funds that any wife and children would require.

The only reasonable solution was to not marry, for he had no intention of retiring until he was too feeble to be much good.

But even if he didn’t intend on taking a wife, it was his grandmother that he was worried about. He could not disappoint her in her final days by refuting the news. “I understand your dilemma, but I believe the only course would be for you to retire that name and find another more suited.”

She snorted. “Everyone buys my books under that name—it’s a novelty for a highborn lady to be an authoress.

But when they find out that I am untitled and only a country gentleman’s daughter, I have no doubt the romantics will become disenchanted.

They might even be so angry that I lied they would refuse to buy another book under any other name I choose.

” She shook her head and bit her bottom lip.

“I did not intend you harm. Perhaps if you allow me to keep the name, I’ll put yours in a book and immortalize you in the written word.

It is not much to offer in return, but it is all that I have. ”

“I have a bedridden grandmother who is very hopeful about my providing her with grandchildren. I cannot give her false hope. If she hears of this, it would be her undoing.”

She sighed. “Can you at least allow me until the end of the week to formulate a plan before I write to my publisher and end the career I have spent my life dreaming of and years building?”

“That is too long. My grandmother still has one friend in Bath who will no doubt be writing to her the moment she hears your title bandied about the city. I shall give you until the morning. Shall we meet for breakfast at Sydney Park?”

“That is highly improper—”

“Bring your companion if you wish, but as all think we are married, I doubt a breakfast with your supposed husband will ruin your reputation.” Any more than spending time in the company of a highwayman.

“Oh my goodness gracious! Whatever has happened here?” A lady in a silver gown hurried to their side, calling for help over her shoulder, bringing the lord and lady hosting the event to their side.

Evie turned wild, fearful eyes on him. He nodded once. He’d promised he wouldn’t give her away, and he would not. As much as he wished to aid the lady whom he had robbed, he feared he had little choice but to take the title away from her. Some knight in shining armor he had become.