Page 1 of Twelfth Night Sorcery (The Cambion Club #2)

“You look splendid,” Lady Grantly told Honora. “That shade of blue really brings out the color of your eyes.”

Honora studied her reflection in the mirror.

Her underdress was a simple satin round gown in a dusky shade of blue-gray, but layers of turquoise tulle had been draped strategically about her body, emphasizing her hips and bust. The latter of the two certainly benefited from emphasis, but she privately thought she could have done without calling attention to her hips.

They were prominent enough on their own.

“You are right about the color,” she told her mother, “But I doubt anyone will know I am supposed to be Aphrodite.”

Roses and pearls were associated with the Greek goddess of love, so her pearl earrings and the white rosebuds in her hair might clue in a savvy observer.

But Honora did not think the guests were likely to be at their most observant tonight.

The Duke of Belmont was known to be liberal with the spirits at his parties.

“It does not matter,” her mother replied. “All that matters is that you look like the jewel you are.” She smiled somewhat mistily into the mirror. “Isn’t it marvelous? My oldest child on the verge of receiving a proposal of marriage!”

Honora shuddered and looked down at her hands. Her evening gloves had been dyed to match the sea-foam of her costume, as had her slippers and half-mask. She picked up the mask and put it on. Now her costume looked complete.

But her mother shook her head. “Darling, don’t you think you look better without the mask? We want people to see your lovely face.”

“It is a masquerade ball, Mother,” Honora said, trying to be patient. “Masks are de rigueur.” And a mask was essential to her plan. She could not carry out her scheme if everyone at the ball knew who she was. “Besides, the costume looks better with the mask.”

Her mother sighed. “As you wish, dear. The duke will know who you are, anyway.” There was a distinct smugness to the curve of her lips.

“Precisely.” Honora injected her tone with as much fake cheer as she could manage.

“He is the only one who matters.” When she realized she had unknowingly clenched her hands into fists, she forced herself to relax.

She had never been as good at acting as her sister Dora, but tonight she needed to give the performance of her life.

Lady Grantly smiled and kissed Honora on the top of her head. “My baby,” she said sentimentally. “Shall we go up to the ballroom?”

Honora answered with a nod. She followed her mother up the broad flight of stairs that connected the first story with the second. The double doors of the ballroom stood wide open, and the sounds of Twelfth Night festivities could be heard all the way from the floor below.

Because it was a masquerade, the butler did not announce the guests.

But everyone turned and stared when Honora and Lady Grantly entered the ballroom.

Honora’s mother wore a black domino over a black silk dress.

According to her, that costume signified “Night.” Honora suspected Mama had chosen it merely because she already had the garments left over from a previous masquerade.

“I don’t see the duke,” her mother said fretfully. “It will be hard to find him in this press.”

“He will find me.” Honora shuddered. Belmont seemed to have some kind of sixth sense where she was concerned.

He always knew which dinner party she meant to attend, or which day she chose to go to the local assemblies.

In the past, he had avoided such rural amusements; he did not usually socialize with the local gentry.

But ever since their first meeting at a hunt ball, he seemed to inevitably show up to dance with Honora or to take the seat next to her in the drawing room.

It was one of the things Honora particularly disliked about him.

Though, to be fair, she had taken a disliking to Belmont the first time she spoke to him.

For a man of his age, he was quite attractive, but she had found him off-putting from their first encounter.

There was something she did not like about the shifting, shimmering lights of his aura, though she could not explain what bothered her.

She only knew he seemed like someone she ought to avoid.

Unfortunately, the duke did not feel the same way about Honora.

“Let us enjoy the ball in the meantime,” she told her mother.

She prayed the duke would ignore her long enough for her to act on her plan. Fortunately, it was not his habit to hover over his quarry for the duration of a party. He preferred to stalk her from the sidelines until he judged the time was right.

Even with a mask on, Honora had no trouble attracting dance partners.

But she found it difficult to concentrate on the steps of a cotillion or country dance while searching for the perfect accomplice.

The very masks that allowed her a necessary measure of anonymity also scared her.

Anyone at all could be behind a mask. What if she chose someone worse than the duke?

She was not na?ve enough to think he was the worst man in the world, after all; merely one of the worst of her acquaintance.

But, she reminded herself, there was an enormous difference between a one-time indiscretion and a lifetime of matrimony.

Her stomach roiled as she remembered her panic yesterday.

She had been caught with her back to a wall and no one in earshot while the duke pressed unwanted kisses against her face.

The worst of it had been the way he smiled afterward, as if he were pleased by her distress. As if her reluctance added some relish to the kisses he stole. If he treated her so disrespectfully now, when they were not yet betrothed, how would he treat her when she was his wife?

Anything would be better than that. All she had to do was find a man who would serve her purpose for tonight. What the stranger did tomorrow would be none of her concern. Surely, she could tolerate anything for the span of an hour? Hopefully, less.

Even so, Honora rejected one prospect after another.

Sometimes the problem was that she recognized the men flirting with her.

She could not take the risk that they might recognize her, too.

Other times, she found something unsavory about the individual in question.

Perhaps he had an annoying laugh. Or maybe he seemed to sweat too much.

She passed over more than one prospect because the gentleman in question had already tippled overmuch.

A drunken man might be more willing to play a part in her scheme, but he might also be more dangerous.

Honora grew increasingly anxious as time passed.

Being in crowded rooms always tended to fatigue her, but tonight her uneasiness had an additional cause.

She had seen the Duke of Belmont several times, though they had yet to meet face-to-face.

He was dressed as Hades, bident in hand, with one of his Italian greyhounds trotting at his side, costumed as Cerberus.

He kept his distance from her for now, but more than once she caught him looking in her direction.

At any moment, he might decide the time had come to approach her. She had to act now.

The duke was not the only man who caught her eye. A man dressed as Bacchus, sporting a toga and a crown of wax fruit, also kept attracting her notice, though he did not pay the slightest attention to her. Perhaps it was because he kept so steadily looking past her that her eyes were drawn to him.

She could not otherwise explain why she kept finding him in the crowd and staring at him from a distance.

He was taller than average height for a man, standing above most of the guests, but not strikingly so.

He was built on square, brawny lines—a little heavyset—but not so broad as to stand out in the crowd for that reason, either.

The only thing at all distinctive about Bacchus was that his aura was spangled with the flickering lights that indicated a possessor of magical talent.

The density of those shifting sparks suggested that he was a fairly powerful magician, but what fascinated Honora was that his magic looked like neither sorcery nor wizardry, but something in between the two that she’d never seen before.

She wished she could pull the stranger aside and ask him how his magic worked and what he could do with it.

Unfortunately, a crowded ballroom was not really the right place for that conversation.

Her mother had spent hours drilling Honora on appropriate ballroom talk, and she had not forgotten those lessons.

It was not considered polite to talk about magic in mixed—magical and nonmagical—company.

People who possessed only mundane talents might feel left out.

Still, she kept noticing him. When her eyes scanned over the increasingly drunken crowd, they always paused and lingered on Bacchus.

Eventually, his eyes met hers. Perhaps he read some of the interest in her face, despite the yards that separated them.

In any case, Bacchus began to slowly work his way towards her, pausing to greet people on the way.

She forced herself to stand still and smile, waiting for him to come to her.

Her heart pounded more heavily, and her hands began to sweat.

As the stranger approached, her confidence melted away.

Could she really carry out her plan? She knew so little about such matters!

But she had to do it soon. Her mother had hinted that the duke intended to propose before midnight so he could announce his engagement at the unmasking.

Bacchus might be her only chance to escape.

Here he was now, towering over her. This close, he seemed much larger than he had looked from a distance. He could have made two of her. His hair was a warm, rich brown color and it curled a little. Really, he made an ideal Bacchus.