floor for a country dance. She had to stand so close to him during a waltz, her hand in his, his arm almost encircling her. It was a much more intimate dance. It was often not even allowed at the more conservative assemblies in the countryside, and even here in London society, she had rarely shared a waltz with a man with whom she had not at least danced before. Certainly she had never done so with a man whose name she did not even know.
But Callie could not deny that despite the strangeness of it, she liked the way she felt in his arms, and she knew that the flush moving up her throat was due only in part to the exertion of the dance.
At first they did not speak. Callie concentrated on matching her steps to his; she felt almost as she had when she had first made her debut—anxious that she might make a misstep or appear awkward. She quickly found, however, that her new partner was an excellent dancer, his hand on her waist steady and firm, his steps in perfect rhythm to the music. She relaxed and settled down to enjoy herself, glancing up at him for the first time.
Callie found the Cavalier looking down at her, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were gray, the color of a stormy sky in this low light, and so steady upon her that she felt herself lost in his gaze. She was near enough to him that she could see the lashes that ringed his eyes, thick and black, shadowing his expression. Who could he be? He seemed completely unfamiliar; surely no costume could disguise someone she knew so well. Yet how could it be that she had not met him sometime in the past five years?
Was he an interloper, someone who had seized the opportunity a masked ball offered to intrude upon a party to which he had not been invited? But Lady Odelia had apparently recognized him, so surely that was not the case. She supposed he could be a recluse, someone who disliked Society and usually shunned it. However, in that case, why was he here at an enormous party? Certainly his manner was scarcely that of one who was shy or solitary.
Could it be that he had been abroad for the past few years? A soldier or naval officer, perhaps? Maybe a member of the foreign office. Or simply a dedicated traveler.
She smiled a little to herself at her fanciful thoughts. No doubt the explanation was something perfectly ordinary. After all, she did not know everyone in the ton.
“I like to see that,” her companion said.
“What?” Callie asked, puzzled.
“The smile upon your face. You have been frowning at me so steadily that I was afraid I must have fallen headlong into your bad graces without even knowing you.”
“I am sor—” Callie began, then realized the man’s admission. “Then you agree that we are strangers.”
“Yes. I admit it. I do not know you. I am certain that I would recognize a woman who looks as you do…even in a costume. You cannot hide your beauty.”
Callie felt her cheeks go warm and was surprised at herself. She was not a schoolgirl to be so easily cast into confusion by a gallant compliment. “And you, sir, cannot hide that you are a terrible flirt.”
“You wound me. I had thought I was rather skilled at it.”
Callie chuckled in spite of herself and shook her head.
“The fact that we are strangers is easily enough remedied,” he went on after a moment. “Simply tell me who you are, and I will tell you who I am.”
Callie shook her head again. Curious as she was about this man, she found it enjoyable to dance and flirt with him, knowing that he did not know who she was. She did not need to worry about his motives or his intentions. She did not have to weigh each statement for the truth of it or wonder if he was flirting with her—or with an heiress. Even those men who did not need her fortune or pursue her for the sake of it were still aware of it. Her lineage and her fortune were as much a part of her to them as her laughter or her smile. She could never know how any of them might have felt about her if she had been merely a gentleman’s daughter rather than the sister of a duke. It was quite pleasant, she realized, to know that when this man flirted with her, he saw only her, was attracted only to her.
“Oh, no,” she told him. “We cannot tell each other our names. That would end all the mystery. Did you not just tell me that that was the whole point of a masquerade—the mystery and excitement of not knowing?”
He laughed. “Ah, fair lady, you have pierced me with my own words. Is it fair, do you think, for one of your beauty to possess so quick a wit, as well?”
“You, I take it, are accustomed to winning your arguments,” Callie countered.
“There are times when I do not mind losing. But this is not one of them. I should regret it very much if I lost you.”
“Lost me, sir? How can you lose what you do not have?”
“I will lose the chance to see you again,” he replied. “How shall I find you again, not knowing your name?”
Callie cast him a teasing glance. “Have you so little faith in yourself? I suspect that you would find a way.”
He grinned back at her. “My lady, your faith in me is most gratifying. But, surely, you will give me a hint, will you not?”
“Not the slightest,” Callie retorted cheerfully. There was, she was finding, a wonderful freedom in not being herself, in not having to consider whether what she said would reflect badly on her brother or her family name. It was quite nice, actually, for a few moments to be simply a young woman flirting with a handsome gentleman.
“I can see I must abandon hope in that regard,” he said. “Will you at least tell me who you are dressed to be?”
“Can you not tell?” Callie asked with mock indignation. “Indeed, sir, you crush me. I had thought my costume obvious.”
“A Tudor lady, certainly,” he mused. “But not the time of our Lady Pencully’s queen. Her father’s reign, I would guess.”
Callie inclined her head. “You are quite correct.”
“And you could not be aught but a queen,” he continued.
She gave him the same regal nod.
“Surely, then, you must be the temptress Anne Boleyn.”
Callie let out a little laugh. “Oh, no, I fear that you have picked the wrong queen. I am not one who would lose my head over any man.”
“Catherine Parr. Of course. I should have guessed. Beautiful enough to win a king. Intelligent enough to keep him.”
“And what of you? Are you a particular Cavalier, or simply one of the king’s men?”
“Merely a Royalist.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was my sister’s idea—I have the uneasy feeling she may have been jesting when she suggested it.”
“But you need the hair, as well,” Callie pointed out. “A long curling black wig, perhaps.”
He laughed. “No. I balked at the wig. She tried to talk me into it, but on that I was firm.”
“Is your sister here tonight?” Callie asked and glanced out across the ballroom. Perhaps she knew his sister.
“No. I visited her on my way to London. She will not
