style="font-size:15px;"> Morgana rode in the hackney with Lucy, Mr Elliot and Rose. Mr Elliot would know what Sloane’s plans were for the evening, but she would not dare to ask him.
They arrived at the Argyle Rooms with all speed and were admitted without delay. By the time they had tied their masks into place, Harriette Wilson herself came out to greet them.
‘You look splendid, ladies.’ She gave them all a charming smile. ‘Everything is arranged. We need only wait for the music.’
She led them to the ballroom door, cautioning them to be very quiet. When the music began, the doors opened and Harriette led them in as they sang:
Sweet is the budding spring of love,
Next blooming hopes all fears remove…
Morgana, Miss Moore, Elliot and Duprey slipped in behind them as Rose’s crystalline voice dominated their chorus. A hum of excitement spread through the crowd.
When the song came to an end and the shouts of ‘bravo’ had ceased, Harriette announced, ‘Gentlemen and ladies, these are the Sirens. Beware of their delights!’
The Sirens, clearly a sensation, were surrounded as the orchestra again started to play and a quadrille was formed. Each of the girls had several gentlemen begging for the dance. Katy looked as if she were a cat dropped in a vat of cream. Rose backed away, and Mary seemed to have a smile frozen on her face. Lucy, on a happy gentleman’s arm, walked with a determined step to take her place in the set.
Several rather gaily and daringly dressed women glared at these newcomers who had captured the men’s attention so thoroughly. Morgana, uneasy as well about the gentlemen’s enthusiastic response, glanced towards Miss Moore, who beamed with pride. Madame Bisou strode proudly through the crowd, assuring all the gentlemen that the Sirens were every bit as entrancing as those of the Greek legends. Both Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey melted into the crowd, to enjoy themselves, Morgana supposed.
More people entered the ballroom, and Morgana became separated from Miss Moore. Through the sea of carousers she glimpsed the older lady heading towards chairs at the side of the room. The walls of the ballroom were adorned with a collection of classical statues in various poses, set high above the crowd. On the dance floor, the Sirens, in their white dresses, looked like the statues come magically to life, a perfect complement to the décor. The women dressed as medieval maidens, voluptuous milkmaids or lithe pages looked sadly out of place. Morgana circled the edge of the crowd to find a good vantage point to keep watch over her girls.
Suddenly an arm circled her waist and a man with brandy on his breath squeezed the flesh of her buttocks. ‘Well, well, and who might you be, m’dear?’ The man’s voice was thick with drink. ‘Have we met, by any chance? If not, I’d fancy knowing you.’
Morgana tried to pull away, but, though the gentleman was shorter than herself and much older, his hold on her was firm. The hood of his black domino fell away from his face as he tried to kiss her, and she realised with alarm that this was her uncle. Lord Cowdlin wore a mask, but there was no mistaking him.
‘Release me this instant,’ she cried, pushing at his chest.
He laughed. ‘Playing it coy, eh? Come. Come. I can make it worth your while.’
‘No!’ She brought her heel down hard on his foot.
With a cry of pain, his grip loosened and she wrenched herself from his grasp. She pushed her way through the throng of people to get as far away from him as she could. He had not recognised her, thank goodness.
Her arm was caught by another gentleman in a black domino. Without a thought, she swung a fisted hand towards the man’s face. He blocked it easily, grabbing her wrist.
‘Easy, Morgana,’ he said, leaning to her ear.
She glanced up and recognised her captor even through his mask. Relief mixed with exhilaration. ‘Sloane!’
He guided her to where the wine was flowing, and handed her a glass. ‘I told you this was no place for a lady.’
A lecture was not what she wished from him. ‘I thought I told you, I have no intention of being a lady.’ To prove it, she downed the glass of wine.
His brows rose. He took the glass from her hand. ‘Another?’
She shook her head, glancing around the room.
How many of these black dominoes concealed the very same gentlemen who graced the dance floors of a society ball? Men like her uncle who were married, who led respectable lives? How many of these men kept mistresses in some fine little house off St James’s Street? Would Sloane tire of marriage to Hannah and seek a mistress instead?
Of course he would. He might desire marriage to Hannah, but it was her respectability that attracted him, just as his money attracted her. How long before they both looked elsewhere for something more?
If Morgana did become a courtesan some day, as she’d threatened him she would, perhaps she would meet him again at a ball like this. Perhaps he would dance with her. Perhaps he would even take her to bed and she would discover the delights his kisses promised.
She would never be a courtesan or a mistress. Or a wife, for that matter. And soon she would even be without Lucy, Katy, Rose and Mary. She would be without Sloane.
A man and a woman, arm in arm, nearly careened into her. Sloane grabbed her and pulled her out of the way. The man and woman smiled at each other beneath their masks, happy and unapologetic in their enjoyment. She envied them.
Sloane continued to hold her even as they passed. Morgana faced him and tilted her head to him. He gazed down at her with his smoky grey eyes.
Why could she not be the courtesan for one night? What harm would it do? She would be doing nothing with Sloane that he would not do with another after his marriage. It was not so very bad, was it, to want one single night?
The orchestra began a waltz. She lifted her arms to circle his neck. ‘Dance with me, Sloane.’
Sloane gazed down into her face, still lovely even under a mask. He felt like a man suddenly seized by a fit of insanity. He pressed her to him, ignoring for the moment the crowds of people around them.
She led him on to the dance floor, and he took her into his arms again. Here in the Argyle Rooms there was no need to maintain the decorum of Almack’s. He held her flush against him, and they moved to the music as one, spinning and turning. His senses filled with her. He reached inside the gold domino that matched her eyes, and she reached inside his. The folds of their garments hid the play of their hands on each other, the intimacy of their bodies.
How had he ever considered being with any other woman but Morgana? No other possessed the same wild, untamed nature as he himself possessed, that sense of searching for something just beyond reach. She was what he searched for, and she was in his arms now. He was not about to release her.
At the end of the dance, he forgot the crowd, leaning down to taste her lips, lips she generously offered him. She tasted, not like the forbidden fruit a rake might grab for his own, but like a homecoming.
The sounds around him faded as he deepened the kiss. She entwined her fingers in his hair, and he gave himself to the moment. But there was a shout and a scuffle not far from where they stood. Sloane reluctantly released
