matter. What difference to her how many women fell for the handsome Xavier Campion? What woman would not? She’d always known women found him irresistible.
For some odd reason, it bothered her to hear this man say so.
‘Does he wish to claim you?’ the man persisted.
Surely this was impertinence. Apparently impertinence was acceptable behaviour in a gaming house. And perhaps this gentleman did not think her a young lady worthy of respect.
That was why most of the women in the room wore masks, was it not? They would be scorned and their reputations ruined if their identities were known here. The masks protected them.
Ironically her mask merely assured that a gentleman would speak to her. He certainly would not have done if he had seen her face.
She turned back to the faro table. ‘I do believe Mr Campion merely wished to welcome me to the house.’
The man bowed. ‘I do understand.’
He understood? She wished she did. She’d intended to merely avoid his question. There was nothing to be understood.
He walked away.
She shook her head. If that man intended a flirtation, he gave up too easily.
She caught Xavier looking at her and, as she turned away from him, caught a woman glaring at her. Out of jealousy? Now this was a unique experience. A woman shooting daggers of jealousy at her instead of melting with pity.
All this was new. New people. New experiences. If she’d not consumed a little too much wine when with Xavier and if the hour were not so dreadfully late, her heart would be racing with excitement. She found it difficult to keep from yawning, though. Her mask itched and her feet hurt and she yearned to be between the cool linens of her bed.
She should leave.
Phillipa walked out of the room and cashed in her counters with the cashier. She’d lost money, but it hardly signified since the money simply went back to her family. She made her way to the hall to collect her cape and gloves. The same taciturn hall servant stood there.
And so did Xavier.
When the servant walked off to get her things, she faced him. ‘Making sure that I leave, Xavier?’
‘No.’ He did not look pleased. ‘I will walk you home.’
‘That is not necessary, I assure you,’ she responded. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking by myself.’
‘Regardless, I will walk you home.’
The servant brought her cloak and Xavier took it from him. He stepped towards Phillipa and placed it around her shoulders. The touch of his hands on her shoulders caused a frisson of sensation down her back.
She disliked being so affected by Xavier Campion. It made her think of how she’d felt dancing with him. The thrill of coming close to him, of touching him.
The servant opened the door and the cool evening air revived her.
Phillipa crossed over the threshold with Xavier right behind her. ‘I do not need an escort.’
He fell in step with her. ‘Nevertheless, I need to do this.’
She scoffed. ‘Do not be absurd. You can have the company of any woman you like. One of the gentlemen told me so.’
His step slowed for a moment. ‘Phillipa, if any danger should befall you on this walk home, I would never forgive myself for not preventing it.’
He sounded so serious.
‘So dramatic, Xavier. I am not your responsibility.’
His voice turned low. ‘At this moment, you are.’
It was very late. Three in the morning, at least, and she had never walked the streets of Mayfair at such an hour. Certainly not with a man at her side.
A man like Xavier.
But she must not think of him like that.
They crossed Piccadilly and as they headed towards Berkeley Square, their footsteps sounded a rhythm broken only by the echoing of a carriage or hackney coach somewhere in the distance. Other sounds—voices, music—wafted to her ears, only to fade quickly. She concentrated on the sounds, searching for a melody she might recreate on her pianoforte, a melody that would sound like the night felt. Cool, peaceful, empty.
‘Are you talking to yourself, Phillipa?’ Xavier asked.
She’d been lost in her music. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your lips were moving.’
She’d been playing the music to herself. How daft she must appear. ‘I—I hear music in the sounds of the night. I try to remember them.’
‘Music?’ He could not hear the music, obviously.
‘In our footsteps. The carriages.’ She shrugged. ‘The other sounds.’
He paused before responding. ‘I see.’
Her mask irritated her face. She untied it and pulled it off, rubbing her scar before concealing her face with the hood of her cloak.
‘I like music,’ she explained. ‘I have studied music and the pianoforte a great deal over the last few years.’ Since that ball when she’d first danced with him. Of course, she’d never played ‘The Nonesuch’ again, though it had once been a favourite of hers. ‘It is my greatest pleasure.’
‘Is it?’ He acted as if interested. ‘I should like to hear you play.’
Such a polite thing to say. The sort of thing one says when pretending an interest that doesn’t truly exist. Like choosing a dance partner as a favour to one’s mother’s friend.
‘I play the pianoforte alone. It consumes my time.’ She made it seem as if she preferred not to have an audience when she really longed to play for others, to discover if her compositions and her technique had any merit.
He stopped speaking for a half a street.
She regretted snapping at him. ‘I think I spend too much time with my music. I think that is why I did not notice that my family was in distress.’
‘You isolated yourself.’ He sounded as if that would be a sad thing.
‘Too much, perhaps,’ she admitted. ‘That is the main reason I decided to visit the Masquerade Club.’
‘Could you not simply decide to attend balls and routs and musicales instead?’ His tone disapproved.
She was invisible in such places. No one looked at her if they could help it. No one spoke to her if they could avoid it.
When she donned the mask this night all that changed. ‘Perhaps balls and routs and musciales are not exciting enough for me.’
His
