last? Perhaps when Sarah’s dance ended she would be able to keep Katrina’s mind off her broken heart.
* * *
Julian stood in the ballroom of the Finchleys’ masquerade between Winter and Lord Andrew Pearce, trying to concentrate on what the brothers were talking about and not on the skull-crushing pain pounding in his head. Did the Finchleys really need this many candles in one ballroom? Didn’t they realise that a darkened ballroom was preferable to one that appeared to be lit with the brightness of seven suns?
He looked down into his untouched glass of champagne and wished it were coffee. Could one actually hear the sound of champagne bubbles?
One of his friends might have just asked him a question. He wasn’t certain. ‘They are a valuable trading partner, and our borders in North America will be expensive and difficult to defend should another war break out. It is in our best interests to improve our relations with them.’
Could he go and lie down now?
‘Thank you for clarifying that for us, Lyonsdale,’ Andrew said with a smirk over the rim of his glass. ‘Should I have any interest in Anglo-American relations in the future, I will be sure to inform you.’
That reply had seemed to work with everyone else this evening. Why were his friends so difficult?
‘Pardon me—I thought you had asked me a question.’
‘I did,’ Andrew replied. ‘I asked you what it was you drank this morning?’
‘Last night. It was last night. From what I can recall it was brandy. I am not completely certain of that, however.’
Both men shook their heads in pity.
Winter removed the glass from Julian’s hand. ‘This will not help.’
‘I need something to do with my hands that does not include squeezing my forehead so tightly that my brains pop out.’
His friends laughed—which was a very cruel thing to do since the sound bounced around in his head.
‘Why did you even bother attending this evening?’ Andrew asked. ‘You’ve been avoiding all forms of entertainment recently anyway. Two days ago you attended Hipswitch’s garden party. That alone should have left you free to avoid any other outings for at least another two weeks.’
‘I need to see Morley and arrange a time to call on him.’
There was no mistaking the look that passed between Winter and Andrew. ‘And what would you have to discuss with him?’ Winter asked.
He was a tall man, of intimidating size. If Julian hadn’t know him so well, he might have taken his question as a demand.
‘I’ve decided to ask for Lady Mary’s hand.’
Andrew began to choke on his champagne, and Winter’s sharp eyes bored into him through his black mask.
‘She is a logical choice,’ Winter commented evenly. He understood the personal sacrifices one must make as a duke.
Julian rolled his shoulders and glanced around the room until he spied his grandmother. Whatever had possessed her to choose the costume she had? Then his attention shifted and every muscle in his body locked at the sight of Katrina standing next to her. He needed a deep breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate.
As if some cruel force in nature had called to her she suddenly looked up, and their eyes met through their respective masks. His dying heart gave one weak effort to stir.
He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. Which he should—but he didn’t.
She was breathtaking, in a sleeveless gown threaded with gold that sparkled in the candlelight. Her hair fell past her shoulders in ringlets, and bands of gold encircled her upper arms. She was Andromeda—and he was no Perseus.
Everything he had ever wanted was across the room from him. And he could not have it.
‘Lady Mary will come into her own some day,’ Winter said.
A sharp pain stabbed at his chest. Julian blinked and Katrina turned away. The connection was gone, as if it had never existed. Two people who had known each other once—now were strangers.
He needed to go somewhere—somewhere dark—where he could be alone and lick his wounds. The Finchleys had a library. No one would go to the library in the middle of a masquerade ball. It would be his refuge.
* * *
Julian locked the door behind him after he entered the unoccupied room and untied his mask. It was dark enough that the moonlight streaming in from the terrace doors cast a bluish white light into the room. He dropped into a plump wingback chair near the fireplace and closed his eyes. There was an advantage to dressing like a pirate. They did not wear restrictive tail coats.
The rattling of the library doorknob broke the peacefulness of the room. Thank God he had had the forethought to lock the door. Let whomever it was find another room to carry on an assignation. This room was his, and he needed to be alone.
After some time he realised he must have dozed off. He stood and stretched, but it did nothing to alleviate the tension coiled tight in his body. He couldn’t put the inevitable off any longer. It was time to approach Morley.
He rubbed the ache in his chest, finding it was becoming hard to breathe. With luck the cool night air might help.
As he turned towards the French doors leading to the terrace he stumbled at the sight of Katrina’s familiar silhouette in the moonlight.
He recalled standing with her on the Russian Ambassador’s terrace the night his life had changed. No woman had ever affected him the way she did. And deep down he knew no one else ever would. Would there come a day when he stopped caring about her? Caring? It was much more than that. It was more than anything he had ever felt for anyone.
Julian gripped the back of a nearby chair. Suddenly it all made sense. He loved her—he had from the moment he’d spoken with her under the stars. That was why he had such a burning need for her. That was why no other woman could compare to her—and that was why, now they were apart, all he wanted to do was hold her in his arms and never let her go.
The terrace appeared to be deserted except for her lovely form. The need to know if she felt the same was consuming.
But before he could take another step towards the door, a man dressed in a black domino costume with a half mask and tricorn hat approached Katrina’s side. Julian would wager one hundred pounds it was Armstrong. His heart sank. It was too late.
His vision clouded over with images of Armstrong dancing with her at the Whitfields’ ball. It cleared just in time for him to see the man covering Katrina’s nose with something white, shortly before her body fell limply into the man’s arms.
Julian’s brow furrowed. Katrina never swooned.
Before he was able to react, the man had hoisted her into his arms and carried her off into the darkened garden.
What the bloody hell was going on?
Julian ran for the
