giggled. When they reached the ballroom, Caroline made Eliza stand to one side. “Don’t move as much as an inch, will you promise?”
“I promise,” Eliza said, and saluted her friend.
Caroline hurried off. As Eliza waited patiently—she was too full to do more than that—she became aware of a group of gentlemen very nearby. Alucians and Englishmen, she confirmed with a quick peek, and once again, she noticed the thin, wiry companion of the prince. He seemed particularly agitated now. Eliza sidled closer under the pretense of stepping out of the way of foot traffic as a dancing set came to a close.
“How dare they utter the word rebellion,” one of the Alucians muttered, his words heavily accented. “Do they not understand that every whisper feeds the potential?”
“I think they do not understand your country,” said one of the Englishmen. “They believe what they’ve been told by those who would do you harm.”
That voice sounded familiar. Or did they all sound familiar to her?
“Then perhaps they should not have been invited,” the Alucian snapped. “Surely you must know that he is—” He very abruptly stopped talking and turned around.
Eliza blinked with surprise. She hadn’t realized she’d gotten so close. “I beg your pardon,” she said, and turned away, hurrying toward the ballroom door before any of them could speak.
“Eliza!”
In her horror at having been caught eavesdropping, she’d forgotten Caroline’s instruction. She whipped about to see Caroline walking toward her on the arm of a gentleman.
“Where are you off to?” Caroline said, and through her mask, Eliza could see her glare.
“Um...” She looked toward the door.
“I should like to introduce you to my friend, if I may?” Caroline was staring daggers, so Eliza straightened, smiled and curtsied to the gentleman. Should she have curtsied? Oh well. Caroline would be sure and critique her performance later.
Caroline’s friend was no taller than Eliza. His mask rode up his nose, but he had a pleasant smile and he bowed.
“May I introduce Mr. Howard of Brighton?” Caroline said with proper aplomb. “Mr. Howard, please meet my dear friend, Miss Eliza Tricklebank.”
“How do you do, Miss Tricklebank.” He bowed. “May I be so bold as to request the pleasure of this dance? Lady Caroline informs me that your dance card is not yet full.”
Eliza shot a look at Caroline, whose countenance had gone from impatience to smiles. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Eliza?”
“They will be starting a quadrille,” Mr. Howard said, glancing toward the dance floor.
“Thank you, Mr. Howard. I would like that very much,” Eliza said, offering her hand to be placed on his arm. Which might have been poorly done. She couldn’t keep all the rules in her head.
“You must enter his name,” Caroline said, pointing at her dance card.
Eliza thrust her arm forward. “Perhaps you might do the honor for me, Caroline. I would so very much hate to make a mistake.” If Caroline noticed her sarcasm, she gave no hint of it. She quickly wrote Mr. Howard’s name. “There you are, off you go!” She smiled brightly, as if sending a child off to the schoolroom.
So Eliza trotted off to dance with Mr. Howard. After him, she danced with another gentleman, a friend of Mr. Howard’s. And then, the dreaded Alucian set with an Alucian whose English was so heavily accented that she could hardly understand him as she concentrated on the intricate steps. She danced a quadrille—Caroline was right, she performed passably at the quadrille. And finally, a waltz with a gentleman who reeked of tobacco and liquor.
At this point in the evening, the masks had begun to come off, as people were perspiring behind them. The cacophony of voices grew louder and the punch ran low. Eliza doffed her mask, too, tying the ribbons together and looping it over her arm while she danced. Once or twice, she had to remind herself that she was in Kensington Palace at a royal masquerade ball. That the gentlemen with whom she danced were important and wealthy men. And the women around her who weren’t already in desirable marriages were bound for them.
She might have smiled and flirted, might have pretended for the evening that she was not a spinster who looked after her father. But strangely, she had no desire to pretend. She was quite at ease as a dancing spinster fallen gaily into her cups.
And really, the only eyes she could recall at all in that vast sea of masks were a pair of autumn green eyes.
At half past two in the morning, the buffet in the banquet room was replenished to the great appreciation of many after the rigor of the Alucian sets. Masks began to come off and revealed several surprises, including how the curious tastes of a northern lord extends to his costumes. There was not a single sighting of a particular royal visitor after one o’clock. Nor was there any hint of the whereabouts of a lady whose hair marked her identity where her mask attempted to hide it. There was no witching hour for revellers, as many of them were heard in the streets as they departed Kensington well past four o’clock.
Ladies, if a late night of dancing has left you with swollen eyes, the French practice of sleeping in a mask of raw veal is the perfect remedy. You’ll awake fresh and doe-eyed.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
SEBASTIAN WOKE TO an empty bed.
He bolted upright, momentarily disoriented by the small room and the absence of any servant quietly arranging the tea service. But it quickly came rushing back to him—the woman with the brilliant red hair riding him, her fingers curling into the flesh of his chest. He looked down. Je, she’d left a mark.
Sebastian rubbed his hands through his hair, then got out of bed and found his clothes, everything but his discarded mask. He quit the room in a half-dressed state. His shirttails were out, his coat draped over his arm, his neckcloth dangling from his fingers.
Two guards were stationed just outside the door, both of them leaning against the wall, having learned the art of sleeping while standing up, a skill Sebastian himself did not possess. They quickly roused and silently led Sebastian out of the building, taking care to make sure the doors closed soundlessly behind them.
The day was just beginning to dawn when they reached a familiar part of the palace. When Sebastian entered his chambers, his valet, Egius, very nearly fell out of the chair where he’d been sleeping. Sebastian handed his coat and neckcloth to him. “A bath, please.”
“Je, Your Highness.” Egius bowed and went out to arrange it.
Sebastian walked to the basin, plunged his hands into ice-cold water and splashed his face. His belly rumbled with hunger. It had been a vigorous night—Mrs. Forsythe had a voracious appetite for the male body.
His butler entered the room and bowed, “Bon den, mae principae.”
