In recent years, she had come to the conclusion that it was folly to seek more from life than what might reasonably be expected to materialize. And for an undowered spinster burdened with an eighteen-year-old sister, an infant nephew, a brother in debtors’ prison, and seven-and-twenty years, what might reasonably be expected was very limited
indeed.
She wanted a home, the company of those she loved, and the security of a reliable income. These were her dreams. They were few in number and simple in nature, but they were hers. She longed for them as any debutante might long to snare a peer, and she had fought for them as any officer might fight for glory on the battlefield.
It was with some disappointment, then, that on the very eve of seeing her efforts come to fruition, she found herself not emboldened with the thrill of imminent victory but battling fear, nerves, and the surprising weight of reluctance.
Tonight, Sir Robert Maxwell would propose. She was certain of it. Fairly certain. It seemed a reasonable expectation. The courtship was reaching near to four months, which, in her estimation, was an excessive amount of time to allocate to romance. More significantly, Sir Robert had strongly hinted at the possibility of a proposal should she attend Mrs. Cress’s house party. Well, she was in attendance and had been for a fortnight. Surely, tonight, amidst the music and drama of a masquerade ball, Sir Robert would present his offer.
Mind you, Sir Robert had no great appreciation for music, but he did seem to Adelaide to be inordinately fond of dramatics.
“I don’t care for dramatics,” she muttered.
Her feet slowed in the hall that led from her guest chambers to the ballroom. At best guess, the distance between the rooms required a thirty- second walk. She managed to stretch the first twenty yards into a ten-minute exercise of unproductive meandering. She stopped in front of the mirror to fuss with a rebellious lock of chestnut hair and wrinkle her small nose at the narrow features and light brown eyes she’d inherited from her father. Eyes that had, she could not help but note, begun to crease a bit at the corners.
A few feet later, she reached down to straighten her hem and pull a bit of lint from the ivory silk of her sleeve. Then she peeked into a room, fiddled with a vase, adjusted the low bodice of her gown, and stopped again to examine an oil painting . . . in minute detail, because art appreciation was not something one ought to rush.
And between each pause in movement, she literally
dragged her feet. Her dancing slippers made a soft and drawn-out woooosht, woooosht, woooosht against the polished wood floor with every step.
Annoyed by the sound, Adelaide stopped to pull off her mask and fiddle with the feathers. This, she assured herself, was not another bid to stall. The mask required a considerable amount of fussing. She’d constructed the silly piece herself, and having no experience with—nor any apparent talent for—such an endeavor, she’d made a terrible mess of the thing. The feathers were unevenly spaced,sticking out where they ought to be lying flat, and bent in several places.
Sir Robert was certain to take note of it. She could envision his reaction well. His pale blue eyes would go wide, right before they narrowed in a wince. Then he would cover the lapse of manners with a smile that was sure to display his perfect teeth to best advantage. Then he would pronounce her a most charming creature in that awful condescending tone.
“I don’t care for that tone,” she muttered.
She rubbed an errant feather with the pad of her thumb while the lively strains of a waltz floated down the hall and the scent of candle wax tickled her nose.
It was only a tone, she told herself, a minor flaw in a
man positively brimming with things to recommend him.
He was handsome. He was fond of her.
He was in possession of five thousand pounds a year.
The mere thought of so much money lightened the worst of her nerves with visions of a happy future. Her sister, Isobel, could have a London season. Little George could have a proper nanny. Wolfgang’s debts would be paid. And the lot of them would have a roof over their heads and no shortage of food on the table. It was her dream come true.
“Right.”
Ignoring doubts that lingered, she replaced the mask,
securing it with a double knot and an extra yank on the ribbons for good measure. She set her shoulders, took a single step forward . . . and nearly toppled to the floor when a deep voice sounded directly behind her.
“I’d not go just yet, if I were you.”
She spun around so quickly, she dislodged her mask and tripped on the hem of her gown.
“Easy.” The deep voice chuckled, and a large, warm
hand wrapped around her arm, steadying her.
She caught a glimpse of dark blond hair and light eyes, and for one awful moment, she thought she had been caught dawdling in the hall by Sir Robert. But by the time she righted herself and straightened her mask, that fear had been replaced by an entirely new sort of discomfort.
The man was a stranger. He shared the same light coloring and uncommon height as Sir Robert, but that was where all similarities ended. There was an air of aristocratic softness about Sir Robert; his frame was elegantly long and thin, and his features were delicate, almost feminine.
There was nothing even remotely delicate or feminine about the man before her. He wasn’t long, he was tall, towering over her by more than half a foot. And he wasn’t thin but athletically lean, the definition of muscle visible through his dark formal attire. He was handsome, without doubt, with broad shoulders and a thick head of hair that was more gold than blond. But his features were hard and sharp, from the square cut of his jaw to the blunt jut of his cheekbones. Even his eyes, green as new grass, had an edge about them.
He put her to mind of the drawings her sister had shown her of the sleek American lions. And that put her to mind of stalking. And that made her decidedly uneasy.
Her senses tingled and her breath caught in her lungs.
She wasn’t sure if she cared for the sensation or not.
“My apologies,” he said quietly. His voice held the cadence of an English gentleman’s, but there was a hint of Scotland in his pronunciation. “It was not my intention to startle you.”
“Quite all right.” She wanted to wince at how breathless she sounded. She cleared her throat instead and carefully withdrew her arm from his grasp. “I was woolgathering. Do excuse me.”
She turned to leave, but he moved around, quick and
smooth as you please, and blocked her path.
“You shouldn’t go just yet.”
“Good heavens.” The man even moved like a cat. “Why ever not?”
“Because you want to stay here.”
He offered that outrageous statement with such remarkable sincerity that there could be no doubt of his jesting.
The act of silliness both stunned and intrigued her. He
didn’t look to be the sort of man who teased. “That is the most ridiculous, not to mention presumptuous—”
“Very well, I want you to stay here.” His lips curved up, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It was unkind of you to make me say it.”
She was surprised to find he had a charming smile. The sort that invited one to smile back. It did little to slow her racing pulse, but she liked it all the same.
She shook her head. “Who are you?”
“Connor Brice,” he supplied, and executed an eloquent
bow.
She curtsied in return, then righted her mask when it
slipped. “Miss Adelaide Ward.”
“Yes, I know. Settle your feathers, Miss Ward.”
“You’ve not ruffl ed them, Mr. Brice.” She hoped he
believed the lie.
“No, I meant . . .” He reached out and brushed the edge of her mask with his thumb. She swore she could feel his touch on the skin beneath. “Your feathers need smoothing. What are you meant to be, exactly?”
“Oh. Oh, drat.” She reached up and pulled on the knot
of ribbons at the back of her head. They refused to give.
Sighing, she pulled the contraption over her coiffure and
tried not to think of the damage she was doing. “A bird of
prey.”
“Ah.” He grasped his hands behind his back, leaned
down, and peered a the mask in her hands. “I thought perhaps you were aiming for disheveled wren.”
The sound of her laughter filled the hall. She much preferred the gentle insult to the sort of compliment Sir Robert was sure to give. Mistakes were so much easier to accept when one was allowed to be amused by them.
“It’s true,” she agreed. “I look dreadful.”
He straightened and his green eyes swept over her frame
in a frankly appraising manner that made her blush.
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