Lady Dearing's Masquerade

Table of Contents

• Prologue
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Epilogue
  
• Author’s Note
  
• Excerpt from Fly with a Rogue
  
• Also by Elena Greene
  
• About the Author
  

Praise for
Lady Dearing’s Masquerade

RT Book Club’s
Best Regency Romance of 2005

“ . . . this was a terrific read, and I recommend it.” – Cheryl Sneed, for
All About Romance

“ . . . the story is poignant, and the admirable way in which Jeremy and Livvy deal with their trials endears them to readers and will have you rooting for them to unite.” –
RT Book Club
(4 and 1/2 stars, TOP PICK)

“For a story that is sure to stoke the romantic fires burning in every Regency fan, be sure not to miss
Lady Dearing’s Masquerade
.” – Edith Morrison, for
Romance Reviews Today

“This was a very well written novel, with great characters and a terrific (and plausible) plot . . .” – Lynn Lamy, for
Rakehell

Lady Dearing’s Masquerade

by

Elena Greene

Copyright

Copyright 2005 by Elena Greene

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Originally published in 2005 by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Kindle edition, August 2011

Elena Greene

www.elenagreene.com

Cover art by The Killion Group, Inc.

www.thekilliongroupinc.com

Dedication

To Teri and Kathleen

Prologue

Subscription Ticket

for the MASQUERADE BALL at the

Pantheon Theatre, Monday, March 9th, 1809

Heart pounding, Livvy stared down at the elegantly engraved ticket in her hand. Dare she indulge this whim?

Ladies of Quality did not attend public masquerades. Except, perhaps, for a lark, or to meet a lover. She was not seeking a lover, but a lark . . . a lark was just what she deserved. She’d already spent a glorious week reveling in London’s theatre, the opera, shopping, and even picking up the broken threads of friendships begun over ten years ago. Some of those morning calls she’d paid had even resulted in invitations.

The thought made her pause.

Though she had no ambition for anything but the most minor role in society, and certainly no desire to remarry, she had no wish to cause a scandal either.

The sound of the orchestra playing a quadrille seduced her ears, set her feet to tapping. It fed the reckless mood that had stolen over her since she’d donned her costume. She did not feel like herself, and the sensation was intoxicating.

Who could possibly recognize her?

She glanced down at her costume. How she and Alice, her maid, had laughed over the black wig, the golden headpiece and matching mask, the golden asps that encircled her upper arms, the flowing white gown that bared one shoulder. Drat! Livvy quickly pulled the bodice up a fraction of an inch to hide her distinctive little birthmark, shaped rather like a musical note.

There. Now she was Queen Cleopatra. No one would recognize her as Olivia, Lady Dearing, relict—what a ghastly term!—of Walter, sixth Baron Dearing of Dearing Hall, Kent, who’d broken his neck on the hunting field over a year before.

Eleven years rolled back. It was over.

She was free.

She stepped forward, gave her ticket to the usher and entered the ballroom. Enormous chandeliers cast a glow over the dance floor. More chandeliers lit the upper galleries above, but the boxes at floor level were dark. She wondered if the rumors about what went on at these public masquerades were true. But no harm would come to her if she remained on the dance floor, and Charles awaited her outside. Her burly footman would know how to deal with anyone who tried to cross the line.

She lifted her chin and surveyed the scene with growing fascination. The ballroom swarmed with pleasure-seekers: some wearing simple masks and dominoes, others in more fanciful costumes. Fairy Queens, Turks, Greek gods and goddesses, shepherds and demons swirled before her. Above, in the gallery, she saw more joking and flirting merrymakers.

Then her gaze was arrested by a lone figure just above her.

Tall and powerfully formed, he wore a black cape that hung open to reveal a skeleton painted over a black shirt and pantaloons. A hood covered his head and he wore a mask painted in the semblance of a skull. His solitude and perfect stillness made a stark contrast to the movement on all sides.

She shivered, and not unpleasantly. How pagan it was: Death among the revelers! A throwback to earlier, more superstitious times. A reminder that life was fleeting and pleasure should be savored.

A moment later, the quadrille came to an end and just as she’d hoped, several gentlemen came her way to solicit her hand to dance. She bestowed the first dance on a young, shy-looking Highwayman, then, careful not to encourage any one partner, on a dashing Spaniard. Feeling suddenly younger than her twenty-nine years, she smiled at the silly compliments they paid her, and even more with the simple joy of dancing.

Walter had despised the pastime.

During the next interval, her gaze was drawn back to the gallery. Death still stood there, but now he conversed with a gaily dressed Harlequin.

So he was flesh and blood after all.

And—she could not help noticing—certainly the finest figure of a man present.

Distracted, she allowed herself to be led back to the floor by a colorfully garbed Grand Turk. Too late she smelled the hateful odor of brandy on his breath; too late she realized that he’d mistaken her for an entirely different class of female. Stilling a sense of panic, she endured his broad hints and the sweaty squeeze of his hands, but when the music ended, she slipped away from his groping arms and darted through a gap in the crowd. Clearly it was time to leave. She’d enjoyed her few dances; there was nothing else worth staying for.

Vaguely disappointed, she stopped beside a pillar to check if the Turk had followed her.

“I see you, my Queen! You shan’t escape me so easily!”

Seeing him not far behind, she hurried off again, dodging between knots of curious revelers and amorous couples, making her way toward the entrance and the protection of her footman.  She broke into a run, and suddenly cannoned into what seemed like a wall of darkness. The unseen wall swirled, revealing a ghastly skeleton, and she lost her balance.

Black-gloved hands held her in a strong grip. A shriek escaped her throat.

“Please do not be frightened, ma’am. I am perfectly harmless.”

His voice, a mellow baritone, warm and dark, struck a chord deep within her. As she regained her balance, he loosened his hold.

There was no need to panic.

“I—I am sorry I screamed,” she said, straightening up. “It was just that—your costume was so—startling.”

Let him think it was just the costume.

“You are in a hurry; is someone troubling you?” he asked in that same rich and reassuringly sober voice.

Dark eyes gleamed down at her through the eyeholes of Death’s mask; below, another opening revealed full, beautifully shaped lips.

Nervously, she glanced back. About twenty feet away the Turk still meandered among the crowd, perhaps seeking new prey.

“The man in the turban?” the stranger asked.

She turned to him and nodded.

“Do you think he would leave you be if we danced together?”

Her breath caught, and she stared up at him. No one would tangle with a tall gentleman in the guise of Death, she decided. If they did, they would soon discover that the painted bones concealed entirely solid and powerful muscles.

But could she trust him?

“Y-yes, I am sure he will,” she replied.

“Then I would be honored to lead you out into this set,” he said. He released her shoulders and offered her his arm, eyes gleaming, as if he enjoyed coming to her rescue.

He was sober. He was polite. And thoroughly intriguing. She could not resist.

“Thank you, sir.” She laid her hand on his arm.

“I should thank you. You will have to be patient with me. It has been many years since I last danced.”

His tone was light, but she wondered . . . had he been in mourning, too?

“It is no great matter.” She smiled up at him. “No one will notice a misstep, I’m sure.”

They took their places in the set. A moment later, another familiar country-dance began to play, lively, too vigorous for conversation. Livvy once again threw herself into the dance, relieved to see that after a few stumbles, Death fell into the rhythm as well, his cape swirling around him theatrically. Though as large and powerfully built as Walter had been, the stranger was light on his feet. From the grin that peeked through the opening in his mask, she guessed he enjoyed it, too.

Then she realized her bodice had shifted again. When they came to the top of the set, she surreptitiously twitched it back into place.

“I must thank you again for coming to my rescue, sir,” she said as they stood awaiting their turn to rejoin the line.

“It was my pleasure. In truth, I had seen you from above and was hoping to ask you for a dance.” He cleared his throat. “I hope that Grand Turk did not frighten you too much.”

“No, he was merely making a nuisance of himself. My footman awaits me and would have protected me in any case.”

“You came alone?”

Livvy paused, knowing how scandalous her behavior must seem. But it was unlikely they would meet again, or that he would recognize her.

She nodded. “And you?”

“I came with my cousin. He has been plaguing me for some time to come with him to one of these affairs. I agreed only to prove I am a hopeless case, beyond the pleasures of dancing.”

“Is that why you chose to be the skeleton at the feast? A joke on your poor cousin?” she asked playfully.

“A rather feeble joke, I suppose,” he said, looking down at her with an expression that was suddenly intent. Hungry.

“Have you accomplished your aim, then? Proven that you are a hopeless case?”

He stared down, light from the chandeliers again reflecting in his eyes. Brown. No, not brown: a rich mahogany, deep and velvety, fire in their depths.

“Perhaps not.”

His voice sent another current of warmth curling through her. A dangerous feeling. One she’d not felt since she was seventeen.

Then it was time for them to rejoin the dance. Livvy did so with a mixture of regret and relief, which only grew as the dance progressed to its inevitable end. She curtsied toward her partner, the warmth he’d kindled strengthening as he swept her a deep bow.

She did not want to feel it. And yet . . .

“I must go now,” she said, forcing the words out.

He stared down at her, mouth tightening. In disappointment?

“Must you?” he asked softly. “I would very much enjoy another dance.”

“I . . . think I must go.”

“At least allow me to escort you to your footman.”

She nodded, reluctant to part any sooner than necessary. And she did feel safe with him. As he took her arm once more, she stole a glance toward his profile. He was licking his lips; he was about to speak. Was he going to ask her name, or . . . Lud! She’d read about it so many times in novels. He might be planning to invite her to a late supper. In stories, that always ended in the heroine’s seduction and ruin. The authors of those novels did not, perhaps, realize that ruin could take more respectable forms.

In any case it was time to leave.

She sped up, but a moment later the stranger spoke.

“Forgive me if I seem forward,” he said, with disarming hesitancy. “But I should very much like to know—”

“Ah, there you are! You shan’t run away now!”

Livvy turned to see the Turk coming their way from the opposite end of the ballroom. Her escort glanced back, then took her arm and began to lead her on a crooked path through the milling revelers.