Love, Unmasked (7 page)

Fidelity stretched out her sewing, repositioning the ivory gown’s unhemmed skirt and tucking the finished bits underneath, out of the way. The morning room’s little fire crackled brightly, an able ally against the cold drizzle falling outside, and with its warmth driving away the chill the last of her happiness fell into place. Was being so contented some sort of crime? It certainly felt unusual.

On her right, Georgette stitched an ivory sleeve with cautious precision. On her left, Jessica’s attempted imitation of her sister’s sewing — well, at least the girl was trying. Two weeks ago, if handed a needle and thread, she’d have whined and pouted instead.

Perhaps Jessica felt Fidelity’s amused stare, for she dropped her hands into her lap and heaved a monstrous sigh. “Fi, I can perfectly understand wanting a new gown for your wedding. It’s the height of good taste, starting your new life in a new gown, and every young woman should follow your example. But making it yourself?”

Fidelity let her smile break free. Someday, that girl was going to… make some lucky man very poor indeed, and enrich every seamstress in town and country both. “Well, I can hardly wear the blue one into church, now, can I?”

A suppressed giggle from Georgette’s chair. “May I?”

Jessica snorted. And that quickly, all three of them were giggling away like schoolgirls sneaking into the larder to steal butter biscuits. It felt so good, letting herself go and laughing with her cousins, that Fidelity rocked back in her chair and let the sewing wait while she enjoyed the moment.

A soft voice spoke from the corner by the window. “Mayhap my bride-to-be will wear that gorgeous gown to the Christmas Eve ball.”

Fidelity glanced up. Over the top of an opened newspaper peered a pair of clear green eyes, twinkling with mischief. She held his stare, even though it skewered her from across the room and melted her with his warmth.

No, that wasn’t a newspaper. It was a broadsheet. Grey read the gossip, doubtless learning what everyone had to say about the Maynards’ masked ball.

She swallowed. “But if I wear the blue gown, then everyone will know—”

“—that I roundly defeated Sylvestre Brightenburg in the only competition that matters — the one for your hand.” The twinkle in his eyes gave way to a possessive glow. “And that I’m getting ready to claim my prize.”

Heat touched her cheeks. But she couldn’t look away, and Fidelity rolled her lips together. “Is there anything in the papers about him?”

She knew she didn’t have to be any more specific. Beside her, Jessica froze over her next stitch. She’d reacted that way ever since the masked ball, whenever
that name
was mentioned. But at the Maynards’ she’d stayed and danced all night long, finishing the evening on the arm of Tate the younger, son of the Earl of Danvers, and everyone in the know had agreed it was a fitting conclusion.

Grey folded the broadsheet. “There’s a vague report of a dreadful accident, but no details, of course. It seems certain he’s left for the country to recover.”

Jessica’s shoulders slumped, and Fidelity shared her relief with a small sigh. “Then yes, my husband-to-be, I’ll wear the blue gown on Christmas Eve for your triumphal march.”
And make some scandalous memories with you to last us the rest of our lives together.

A scowl lowered Grey’s brows. “My love, I hope I’ve proven you’ve no reason to fear that—”

Heavens only knew what word he’d intended to say. Hurriedly she cut him off before he reached it. “Of course you have. But he’s a predator and you can’t protect every young woman there.” She squeezed Jessica’s forearm, and received a grateful sidelong glance in return.

Grey’s scowl faded away. “Good point.”

“Indeed, yes.” Georgette’s sewing sat ignored in her lap, her thumb stroking the ivory silk, back and forth, back and forth, as if mesmerized. “Mis-ter Bright-en-burg—” and her singsong voice no longer held any admiration, only scorn “—remains a problem.”

“No longer our problem, though.” Blue eyes squinting, Jessica stabbed her needle home in a stitch that doubtless would need to be reworked. “He’s gone, and good riddance.”

But as a solution, a simple relocation wasn’t sufficient; there were young ladies in the country, too, and the man —
not gentleman
— in question could attack someone there as easily as in Mayfair. They needed a permanent answer to the Brightenburg danger, and in a rush, Fidelity knew what that answer had to be. “Someday I hope he finds someone to love, too.”

The scoffing sound from Georgette earned another giggle-snort from Jessica. “You’re too generous by far,” Georgette said.

“No, when he finds real love, a wife, someone to stand beside him — then the young women of Mayfair should be safer. It’s possible that nothing will ever tame him entirely, but it’s also possible that true love will.”
True love
… Fidelity couldn’t restrain her glance across the room. He watched her —
well, of course he did
— and the gleam in his eyes matched the melting sensation in her heart. She’d been blind and foolish for so long, but despite herself she’d been found by her own true love, and she reveled in the finding.

And if she kept staring at him, she’d create all new methods of embarrassing herself. Fidelity nodded at the sleeve Jessica held. “Are you going to finish that or just stare at it?”

Another sideways glance, this one devoid of anything approaching gratitude. “I’m going to stare at it—”

“—and I’m going to stare at
you
.” Grey rose, set the folded broadsheet aside, and crossed the room toward them.

Around her, the room faded away, leaving Fidelity alone in a muffled and foggy cocoon. Only Grey, her very own Grey, shared the space with her, and as he approached, the cocoon shrank, enfolding them together in its silence and nearness. He took her hand and drew her to her feet, took the unfinished ivory gown and set it aside, then tucked her close against him, closer, even closer, and as their lips met she let her eyes drift shut.

When she finally surfaced to breathe, air having become scarce and unfortunately necessary, the morning room truly was empty. The girls had vanished and closed the door behind him.

“Those little minxes,” she said. “They’re supposed to be our chaperones.” But she couldn’t really be angry, not when presented with the opportunity to rest her head upon Grey’s chest and listen to his heart beating, hard and fast.

Her Grey. Her very own.

“Well.” His voice rumbled through her, a sensuous vibration, and she shivered in response. “They
were
our chaperones… until they and I made a deal, that is.”

She pressed her lips together to stop the laughter. “This deal better not have anything to do with my blue gown.”

“Mmmm-noooo. Not directly, at least.” His arms tightened around her, one hand stroking her hair in the most delightful and distracting manner. “But they really want to learn where you bought the material, who sewed it, how much it would cost for two more to be made…”

A distracting manner, indeed. Had he counted on that effect? “And you believe you can convince me to share that information?”

The hand stroked down her hair, down her neck, her back, and her shivering intensified. Again he leaned closer and her eyes drifted closed. “I can try, can’t I?”

-30-

Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if she's not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too. Plus an e-reader, a yarn stash, an old Hermès hunt saddle, and a turtle sundae at Culver's.

You can find Vivian and her writing compadre, J.L. Salter, at their shared blog,
taketwoonromance.weebly.com/
, or follow her on Twitter as
@VivianRoycroft
.

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