Masked Love (A Christmas Regency Novella) (4 page)

“A lovely song. Do you, by any chance, sing?” he asked.

Lady Theodosia’s cheeks changed from pale to pink in an instant. “Oh, no, but I do play. Would you care to listen?”

He stood and walked around the table to offer his arm. They strolled into the parlor. Tucked in the corner was a piano he hadn’t noticed before. A maid was dusting it off and made herself busy elsewhere as they approached.

His lady sat and placed her fingers above the ivory keys. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her chest rising, and the notes were conjured out of the instrument with ease. Adrian hummed along, not a wonderful singer himself, and swayed to the melody.

Halfway through the song, the music stopped. “Isabelle. Come here. Won’t you please sing for us?”

The maid had been about to leave the room. Her body stilled. “I’m not feeling well,” she said, her voice faint, her back still toward them.

“Oh, just one song. Your voice is far sweeter than mine.”

Adrian covered his mouth to hide his smile. It seemed he had mistaken his soon-to-be wife’s attitude regarding her servants.

The girl kept her head down and approached as if she wanted the rug to open up and swallow her. Must be a shy thing, the poor girl.

Lady Theodosia appeared not to notice the servant’s discomfort and began playing the song from the top.

Adrian waited for the maid to sing, but nothing came out of her slightly parted lips as his lady played the first line.

“Please, Isabelle? For me?” Lady Theodosia asked. “If you truly aren’t feeling well … ”

“I’ll sing.”

Again, his lady pressed the keys.

“All … my heart … this night rejoices … ”

Her voice was faint, as if her nerves were getting to her, but he could hear a silver tone to her voice, a quality that all great singers possessed. As the song continued, her voice grew louder, more sure, and he drank in the piano music, her sweet voice, and the lyrics, the trio merging together to make heavenly music.

Toward the middle of the song, the maid finally lifted her head. “You are … freed; all you need I will surely give you.” She coughed slightly and covered her mouth. “Excuse me.” She fled the room.

Adrian gasped. Surely his eyes had been deceiving him, but he would swear on his younger sister’s grave that the maid had been the one to wear the black and silver mask the previous evening.

Lady Theodosia played on until the last note died out, echoing throughout the room. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t realize how ill Isabelle is feeling.”

He blinked then smiled down at her. “Do not fear; I don’t mind. How did you learn to play so splendidly?”

His lady talked animatedly, and Adrian sorely strove to listen, to be a good future husband, but he could not stop wondering if Isabelle had played some kind of a cruel trick on him, for it was clearly obvious that Lady Theodosia knew nothing about her maid having spent time with her betrothed at the masquerade.

Finally, Lady Theodosia ran out of words and played more. He sat in a nearby chair and listened. Sleep came to him, and in his dreams, he danced with first Theodosia, then Isabelle, and back again. Light and dark, dark and light, the two girls then merged into one, and he woke with a start to find himself alone.

Blast it all. He had better get his head on straight and do what was right. Which meant ignoring Isabelle. And getting to know Theodosia better.

But how could he ignore his soul?

Isabelle ran straight to her bed in the servant’s quarters. Only one tear managed to leak out the corner of her right eye. What had she expected to happen? She could only hide her face for so long; the house was only so big.

And then his face … when recognition dawned … he looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. As if his world had died. As if seeing her again was the last thing he had wanted.

But what was even worse was that he had been looking at Lady Theodosia when she had been playing as he had looked at her as they danced—with happiness and a smidgen of awe. He was falling for his soon-to-be wife. As he should. She should be happy for them.

Yet, her stomach twisted into knots. Her chest ached, and she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

Stop it, Isabelle. You’re stronger than this.

She forced her hands to stop their trembling and wiped one over her face. Adrian—Lord Wingrave, son of a viscount—had paid her no attention at all when he had not known who she was. Why should she pay him any attention either? Not that she would expect any lord to notice a maid; she could hardly blame him for that.

The air in her room had grown too stale. Her throat was parched. Not daring to go into the kitchen for fear of running into anyone, she slipped out the back door and into the fresh air. Perhaps a walk would clear her head. She wouldn’t be long in Lady Theodosia’s employment. She only had to last until the wedding. If she was careful, she would get a glowing recommendation from the lady and find new employment quickly. And be far away from the content couple.

Try as she might, she couldn’t begrudge the couple’s happiness. She circled the pond. A sand-colored pebble caught her eye. Impossibly smooth, it fit perfectly into her petite palm. Closing her eyes, she imagined transferring all of her hope into it. Then she curled back her arm and released it. The small stone sank from view quickly, and with it died her dream.

Even so, she struggled to accept her position and could not bring herself to return to the manor. Not just yet. When she recalled that the couple had patrolled the grounds a few hours earlier, she abandoned the path and strolled to the nearby forest. In the middle was a clearing. Someone, maybe the butler or another servant, had chopped down a log.

Isabelle sat on it and closed her eyes. The scent of freshly cut wood filled her nose. Insects shared their soft music, and she hummed along. Her mother had always encouraged her singing. She used her voice as a tribute to her mother’s memory. When she was happy, when she was sad, she sang.

Now, however, her voice was silent. She had no words to sing, no melody to vocalize, and so she hummed, the only compromise she could offer.

Twigs snapped, and her eyes opened as her mouth shut. A tall, dark form approached. Lord Adrian.

Although her leg muscles tightened, wanting to run, she remained sitting on the log.

“I can guess why you came out here,” he said, standing half a meter away from her.

“So you can read minds now?” She refused to look away, to show weakness, but could not stop her hands from shaking.

“I said guess, not know for certain.”

The insects’ song serenaded them, filling the silence between them with a soft tune that knew nothing of the bitterness wedging between them. Last night, words had left her mouth with little thought, easy, smooth. But last night, they had been on an even playing field.

She felt the need to explain. “Lady Theodosia asked me to go with her.”

He raised his bushy eyebrows.

He didn’t believe her! Her cheeks grew hot. “Her friends wanted to play a game, see if they could find and recognize each other … ”

The lord crossed his arms. Beneath his coat, his muscle bulged. “A game?”

“Yes. She wanted me there in case she could not locate any of them.” It did sound outlandish, even to her, but she could not rewrite the past, not even if she wanted to.

Whether or not she
would
change yesterday’s events if she could, she did not know.

“One last night for some fun.”

“Yes. She wanted to make sure she recognized one face behind the masks.” Isabelle lowered her gaze to the roots of a nearby tree. “I never thought I would remove mine.”

His clothes rustled, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen. His boots crunched the grass, and she closed her eyes for a long moment, expecting him to be gone when she opened them. To her surprise, he was sitting on the log beside her, a meter between them.

“You have a beautiful voice.” He toyed with his large hands, his beefy fingers tracing his palm lines.

She would not accept his compliments, not now. “Lady Theodosia’s music is splendid.”

“Yes,” he agreed easily. “Do you know how to play?”

“No.” Isabelle covered her mouth to muffle the scoffing sound she could not suppress. Who would teach a maid which keys to press or which strings to pluck? Singing was one thing; she had taught herself.

“What do you think of fox hunting?”

How strange. He seemed to be comparing her to Lady Theodosia. Not that she could ever measure up. “I know nothing about it. I have never witnessed one.”

“Would you like to?”

Her heart raced, even though she knew better—this was not an invitation, merely a simple question. Which called for the simple truth. “Yes.”

But they both knew she would never see one. Fox hunting and instruments and balls and fancy weddings were not in her future, only his. His and Lady Theodosia’s.

Adrian could refrain from gazing upon her no longer. Despite the simple clothes that clearly marked her as a lady’s maid, her face was still angelic, still breathtaking. He hated himself for being drawn to her, yet his legs refused to move. He was not willing to leave her side.

He would have to, and soon, he well knew, but he would delay that as long as possible.

Isabelle’s hair looked much the same as yesterday, tumbling down her shoulders in long curls. His hand had brushed against a strand when they had made their way to the dance floor. It was just as soft as it looked. Uncovered too, unlike Lady Theodosia, who had worn a bonnet during their walk earlier.

A sudden thought had him clenching his fists and looking away again. His father had several mistresses. He could do that to neither Isabelle nor Lady Theodosia.

“Sing me another song.”

He realized too late that it came out a demand, not a request.

“Please,” he rushed to add.

Isabelle shook her head as she stared straight ahead.

“Do you often ignore the wishes of lords’?” he joked.

The corner of her lip twitched. “Just you.” She adjusted her skirt and stood. “I really should be returning.”

Adrian touched her arm. “A moment more, please.” He was pleading.

She shook her head again. “Good day, my lord.” Her legs carried her away, and he sat there, watching her, enraged with himself that he had allowed her to leave, livid with himself that he had begged her to stay.

Lady Theodosia deserved a better man than him.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, and he almost jumped.

“I see you found our Yule log,” Lord Haywood said. “We’ll be lighting it soon enough.”

He should have realized they were sitting on the Yule log. Why else would a log be cut down now? Supposedly being the first to sit upon the log before it went into the fireplace granted good luck. Isabelle and himself needed far more than merely luck.

“Care to have a drink with me?” his future bride’s father asked.

Adrian nodded, relief filling him that the lord had not witnessed his encounter with Isabelle. The two men walked back to the house. The sound of ladies talking and laughing floated from down the hall.

“My daughter has a few of her friends over for luncheon. I thought we could take some time to talk.”

“Of course.”

Lord Haywood led Adrian into a study and poured two drinks. Adrian drank his in two gulps. Without batting an eye, Lord Haywood refilled it, then sat in a high-backed chair, and gestured for Adrian to do likewise.

“How is your father doing?”

“Quite good. He gives his regret that he could not come, as does my mother, but they had a prior engagement they could not break off.” He rubbed his free hand on his tight pants. His parents couldn’t come because his mother was quite ill. They did not want the Haywoods to know that detail for fear her poor health would cast a poor light on him. Poor health was a sign of weakness, and his parents weren’t about to do anything that might cause the wedding to be put off.

“Your father and I grew up together, you know.” Lord Haywood swayed his cup, and the amber liquid inside swirled around. “We promised each other we would have our children married, and now that time has come. Will your parents be able to come for the wedding, do you think?”