Masquerade
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Masquerade
by
Sarita Leone
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Masquerade
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Sarita Leone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
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Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-835-6
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
With all my love, for Vito Leone.
Chapter 1
London, New Year’s Day 1815
Sophie Teasdale had never been much in favor of procrastination. Her headstrong manner did not allow for shilly-shallying—about anything.
It was not a character trait she shared with her younger sister Rachel, who even now wrestled with the finer points of getting down to that which must be done. Indecisive hand wringing and anxious lower lip biting were no substitute for the true nature of the moment, and while they may have comforted Rachel, the gestures tried Sophie’s normally good humor.
It took every ounce of self-control not reach out and take matters into her own hands. She clenched her fists at her sides just so she wouldn’t do something she’d later regret.
She caught her sister’s gaze in the large looking glass above the dressing table in their shared bedroom. She frowned, pulling her eyebrows so tightly together it was nearly uncomfortable.
“Just do it, Rachel. The easiest way to do anything is simply get to it. Putting it off is only going to make it that much harder to begin—especially in this case. That sugar water is drying a tiny bit more with every passing second. Before long, that strip of cotton is going to attach permanently to the skin just above your right eyebrow. Don’t be such a goose—pull that cotton straight off—now!”
“You shouldn’t talk about putting things off, you know.” Rachel puffed her cheeks out and raised her eyebrows. With the strip of cotton clinging to her face, she looked like a deconstructing Egyptian artifact.
“Whatever do you mean by that? And you look silly, by the way.”
“Silly or not, at least my putting off only has to do with eyebrows.” Rachel flicked the cotton’s edge nearest her temple with her fingertip. Her teeth found her lower lip as she paused. Then, meeting Sophie’s gaze again in the mirror, she said, “You’ve put off accepting a man’s hand for so long I’m surprised men keep offering. Why, by now you’d think you’ve turned down every eligible bachelor in London!”
“Every eligible bachelor hasn’t asked me to marry him.”
“You know what I mean. You’ve certainly wasted no time declining all offers you’ve gotten so far. And some of the ones who would offer—the most
ideal
offers, I might be so bold to add—are the men you chase away. Why, if I didn’t know you better I’d think you’re
trying
to become an old maid!”
“Indeed! And just who might be these ideal men I’m apparently so skilled at running off?”
Rachel fiddled with the hairpins at the nape of her neck. A stray curl had escaped its confinement, but with one deft movement she swept it back into place. “You know who,” she finally said. “And don’t tell me you don’t, because you do.”
Cursing herself for being stupid enough to let the conversation get this far, Sophie reached for the strip of cotton over her sister’s eye. Before she could grasp it, Rachel slapped her hand aside.
“Come on, Sophie. Admit what we all know. You chased Colin away because he touched something inside you that no other man has been able to even find, let alone fondle.”
“Colin did not fondle anything! And don’t let anyone hear you infer that he did. Good Lord, you will have me completely ruined if someone overhears and something like that makes the rounds. Think what you are saying before you open your mouth. Please, if not for your own conscience, for my sake.”
Warmth suffused Sophie’s cheeks…as well as other parts of her anatomy. Remembering just how close Colin had come to doing exactly what her sister implied brought no sense of shame. If anything, the shiver shooting up her spine at the memory of his touch brought renewed heat. And, longing. Oh yes, she longed for Colin’s touch…
Unfortunately, that would never happen. Not now. Not after she had treated him so shabbily.
It was useless to think of what might have been if only she hadn’t been so immature. If onlys wouldn’t solve anything. No, better to move along.
She turned back to the business at hand. “Enough pussyfooting around. Are you going to pull that thing off your face, or not?”
“Ohhh…” Rachel’s moan smacked of the same kind of theatrics that had entertained them two nights earlier during a rendition of “Shylock.” It had worked on the stage, but here the groan fell flat.
The sisters looked so alike they had often been mistaken for twins, with wide green eyes, alabaster skin, and thick honey-colored hair. Gazing at Rachel was like looking at herself—a more fearful, less determined, slightly younger version of herself.
She never would have let a sugar strip harden above her own brow. Never.
Their similarities didn’t end with appearances. While they had some disparate character traits, typically they were in full accord on nearly every topic, and shared such strong emotions they could frequently tell what the other thought without asking.
Now when Sophie stared into her sister’s fear-widened eyes she knew how the other felt. Reading the trepidation on Rachel’s face was as easy as spotting a stone at the bottom of a pail of water.
“You can’t do it, can you? Oh, Rachel, when will you find the backbone to be the woman I know is inside you?”
This happened every time they undertook eyebrow shaping. The last time, Rachel had oh-so-solemnly vowed she would find the strength to finish the task with her own hands. It was obvious the vow was being broken, right this very minute.
With a resigned sigh, Sophie placed one finger on Rachel’s right temple and held the soft skin beneath it taut. “Are you ready?”
A gulp. A timid squeak. Then the slightest of nods.
“Fine, then. Hold your breath—” With one fast tug, she pulled the strip of fabric, its sugar-and-water coating, and several stray eyebrow hairs off. Rachel let out a tiny squeal, but Sophie did not concern herself with the noise. “If you hadn’t been so frightened, it wouldn’t have been half as bad. When the sugar gets hard it hurts even more. I keep telling you that, but you seem determined not to listen.”
Scowling as she rubbed the reddened spot near her eyebrow, Rachel said, “I
do
listen. Confound it, but it stings.”
“Of course it does. And don’t be vulgar.”
“‘Confound’ isn’t vulgar. I’ve heard you say worse. Much worse.”
“When?” She scoured her memory. There had been no cause for swearing lately. None that she could recall, at any rate. Emboldened by the knowledge, she pressed, “When did you last hear a blue word cross my lips? Hmm?”
A derisive snort. “Just last night, dear sister. Have you forgotten the expression you used when you snuffed out your bedside candle? Would you like me to refresh your memory?”
“No need.” Sophie examined the tiny the blister on the end of her left index finger. It was small, but hurt like the devil. “That’s different. That candle wax was hot. I can hardly be expected to control my speech at such an inopportune moment.”
“I’m just saying…”
“I hear you.” Sophie dipped a second thin strip of cotton into the warm solution, taking care to soak it enough that it might stick but not so thoroughly that it hardened overmuch. The fabric needed to be taut on one side, pliable enough to be pulled on the other. “Now, enough of this nonsense. Are you ready?”
“Ooh, I don’t know…” An alarmed look at the dripping cloth, then a glance into the looking glass. “Do you really think it’s absolutely necessary?” At seventeen, Rachel still bore traces of childhood, a time when plodding garden snails, lumbering bumblebees, and even over-large butterflies gave her the collywobbles.
She could sometimes be a ninny, and a fearful goose, but Sophie loved her anyway.
Sophie shrugged philosophically. “I suppose that’s up to you. I have yet to hear that fashionable women go around sporting one elegant eyebrow beside one resembling a caterpillar, but since we aren’t of the truly fashionable set, or high in the instep, it would seem that the final decision is yours, and yours alone.” The cotton dangled from her fingertips, dripping liquid into the soup bowl they’d used for the sticky mixture. Her injured finger stuck out awkwardly, dry but growing cramped from waiting. “Well?” she nudged.
“You are horrid! A caterpillar, indeed.” Rachel inhaled sharply, and then waved a hand toward her forehead. “Do it, please. Just do it so we can get to the more enjoyable parts of preparing for this evening. Oh—do it already!”
The whole business of eyebrow grooming had already gone on far too long for Sophie’s liking so she slapped the fabric onto her sister’s face, smoothed it down, counted to fifteen and then, without giving Rachel an opportunity to protest, gave the strip a fast yank. While her sibling squealed again, and clapped a hand over her eyebrow, Sophie heaved a satisfied sigh.
Thank goodness that is done! So much screeching over eyebrows—ridiculous!
Dropping into a pink-and-yellow chintz armchair, Sophie gave some thought to the gown she would wear to the evening’s festivities. Hunter green, with tulip sleeves and a skirt that flowed gracefully when she moved, it was well worn, but it was her best, so it would have to do.
Another sigh, this time with a thought to making do with what she had instead of procuring what she desired. It was something she had learned to do well, not from any yearning to do so, but because it was necessary for a woman in her circumstances to make do with whatever was at hand. This time, it was her green gown.
Women whose fathers were wealthy peers never had to practice economy, the way they did in the Teasdale household. Their father was heavy enough in the pocket to pay their quarterly expenses on their Henry Street home, but there was not a great deal of money left over after every creditor had been satisfied. Sophie, Rachel, and their older brother Brian had learned as children they were not wealthy, and unless either of the girls married well, they never would be, either.
It didn’t normally matter to Sophie that they had very little money for unnecessary items, but that green dress had been worn so many times, familiarity swept over her each time she slipped into it. Altering the neckline, adding or taking off a bit of lace or a length of ribbon did not change the fact that it was still the very same gown she had worn for the past…oh, who could count how long she had worn the silly thing?
“Thank you, Sophie. My eyebrows look lovely.” Rachel beamed into the mirror, catching Sophie’s gaze and giggling. She waggled her brows. “They don’t look like caterpillars now, do they?”
“No, they don’t. But honestly, do you have to make such a big to-do every time we groom your brows? It really isn’t all that bad. Why, you never hear me squeal like a piglet in the butcher’s holding pen when I apply the sugar strips.” The thought of her green gown had made her a trifle grumpy.
“You have got less to pull; it cannot possibly sting as much as doing my brows does,” Rachel countered.
She did have a valid point. Sophie could have probably gone through life without ever pulling even a single eyebrow from her face, but skimping on grooming would have been akin to giving up on the idea of ever finding a man willing to give her a good look. She did not expect find such a man, but there was no sense in simply throwing one’s hands in the air and pretending love didn’t matter. It did, and if it showed its face in her life, she intended to meet it with perfectly groomed features.