CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Silvia sipped her cup of chocolate. A tray with toast, a pot of jam, and two poached eggs lay across her lap.
Her lady’s maid, Hattie, rummaged around the dressing room gathering Silvia’s clothing for the next few hours. It was ridiculous how many times a day the fashionable in London changed their garments. Although it did provide much needed employment. Come to think of it, the entire way the ton lived appeared to support a great many people.
She tried to focus on the greater issue of the poor, to no avail. Unfortunately, ever since Nick had asked her to dance, she could think of little else. Try as she might, Silvia could find no way to get out of it. If only she didn’t know him so well, the cur. If she pretended to be ill this evening, he would only ask until he caught her without a dance partner.
She didn’t know what devious scheme he was plotting, but there was no way she would allow him to make a dupe of her again. Once was quite enough for a lifetime. Thank you very much.
She picked up a piece of toast and took a bite, chewing slowly. Drat, drat, drat. Why couldn’t she find a workable solution?
What she needed was a long walk to clear her head. Eying the white muslin day gown hanging on the wardrobe, she swallowed the toast. “I shall need a walking gown.”
“Yes, miss. Don’t forget you have an appointment with her ladyship to go shopping.”
“I won’t.” So much for a long walk. “I shall also require a footman.” At home she tramped all over the country without an escort, or with Hattie. Here in London, she was required by Lady Telford to have a footman for walks, and a groom to ride out.
What would happen if Silvia took her ladyship into her confidence and told the lady why she didn’t wish to stand up with Nick? No, that was too risky. Silvia had vowed to herself never to tell anyone what had once been between her and Nick. Before he had returned to Beresford, she was sure she’d got over him. Yet being around him made the pain he had caused her come rushing back.
Her hands curled into fists. If she were a man she would have challenged him to a duel or hit him in the eye or something gruesome. Of course, if she were a man, none of it would have happened.
“If you want to have any time to walk, miss, you’ll need to finish eating and get out of bed.” Hattie poured water into the porcelain washing bowl. “I’ll send a message to have a footman waiting.”
“I’m coming.” Silvia finished her breakfast in short order. There was no point starving herself because of the blasted man. By the time she had washed, her maid was back, ready to help her dress. “How much time do I have?”
“About an hour.”
“I’ll be quick.” She adjusted her bonnet, tying the bow off to the side. An hour was enough time to make it to the Serpentine, the river that snaked through Hyde Park, and back.
Several minutes later she entered the Park from the east end and lengthened her stride. Silvia was almost to the water when she heard Lord Oliver call her name. What the deuce was he doing up at this hour?
Biting the inside of her lip, she stopped. “Good morning, my lord.”
His eyes were rimmed with red, and there was evidence of a cut on his jaw. Surely he didn’t shave himself, yet his garments appeared thrown together as well. He gave her a polite smile. “Good morning to you.”
“I’m surprised to see you strolling so early.”
“Allow me to escort you.” Without waiting for her answer or responding to her question, he took her by the elbow, and the unpleasant scent of gin almost made her ill. “Where are you going?”
Not where she was before. “Back to Mount Street. I would not wish to take you out of your way.”
“No problem at all.” He began ambling back the way Silvia had just come, at a much slower pace than she preferred. “I am glad to have seen you. Will you reserve the supper dance for me this evening? I believe there is only one ball scheduled.”
The image of a scale popped into her mind. On one side was Lord Oliver and the other Nick. To her dismay, Nick had the advantage.
“Miss Corbet has already given me the pleasure of that set.”
Oh, good heavens! Just what she needed, the both of them at one time. “Good morning, my lord.”
In contrast to Lord Oliver, Nick appeared well rested, shaved, and neatly dressed. “Good morning. Up to your walks again, I see.”
“I have a footman with me.”
“For all the good it’s doing you,” he said in an under voice.
Next to her Lord Oliver puffed up like a bantam rooster. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”
Nick eyed the other man for a moment and seemed to make a decision. “Nothing at all. I’ll come along. I enjoy a pleasant stroll in the morning.”
This was too much. All Silvia had wanted was time alone to think. “I thank you both, but I simply wish to walk at my own pace.” Sweeping a curtsey, she started off. Let them make of that what they would. She had reached the gate leading to Mount Street when she glanced back. Of course it would be him. “Lord Beresford, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Than protect you from that rascal? No.”
“He is not a . . . Oh, why bother.” If it wasn’t so undignified, she would have stamped her feet. “The only one I require protection from is you.”
She turned to step out into the street.
“I’m still dancing with you this evening,” he said, using his I-won-the-round voice and almost pushing her temper over the edge.
Pressing her lips firmly together, she continued on. There was absolutely no point in getting into an argument with him. It would be like lying down with pigs. They’d both get dirty, but he would enjoy it. Unfortunately, she was afraid she might as well.
The evening of the masquerade, Vivian held her arms up as her maid placed the gown over her head. A belt of gold cloth went around her waist. This was it, her last London entertainment for a while. She must get away from Lord Stanstead before she either did something stupid or lost her heart.
Between to-morrow and when she left, she would make up excuses to remain at home. Sick headaches always worked well. They covered myriad minor conditions.
Punt applied the kohl around Vivian’s eyes, then fitted the long black wig. She truly did look different. Not at all like herself. The starched linen garment from the last century made her hips and bust appear fuller. That was an unlooked-for improvement.
“There you go, my lady.” Punt stepped back.
“Thank you. I do not believe anyone will recognize me.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some scent?”
Vivian glanced at the bottles lined up on her dressing table, all of them intended to entice her dead husband into her bed. Why had she even brought them? She glanced at the fireplace, wanting to hurl the expensive fragrances into the flames. “No. You may give them away or toss them in the rubbish. I do not wish to keep them any longer.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Clara strolled in and struck a pose reminiscent of one of Queen Elizabeth’s portraits.
Vivian grinned. “You look splendid and very regal.”
“I’ve always been fond of our virgin queen.” She patted her curls. “It must be the red hair.”
With a credibly straight face, Vivian said, “Or your forceful personalities.”
Her cousin nodded. “Very possibly. She was a lady we can all learn from. It was a pity she never married, though. I cannot imagine any descendent of hers being booted off the throne by Cromwell.”
“Indeed.” She wasn’t going to get Clara started on the English Civil War. It would take more than a century and a half for her to forget what Cromwell had done to her family. “Shall we go?”
“Yes. Please do not say anything to Silvia; she is a lovely girl, but I will not miss playing gooseberry for a change. I had no idea how tiring it is to chaperone a young lady, as well as”—Clara’s voice became as dry as dust—“listening to the mamas try to shove their daughters forward.” She graced Vivian with a brilliant smile. “I know I do not have to worry about you.”
Perhaps that was part of the problem. She had been a dutiful daughter, a dutiful wife, and now, it appeared, a dutiful widow. Not that she’d had much choice in the matter.
She gave herself a shake as Edgar’s voice rang in her head. “Put your nightgown on. How do you expect a man to think about getting an heir looking at that?”
No. Vivian would never be put in that position again. Much better to remain alone.
Rupert stared at his image in the mirror. “I can’t believe my grandfather wore such a thing.”
“If you had wanted to select your own costume, my lord, you should have begun earlier.”
Normally, he appreciated the plain speaking of his older retainers. This was not one of those times. He damn well knew he should have begun earlier. “I always thought he’d go as Henry the Eighth or some other powerful historical figure.”
“I see your point.” Wigman fixed a short sword to a belt circling Rupert’s waist. “Be thankful your legs have the muscle to carry the costume off. I saw a gentleman once who had stuffing in his stockings in order to make his calves more shapely. It all slipped down around his ankles.”
“Indeed.” He probably wouldn’t be the only gentleman to have bare legs this evening.
A long red cape and gold chain came next. Mark Antony. Of course. With Grandfather’s love of Shakespeare and his classical education and travels, who else? Now, if only Rupert knew how Vivian would be gowned.
“There you are, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Rupert donned a gold half-mask. “I don’t know how late I’ll be.”
“It’s no matter, my lord.”
His town coach was waiting when he walked down the steps. A footman opened the door, and as soon as Rupert was seated they started forward.
Even though this entertainment wasn’t to be risqué, he prayed Miss Banks or others of the younger ladies were not in attendance. He wanted to concentrate only on Vivian, once he found her.
The short line on the steps into Lord Sudbury’s house moved quickly, and there was much oohing and aahing over the various costumes, but no sharing of names. The unmasking, as usual, would come at midnight.
In only a few moments Rupert reached his host, who was dressed as Henry the Eighth. “Welcome, my lord. So far all my guests have wonderful disguises. I don’t think I recognized more than a quarter of them. Midnight will bring some interesting revelations, eh?”
“As it always does.” Rupert greeted his hostess, then followed a footman to the ballroom, wondering if Vivian had arrived yet.
Crystal-and-gold chandeliers hung suspended from the ornately plastered and painted ceiling upon which cherubs, maidens, and men cavorted. He searched the ballroom and thought he recognized Vivian, yet when he came close, a cloyingly sweet perfume assailed his nose.
Definitely not her.
Taking a glass of champagne from a fountain set up off to the side of the room, he wove his way through the crowd, searching, not with his eyes, but with his senses.
Finally, the fragrance of a fresh meadow—lemon verbena, lavender, and bergamot—had him turning toward a very modest Cleopatra. He would swear she was wearing stays and a chemise under her costume.
The sound of violins readying for a waltz floated through the air. He finished his wine, but his mouth remained dry. “My queen, may I have this dance?”
She licked her lips and stared at him. “Yes, you may.”
Leading her to the dance floor, he bent down and whispered, “It appears as if we are the only Antony and Cleopatra here.”
“Yes, it does, my lord.”
“Then you were obviously meant for me.”
Vivian appeared confused as Rupert held her closer than proper as they made the turn. His knee pushed briefly between her legs, and a light gasp escaped her lips. He grinned; she was responding to him physically, as she had intellectually, just as he wanted. She had to have recognized him as well. He was positive she would not allow another gentleman to take such liberties.
She trembled slightly as he slid his hand from her small waist to the top of her buttocks. Their small talk was forced, as if they truly were strangers, and when the set ended, instead of trying to find her cousin, he grabbed one glass of champagne for the two of them and gave it to her. “Drink.”
She took two small sips before Rupert plucked the glass from Vivian’s fingers, drained it, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and headed for the balcony. “Come with me. I want to stand up with you again, feel you in my arms.”
Vivian hesitated. “The dance floor is the other way.”
“I know.” The last few days of being in her presence, and always with others, had decided him. She was his, and this evening he would not share her. It was past time she was made to realize how he felt, how much he wanted and desired her.
Rupert placed his lips close to her ear. “I wish to be alone with you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “You do?”
She was so beautiful, his heart ached with wanting. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed, as his must be doing as well. “More than anything.”
He guided her around the edges of the rapidly filling ballroom, onto the balcony. It was blessedly empty. The music began, and he took her in his arms. For a moment she was stiff, then she relaxed and allowed him to pull her close. “You are intoxicatingly beautiful.”
Behind her mask, her lashes lowered. “I have to say, I’ve never seen a more handsome Mark Antony.”
“Nor I a more lovely Cleopatra. Stay with me.”
“But I can only dance with you twice.”
“Not to-night. That is one purpose of a masquerade. Who is to know who we are?”
“Oh, I see.” She pulled her full lower lip between her teeth. “I—I . . .”
Twirling her into the shadows, he brought them to a halt. With one finger, he raised her chin. “Be with me.”
He lowered his lips to hers. Touching softly, tasting, allowing her to grow used to his attentions. After a moment she responded, pressing her breasts against his thinly clad chest. He trailed his tongue along the seam of her mouth, but didn’t receive the reaction he expected. How much of a lout had her husband been? “Open for me, my Cleo.”
Her lips parted slightly, and he entered. Slowly at first, gradually possessing her mouth as he planned to possess the rest of her.
Vivian moaned as he tilted his head. God, she’d be the death of him. He had never wanted, no, needed a woman as much as he did her. He didn’t know how he could take the courting of her slowly when his body demanded he take her now, and she wanted him as well. He slid his hands down her back to her nicely rounded derrière, easing her closer. She’d been married. Surely she would know what his hard shaft meant. How much he desired her.
Voices filtered from the ballroom’s French windows. Coming closer than Rupert would have liked. No matter what, he would not compromise her. He broke the kiss and, under the guise of waltzing, guided Vivian around the corner of the terrace, keeping her hidden from anyone standing near the ballroom.
“Now we’re safe for a few moments.”
The lanterns in the garden flickered, reflecting in her eyes. “Are we?”
“Yes.” Taking her in his arms again, he lowered his head. This time she met him. Their mouths and tongues tangled in an intimate dance, and he groaned. “Cleo.” Rupert didn’t dare call her by name. “You taste so sweet.”
“And you, sir, taste of danger.”
“Never. I would never harm you.” He palmed her firm, small breasts. One day soon, he would give them the attention they deserved.
Vivian’s hands roamed over his chest and back, her fingers sinking in greedily. If he allowed this to continue, they’d be making love on the terrace.
“We must stop.” It almost killed him to say the words.
“Just a little while longer.” Her voice was breathy and filled with longing.
“Oh God. How can I resist you?” Especially when it was the last thing he wanted. He should propose soon.