Chapter Ten
Robert stood on the balcony overlooking the gardens, watching his guests grouping and regrouping in brightly-coloured gaggles below him. The sound of laughter floated upwards. The gardens were dotted with flaring candles; a veritable fairy wonderland for his mysteriously-attired guests to play in. Dancing feet were stamping merrily within the ballroom. Endless amounts of champagne were circulating on masterfully-managed trays which dodged through the crowd in the hands of capable footmen. It was the perfect party.
And he'd done it all for his father. The man who wasn't even there to see it.
The Marquess had never been one to pay much attention to his own health, but falling completely lame on the afternoon of the ball he had commanded Robert to hold – that was a little much, even for him. Robert tried to think charitable thoughts about his father, who was in a great deal of pain, but found it difficult. If he had spoken up sooner, he might have saved everyone a great deal of trouble.
As it was, they'd had to summon Doctor Hawkins just as the first guests were arriving. Now, Robert was doing his duty as both host of the ball and concerned son.
Doctor Hawkins was, by all accounts, an admirable physician, but that was not the point. Robert loved his father, despite their differences, and he couldn't help but worry. Not to mention the small part of him that had hoped his father would congratulate him on this triumph of an evening.
Robert took a swig of champagne and allowed himself to feel a little smug. The Balfours would be green with envy when they heard what they had missed. Cecily would doubtless be fuming.
Not that he was about to waste a single thought on her.
The Baron Northmere was dressed as a Roman gladiator, very dashing in his red cloak. Robert greeted him by lifting his champagne glass in a toast as he came out onto the balcony.
"Enjoying yourself, Northmere?"
"I'm supposed to be in disguise," Northmere grumbled. "How am I to seduce anyone if they know who I am?"
"Is your reputation among the ladies so appalling?"
"You have no idea." Northmere turned away from the gardens and took off his helmet-shaped mask, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I have been dancing for hours. All these young ladies want to do is dance." He gave Robert a meaningful look. "I had other amusements in mind for the evening."
"The night's young," Robert shrugged. He might not approve of Northmere's chosen pastimes, which were liable to leave young women in dire circumstances, but he was not enough of a spoilsport to chide him for them. "What are you doing up here with me? There are plenty of shepherdesses and Red Riding Hoods to choose from downstairs."
"I am passing on a message from Beaumont, who has gone off to hide somewhere now that his disguise is discovered."
"What message?"
Northmere leaned in to whisper it. "That the lady in the silver vixen's mask looks a lot like a certain acquaintance of yours."
Robert's mouth went dry. "The silver vixen?"
Northmere checked to see that no-one was watching them, and pointed to a corner of the garden where a young lady in a silver dress was surrounded by admirers.
There was no mistaking it. The moment Northmere pointed her out, Robert knew who she was. There was something about her shoulders, her figure, the graceful twirl of her hands through the air as she vibrantly expressed herself, that was unmistakable.
The way it made him feel was more unmistakable still.
"Cecily," Robert breathed, as Northmere sauntered away. "What are you doing here?"
Had she no idea of the dangers she risked by publicly showing her face at Scarcliffe Hall? If his father caught wind of it… Worse, his brother…
Hart had been angry enough that Robert had given Cecily shelter once. He would not bear another Balfour invasion.
Robert ran down the stairs and pushed his way through the chattering crowds to reach the garden. Cecily was laughing flirtatiously at a joke one of the men beside her had made. Her silver mask gleamed in the candlelight.
"Excuse me," said Robert, bulling his way into the intimate circle. "I believe I have the honour of the next dance."
Cecily's eyes widened. Even beneath the mask, their blue was striking. "I'm afraid you are mistaken," she said coolly.
"I think not."
Robert took her by the arm and dragged her away with him, not caring if she kept her feet or not.
"Poor show!" called the gentlemen he had stolen her from. "I say, poor show!"
Robert ignored them. At least his mask – a simple thing in plain black – would prevent them from putting a name to his rudeness.
"My goodness!" Cecily gasped, as they rounded a dark corner into the walled rose garden. Robert pushed her deeper into the shadows, away from the house. "You are a little too fond of hiding me away in secret corners, Lord Robert!" She paused. "It is you, isn't it? It must be. I can't help but recognise that ungentlemanly way of dragging me about to places I have no wish to go."
"You are in no position to keep an uncivil tongue in your head," Robert gritted out. "You know very well – at least, if you had any sense, you'd know – that there will be such a scene if you're caught that you'll very likely be ruined."
Cecily wrenched her wrist from his grip. "As if you care a fig for my reputation! I expect you thought it a very good scheme, holding a ball you knew I could not be invited to. Well, I've outwitted you, and if it's made you angry, well – I'm pleased!" She folded her arms. "I wish now I had not taken the trouble of returning your horse to the stables."
Robert could not help smiling. "You brought back Thunder?"
"Naturally, I did! I am not a horse thief!"
"Keep your voice down," said Robert, hustling her deeper down the network of paths between rose bushes. A delicate perfume hung in the air, and Cecily's lips were just visible in the moonlight. It would have been romantic if she hadn't been such a stubborn wretch. "You cannot stay here. Hang it all, Lady Cecily, it's too dangerous! Can't you see I am trying to protect you?"
"I never asked for your protection. Don't flatter yourself that I need it."
"Do you always treat your hosts with such disdain?"
"Do you always manhandle your guests so roughly?"
Robert was on the point of forgetting himself and raising his voice when Cecily let out a soft gasp and tugged urgently at his arm. "Would you look at that!"
Robert turned back towards the house. It took him a moment to see what she was seeing.
In an upstairs window, two figures were clearly silhouetted by the candlelight. Two rather intimately intertwined figures. A tall, powerfully-built man, and a shorter and more slender girl.
They were kissing, deeply. They rather looked as if they were enjoying it.
"Who do you suppose that is?" asked Cecily. He did not need to look at her to know that she was highly amused. "I don't suppose they thought anyone would be hiding in the dark out here to catch them."
"Probably Northmere, up to his old tricks," Robert sighed. "I pity the girl."
"Really? I rather envy her."
The thought of stopping Cecily's impudent mouth with a kiss was not, to Robert's surprise, an unpleasant one. Nor was it an image he could easily push aside.
"Have you no shame?" he muttered. The last thing he wanted was for Cecily to discover the effect she had on him. He could only imagine how unendurable her mirth would be.
"But isn't that precisely the purpose of a masked ball?" asked Cecily. She spoke softly, and, perhaps unconsciously, took a step closer towards him so that he could hear her. The dark enhanced the sound of her whisper until it filled Robert's senses. "The masks allow us to do things we would never dream of doing in the open."
"I quite agree. Your own mask, for example, has made you entirely too bold."
"And yet the brave and worldly Earl of Scarcliffe remains as prim and proper as ever!"
Robert bristled. It was unseemly to argue with a lady, he knew, but Cecily did nothing if not invite argument.
"You are trying to provoke me. It won't work."
"No, Lord Robert," Cecily sighed. "I am trying to persuade you to ask me to dance."
Robert's eyes left the window where the mysterious couple were still embracing. His gaze unashamedly traced the lines of Cecily's body, just visible in the half light. The arch of her waist, where his hand would sit if they waltzed. The enticing swell and curve of her.
Impulsively, his hand darted out to lift her chin until she was looking him in the eye. He saw her breathing slow.
It was that moment, his hand at her chin, her eyes fixed on his, that Robert first realised that he had as much, if not more, power to quicken Cecily's heartbeat as she did over his own.
"I don't care who you promised the waltz to," he told her. "It's mine."
Cecily nodded. Robert couldn't help but smile.
He had finally discovered what it took to render Lady Cecily Balfour speechless.
Robert fancied he saw the crowd parting before him as he led Cecily by the hand to the centre of the dance floor. He had never thought much of his own looks, though he supposed his mask lent him a certain flair.
It was Cecily whose figure entranced them all. No-one was as elegant, as graceful, no-one moved with such imperious dignity as she did.
And she was in his arms.
Yes, it was dangerous. But Robert had never realised before how thrilling danger could be. The pounding of his heart was exquisite, and he didn't know whether it was the threat of discovery or the nearness of Cecily.
It would have been polite to make conversation as they danced, but he and Cecily had not begun their acquaintance in a traditional manner, and he saw no need to stand on ceremony now. He simply took the opportunity to memorise every crystal fleck in her sky-blue eyes. Her gaze was magnetic. Neither one of them could bear to look away until the dance was finished.
The crowd applauded for the musicians, but the sound was faint and distant in Robert's ears. He bent to kiss Cecily's silken glove.
"Thank you, my lady," he murmured.
"The pleasure was mine," she answered. Suddenly, her eyes dropped from his, her long lashes covering the blue. He was glad of it. If she had managed to turn his world upside down without suffering the slightest effect herself, he would have been miserable.
No, she had felt it. Just as he had. Their bodies moving in time had made a music far sweeter than the waltz.
Robert led Cecily away to a quiet corner, aware that curious eyes now followed them. "You have had your fun. Get away now, while you have the chance to do so unnoticed."
The attention of the onlookers had not passed Cecily by. She tossed her head proudly. "Why on earth would I want to do that?"
"For my sake," Robert pleaded. "I will not be satisfied until you are safely away from here."
"My dance card is full, my lord." Cecily's lips rose into a mischievous half-smile, and Robert did his best not to enjoy the sight. "I don't mean to depart until dawn."
"You are impossible," Robert breathed.
"Miss Somerville?" A young man in a golden lion's costume approached them nervously. "I believe this dance is mine."
Robert felt an unexpected pang of disappointment as Cecily dropped his hand to take the young lion's. He watched her glide back towards the dance floor with such grace it was as if her feet did not touch the ground.
It was a wonder that no-one else had discovered her identity. No-one moved the way Cecily did. She walked as though she owned every room she entered.
"My lord," came the quiet voice of a footman, interrupting Robert's reverie. "Doctor Hawkins wishes to speak to you about your father. He is in the Marquess's chambers."
"Of course," said Robert, tearing his eyes away from Cecily. He tried not to envy the young lion too much. After all, it wasn't even a question of learning to share.
Cecily would never be his, no matter how much he wanted her.