Chapter Three
Isabel sat at the table in her uncle’s breakfast room, but she hadn’t touched the plate of eggs and sausage placed before her. She couldn’t do it—her stomach was still aflutter from last night.
From what she’d done on a public dancefloor with a stranger, a man who had no name and only half a face. It was entirely wanton and wrong.
And she desperately wanted to do it all again.
“Eat,” her uncle snapped, and she jumped at the sudden sharpness of his tone.
“I could suggest the same to you, Uncle Fenton,” she said carefully, using the first words they’d spoken to each other that morning to gauge his moods.
That was always the worst part of her day, when she didn’t know what his emotions were. Fenton Winter could be kind and gentlemanly, talking to her of books or music or old family stories that made them both smile. Or he could be withdrawn and dark, drowning in a grief that had pulled him under over and over again for three long, desperate years.
He smashed the paper he’d been reading down on the table, and she flinched. A bad mood, it seemed, if his dark expression was any indication.
“Something in the paper trouble you?” she asked softly as she speared her eggs and began to eat them. They tasted like nothing at all in her current state.
“Society is agog over that bastard Tyndale, that is all.” Her uncle slammed a fist against the table, and the dishes shivered with the force of his anger. “The paper goes on and on about him, what an eligible bachelor he is.”
Isabel took a sip of tea and took the moment both to gather herself and to observe her uncle. He was a riddle. He could be so decent, so loving. He’d been kind to her as a child and that kindness had extended to her after the death of her husband, when she’d been left with so little. Uncle Fenton had taken her in without hesitation and provided a small allowance that kept her from scraping and begging.
But beneath that kindness lurked something more. His grief. His anger. His hatred for the Duke of Tyndale, the man he currently railed against.
No amount of time had eased that.
“I understand what it is like to lose someone you…you care for,” she began carefully.
He turned on her with a shake of his head. “You do not. At least your husband wasn’t murdered like my Angelica.”
She flinched. On his worse days, Uncle Fenton did this. Railed about how his daughter, her cousin, had been murdered. Drowned on purpose, rather than in the accident, as the world believed. And he blamed Angelica’s fiancé. He blamed Tyndale.
As for Isabel, she didn’t know what to believe. Men of power certainly had the means to cover up a crime they’d committed. Tyndale had much of that. His presentation to the world that he was a man deep in grieving could all be a cover, meant to thrust attention elsewhere.
She didn’t know the truth. And she didn’t know how to help her uncle when what he believed crippled him in throes of anger and rage like it did this morning.
“No,” she said, hoping to soothe with her tone. “Gregory was taken by illness, something that plagued him during our entire marriage.” Those words tasted bitter, but she ignored her own feelings for the moment. “You are correct that I cannot understand what you—what you believe happened to Angelica.”
He turned his face and stared out the window. “There is no justice. He gets to go on, living his life, adored by his ilk, while she is buried in the ground.”
She dipped her head. “I’m so sorry, uncle.”
“I know you are. I shouldn’t have been sharp with you.” He was silent for a long time, lost in thoughts. “If only I could prove it,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “If only I could destroy him like he destroyed me.”
She sighed. And there was the rest of the ever-repeating cycle in her uncle’s broken heart and mind. His quest for some kind of revenge. That frightened her more than anything.
“I wish I could help you,” she whispered, meaning more that she wished she could help him overcome these demons, rather than find the truth he so believed was out there.
He shrugged, and then the venom left his tone as he said, “I’m just an old man talking,” he muttered. “Talking too much, as always. I know it isn’t fair to you.” He looked at her, and his gaze had cleared a bit. “It would be better for you if you didn’t have to see this, I know. We need to find you a husband, Isabel. A new husband so you can go on with your life.”
She forced a smile as he went back to eating, but inside her anxiety spiked. This was another thing Uncle Fenton was determined about. Increasingly so, it seemed. He perhaps thought it a way to save her.
But she knew what a trap it would be.
“Mrs. Hayes?”
She turned to look at her uncle’s butler, who was now standing at the breakfast room door. “Yes, Hicks, what is it?”
“Miss Carlton has arrived.”
Isabel smiled broadly at the announcement of one of her best friends. “Thank you. Will you show her to the blue parlor?”
Hicks nodded and stepped away. When he was gone, her uncle watched as she stood. “She won’t join us for breakfast, then?”
She leaned down to kiss his temple. “And bore you with our chatter about sewing and gowns and romantic novels? I would not torture you so.”
He smiled, but she could see he doubted the veracity of her statement. And he had reason to, for she and Sarah very rarely talked about such mundane things. Especially recently.
She slipped down the hallway to the parlor and stepped in to see her friend standing at the window, her dark blue eyes focused on the garden behind the house. She looked troubled, and Isabel’s face fell as she closed the door behind her.
Sarah turned and the trouble faded a fraction. “Isabel,” she said, coming forward to take both of her friend’s hands. They exchanged a kiss on the cheek before Isabel led her to the settee.
“Do you want anything? I would not recommend breaking bread with my uncle at present, but I could ask Hicks to bring us something.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I ate at home with Mother.” Sarah’s voice caught, and Isabel leaned forward to take her hand. Sarah gave her a grateful look for the silent support. “I’m sorry. It is just that she is…not improving.”
Isabel shook her head. “Oh dearest, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Sarah whispered. “I swear it is as though the last two years have been a punishment for some unknown crime. My father’s death, our financial fall, and now my mother’s illness? There is nothing anyone can do, I fear.”
“I can listen,” Isabel said. “That is what we do for each other, isn’t it? Listen. And understand.”
Sarah wiped away the tears that had gathered in her eyes and forced a shaky smile. “Indeed, we do. I am so very lucky to have a friend like you. I do not mistake that fact, I hope you know it.”
“I feel the same way,” Isabel said.
Sarah laughed. “Well, I think the best thing for me at present would be not to talk about my situation. When I think about it, I am almost overcome with sadness and terror. Let’s talk about you! Your adventures are all that buoy me in these times of trouble.”
Isabel blushed. The only other person in her world who knew her secret was Sarah. She’d never been more terrified or relieved of that fact today.
“I have adventures to share, as well,” she said, sinking onto the settee. Sarah followed her, her face suddenly concerned.
“You know I worry about you in that…that place,” Sarah breathed, glancing toward the door as if all the chaperones in the empire were about to come crashing down around them.
Isabel nodded. Sarah was an innocent, of course. She didn’t really understand Isabel’s drive to explore the passions that boiled inside of her.
“I know,” she said. “I know and I won’t say you don’t have reasons. The Donville Masquerade is not a place for a gentlewoman.”
“And yet you still go,” Sarah said, worrying a loose thread on the hem of her sleeve. “I assume you went last night.”
“I did. And I must tell you what happened, for I am about to burst from it.”
When Sarah caught her hands and let out a shuddering sigh, Isabel took a deep breath and told her everything. From the moment when she was accosted until she’d fled from the powerful, passionate kiss of a masked stranger. When she was finished, Sarah got to her feet and paced away.
Isabel stared at her friend’s back, hoping she’d not gone so far as to push Sarah away at last. But then she turned and Sarah’s cheeks were bright with color. “I know I shouldn’t say it, but that sounds very romantic.”
Isabel bent her head. Her feelings on the matter were not exactly romantic. More scandalous. Wanton.
And yet the kiss had been rather romantic, when she retraced the steps of it. Being swept away like that, in a place where anyone could see…there was a romance to it.
“I did like it,” she admitted with heat burning her cheeks. “Oh Sarah, I convinced myself I could just watch, that it would be enough, but when that man touched me…I wanted more. What is wrong with me?”
Sarah ducked her head. “Perhaps nothing. After all, there are times I want more. Want to experience what I fear I will never have a chance to feel. And I assume your uncle continues to talk to you about remarrying.”
“Nearly every day.” Isabel let her breath out in a long sigh. “I know he doesn’t mean to be cruel, even when he cannot help but be blunt and dark with his grief. Still, he wants to marry me off, get me out of this house so he can continue to worship at the shrine of his dead daughter. He has no intention of matching me with someone who will warm my heart. He will find me someone suitable, just like my parents did with Gregory.”
Sarah worried her lip. “Right now, I would take an older merchant with money.”
Isabel recoiled. “Oh, Sarah, I’m sorry. I must sound so glib and terrible considering your situation.”
Sarah moved to her and took her place again. Her expression was gentle as she said, “You don’t. You and I are in very different positions, that is all. There is nothing wrong with wanting someone who makes your heart sing, makes your body…weak. That is natural, I think, no matter what they tell us. I only worry that your uncle’s insistence makes you…reckless.”
Isabel drew in a few breaths. What she had done, what she was doing, it was reckless. “I’m going back,” she whispered.
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Isabel…”
“I know. I know it’s foolish,” Isabel said. “But it’s now a draw I can’t deny.”
“And if this man is there again?” Sarah demanded. “Are you certain you will not go too far when it comes to him? Push past even more of the boundaries that you established when you first decided to do something so wild?”
Isabel leaned back and easily conjured an image of her very handsome stranger. Of his mouth on hers, his hands on her, his passion that had begun as muted and careful as her own and then flared like a wildfire.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what I will do if he is there again. I suppose it is something I will decide in the moment. I will have plenty of time to be staid and proper and alone if my uncle succeeds in his plot for my future.”
Sarah nodded slowly, and for a while they sat in silence, both pondering the unfairness of the futures they each faced. Only Isabel’s mind didn’t stray to whatever marriage would come, but rather what would happen the next time that stranger came into her proximity.
What she would do to capture that moment of desire and connection between them.
Why was he here?
That was the question that had been in Matthew’s mind from the moment he entered the Donville Masquerade for the third time in as many nights. And yet he still came, despite the little voice in his head that kept screaming at him that it was wrong.
The voice that told him Robert would laugh and laugh if he knew Matthew’s desperate search for a woman whose name he didn’t know, but whose taste still lingered on his lips and in his heated dreams.
“Christ,” he muttered. He should just leave. He hadn’t seen the lady since that first night. No one else sparked even an interest in him, despite the copious offers he’d received for scandalous acts of pleasure.
“Sir.”
He turned and found the owner of the establishment had come to stand with him along the wall. Marcus Rivers was a giant of a man, almost as big as Matthew’s cousin Ewan, who was the largest of their group. He was thick with muscle and one of the few not wearing a mask.
Of course, he didn’t need one.
“Mr. Rivers,” Matthew said, extending a hand. He’d met Rivers the night he got his membership, and though their interaction had been brief, he’d liked the man. He was shrewd and focused, driven. Matthew appreciated that in a person.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Rivers said, careful not to address Matthew by a title so his true identity wouldn’t be exposed. He’d decided to go by a simple fabricated name, Mr. Wallace—a tip of the hat to his name, without revealing it.
“Thank you,” he said, staring back out at the raucous crowd. “It’s a busy night.”
Rivers glanced at the crowd with a shrug. “It’s always busy. People come, they get what they want, they stagger out.” He wrinkled his brow at Matthew. “Except you.”
Matthew shifted. “Me? What do you mean?”
“You’ve come here for three nights. You stand at my wall, you do not drink, you do not gamble, you do not…partake.” He smiled knowingly. “You’re waiting. I only wonder what for.”
Matthew blinked in shock at this man, this stranger who could apparently see so clearly. “I’m surprised you put so much thought into one patron.”
Rivers shrugged. “It’s my job. I’m always watching. So if there is something you need, how can I help you find it?”
Matthew backed up a step. “Nothing, there is nothing that I—”
He broke off, for in that moment he saw the masked woman over Rivers’ shoulder. She walked into the room, her slender hand reaching up to touch her mask reflexively. Matthew lost the ability to speak, to think, even to breathe as he gawked at her.
Rivers looked behind himself and laughed. “Ah, I see. Well, I shall leave you to it, then. Good evening.”
Matthew muttered something—he wasn’t even certain it was a coherent word—and moved past Rivers toward the siren he’d been dreaming about for days.
The siren he could not resist for even a moment more.