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But reading and seeing were two different matters. The gardens were astonishing, like something in a dream. It was a different world from her day-to-day existence of duty and sense. Here she didn’t have to be Emily. Here she could be anyone at all.
Maybe that was the real point of any masquerade. To escape for a time.
She held on to Jane’s arm as they followed her sister down the entrance pathway, and tried not to stare open-mouthed like some green country girl. Off to their right was the Grand Quadrangle, their destination, and she could glimpse it through the carefully spaced trees. Thousands of glass lamps, their globes faceted to make the light sparkle, shimmered from the branches, casting an amber glow on the costumed crowds as they passed beneath them.
“It’s like something from the Arabian Nights,” Emily murmured. “It can’t be quite real.”
“I can’t believe we’re here,” said Jane, tugging the folds of her Greek-goddess costume into place. “However did you persuade your parents to let you come?”
“Oh, it was not difficult.” After her name was linked with the duke’s in the Great Park Incident, as she had begun to think of it, they would have allowed her anything. Her mother had even given Emily one of her old gowns, an elaborate creation of green satin and ruffled gold lace Lady Moreby had worn in her own first Season, to serve as a costume. With the gown, a ravenblack wig of high piled curls, and a gold silk mask, she really did feel like someone else.
Unfortunately, she had also borrowed her mother’s old high-heeled shoes, and she was sure she would topple from them at any moment.
“Well, however you accomplished it, I’m very glad you did,” said Jane. “We’re going to have such fun tonight! Oh, look at that man over there, the one dressed as a Crusader. Who do you suppose it is? He has such deliciously broad shoulders.”
Emily laughed, but in her own mind she decided the Crusader’s shoulders were not nearly as attractive as the duke’s. He was so very strong, the way he snatched up the child so swiftly, as if she weighed nothing at all. The way he caught her, Emily, when she fell from the stairs, and held her so easily. So close to him …
She suddenly stumbled on a loose patch of gravel, her heel sinking into the pathway. Cursing her silly, distracted state, she yanked her shoe free and hurried after Jane and her sister Mrs Barnes as they entered the Grand Quadrangle.
The Quadrangle was the centrepiece of Vauxhall. Lying in the Grove between the parallel Great Walk and South Walk, it was enclosed by four classical colonnades holding the supper boxes and surrounding yet more walkways and trees. The orchestra played in the centre, lilting dance music as the guests arrived and mingled, greeting friends, looking for new flirtations, trying to guess who was who behind the masks.
Yet more of those glittering lamps were draped in the trees and lit up the colonnades, so bright it could have been midday. Magical creatures in the garb of kings and damsels, Greek gods and goddesses, shepherds and shepherdesses, and mysterious figures in dark cloaks slid in and out of the light and shadows. Emily felt dizzy with it, as if she was caught in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope.
She stumbled again, and someone caught her arm before she could fall. Dazed, she glanced up to see it was one of those cloaked men. A black satin mask covered most of his face, giving him a slightly sinister air, like a demon dropped suddenly into the bright fairy revel.
She instinctively drew back from his touch, frightened. But then she glimpsed the eyes behind that mask. Surely only one man could have eyes of that certain shade of blue.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered. She willed him to speak. If she heard his voice, she would know for sure it was the duke. But he merely nodded and moved on, disappearing into the crowd.
“Hurry up or you’ll fall behind!” Jane called.
Emily shook away the strange spell the gardens and the blue-eyed man cast on her and followed Jane into their box. It was a small space, open on one side so they could watch the concert, made even closer by the long table and close press of chairs. Mrs Barnes’s friends waited for them, and to judge from the clutter of empty wine bottles on the table they had already begun the revels. They called out uproarious greetings, waving their goblets in welcome.
As Emily squeezed on to an empty seat between Jane and a lady dressed as a voluminous Queen Elizabeth, she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass hung on the back wall. At first she leaped up again, sure she was about to sit on some unfortunate woman, but then she laughed. It was her, that black-haired lady in green satin. She had forgotten she wasn’t entirely herself tonight.
If that was really the Duke of Manning, surely he did not know her either. If only she could find him again, and try to find out for certain.
“Here, Emily, have some arrack punch,” Jane said as she pressed a glass into Emily’s hand. “Vauxhall is quite famous for it.”
“As they are famous for the paucity of their refreshments? “ Emily murmured as she watched the footmen in Vauxhall livery deliver their supper. Platters of tiny, bony chickens, paper-thin ham and little wedges of pale cheese.
“It’s better than Almack’s, I dare say,” Jane said, drinking deeply of the arrack.
Emily sipped at hers—and coughed as her eyes watered. “It’s—quite good.”
And it certainly was, once she got past that first sharp kick. Spicy and sweet at the same time. She drank some more and nibbled at a little dry chicken as she studied the passing crowd. There were so many men in black cloaks, all of them too far away for her to see the colour of their eyes. She would never find him again! She should have followed him when she had the chance.
So distracted was she by her search that she hardly noticed when she finished her punch and her glass was refilled. She felt quite pleasantly warm and tingling, and everything seemed so very funny. Even the chicken was suddenly tastier.
The orchestra launched into the opening bars of an aria, and the famous Signora Rastrelli swept on to the stage amid a storm of applause. She held out her arms and curtsied deeply, a tall, bosomy woman in purple velvet and vast white plumes towering over her bright red hair.
She launched into her first song, an old lament of lost love, and everyone fell silent to listen.
“‘I pass all my hours in a shady old grove, but I love not the day when I see not my love! Oh then, ‘tis oh then that I think there’s no Hell like loving too well …”’
Emily rested her chin in her hand, watching Signora Rastrelli in something like envy. What would it be like to look like that, sing like that? To feel things so very deeply? To have such great passion? It would surely be quite uncomfortable, but also perhaps rather marvellous.
“‘Where I once had been happy and she had been kind, when I see the print left of her foot in the green, and imagine the pleasures may yet come again …’”
But I love not the day when I see not my love. Emily had never felt like that at all. She loved her family, of course, as exasperating as they could be. She wanted to please them and help them, and she knew they loved her, too, and wanted what was best for her in her life. She loved the women she taught and her work at Mrs Goddard’s, it was very fulfilling. She loved trying to do the right thing, trying to do her best and help people. But she had never felt like that, swept away by sweet emotions so much larger and greater than herself.
And she probably never would.
Her eyes suddenly itched, her throat tightening as if she would cry. She stared down into her nearly empty glass, blinking furiously to hold those foolish tears back.
Not that anyone would notice if she did start crying. Everyone else was sobbing at the song’s passion. But Emily felt like the walls of the box were closing in on her. The press and heat of the other people was too much, and she could not breathe.
“I’ll be back in a moment, Jane,” she whispered to her friend.
Jane glanced at her from behind her white feathered mask. “Are you all right, Emily? Your cheeks are all red. Should I come with you?”
“No, no. You’re enjoying the music and I—I just have to find the necessary.” Emily cringed at the indelicate excuse, but it was all she could come up with quickly. Jane nodded and went back to watching the concert.
Emily slipped out of the box and away from the crowds on the well-lit walks. The punch seemed to be working its sorcery on everyone else, too, for there were many flushed faces and loud laughs, and much leaning on each other as couples strolled past.
She still felt dizzy and silly, and on the verge of tears. She didn’t know where she was going, she only knew she had to be alone for a moment.
“Why does this always happen to me at parties?” she whispered.
She saw a narrower, darker pathway through the trees ahead and stumbled towards it on her cursed heeled shoes. There were far fewer lamps here, just a sprinkling set high in the trees, and the darkness closed around her in blessed quiet. She could hear whispers and soft laughter from the shadows, but she saw no one else. A cool breeze swept along the path, rustling the leaves and branches, and she shivered in her thin satin gown.
Up ahead, she glimpsed the pale marble of a fountain, shimmering in the starlight like an oasis. Perhaps she could sit down there, get off her aching feet and breathe deeply at last. She lurched towards it, and was nearly there when her heel caught again in the gravel. This time it snapped right off, and sent her pitching head-first to the ground.
She didn’t even have time to panic, let alone scream. A strong, well-muscled arm caught her around the waist and lifted her up.
Cold fear rushed through her like ice in her veins, freezing her in place. She had heard the tales—she should have known better than to wander away on to the dark walks by herself! Now something dreadful was going to happen, something even worse than what happened when she had to fight off Mr Lofton in the garden.
Emily kicked out wildly, but her feet tangled in her heavy skirts and threw her even closer to her captor. She twisted and shrieked. By sheer luck, her fist flew backwards and collided with a solid jaw.
One arm tightened around her waist while one hand clamped over her mouth. Even in her haze of fear, Emily remembered the words of Sally, her pupil at Mrs God-dard’s: You have to bite if anyone tries something with you, Miss Carroll. Bite and kick them as hard as you can. And then run.
That had been merely a rhetorical conversation on a situation Emily was sure would never happen, but here she was. She blessed Sally’s hard-won wisdom as she tried to bite down again.
But the man’s hand pressed even tighter. “Be easy, minx! I mean you no harm, I promise.” His voice was low and rough, his breath warm against her ear.
Emily heard Sally’s warning voice in her head again. Whatever you do, miss, don’t believe their promises!
“I merely wanted to save you from falling,” he said. And this time something in that voice caught her attention and made her cease her struggling wiggles. Hoarse as it was, it sounded oddly familiar.
She inhaled, and smelled the clean, soapy, lemony scent on his skin. It was just like that faint, summery cologne she had smelled when Nicholas caught her at the ball.
Could it really be him, catching her yet again? She relaxed just a fraction, and felt the strong, lean body against her back. That panic roared back over her, but this time it burned rather than froze.
“Good,” he said, a relieved tone in his voice. “If I move my hand, will you not scream? I won’t hurt you.”
Emily nodded, and his muffling palm slowly slid away from her mouth. He carefully set her on her feet, his arms loosening around her waist.
Emily spun around, teetering on her broken shoe. The shadows were deep here in the trees, but a stray strand of moonlight fell across her rescuer. He wore an enveloping black cloak that gave him a rather sinister aspect, yet bright blue eyes glinted through the eyeholes of his glossy black satin mask. It was the duke. Nicholas. He had come to her rescue again. What must he think of her, falling all over the place every time she saw him!
Then she remembered—tonight she was not herself. She wore a raven-coloured wig and a mask, as well as her full-skirted, old-fashioned gown in a vivid colour a modern young lady would never wear. He would not even know it was her. Somehow, that thought gave her a new confidence.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” she said, pitching her voice low and soft. “I’m sorry I bit you.”
He held out his hand ruefully to display her faint bite marks on his palm. “I should not have grabbed you like that. I didn’t want you to fall.”
Emily nodded. She didn’t know what to say next; she was utterly tongue-tied. All she could do was stare up at him in fascination. If she was not herself tonight, then neither was he. He was not the duke, he was just a man. What if they were indeed two strangers, encountering each other by chance on a pretty moonlit night? Two people with no knowledge or expectations of each other?
It was a heady, frightening thought.
“You shouldn’t be alone here, miss,” he said, still in the rough voice. “Unless you are meeting someone?”
Meeting someone …? Oh! Emily almost clapped her hand to her mouth at the sudden realisation—he could not know who she was, therefore he probably thought her a doxy, or at least a lady of somewhat loose principles. Being not herself was not so easy after all.
“No, not at all,” she said quickly. “It was just much too warm in the supper box; I wanted some fresh air.”
“Most understandable,” he answered. “The crowds can be most overwhelming.”
“Yes, exactly so.” Emily’s head was spinning, and she felt oddly fuzzy-headed and giggly. “And I was a bit giddy.”
Nicholas laughed. The sound was most delightful, and made her want to laugh, too. Everything just seemed so much grander tonight, larger and brighter and louder. “Too much of the excellent arrack punch? I know the feeling well.”
She remembered the two—or was it three?—large glasses she had consumed of that delicious concoction. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?”
“It’s quite simple, I believe, grains of Benjamin flower mixed with sweet wine and rum.”
“Simple and deadly, I would say.” Rum and wine? She never consumed more than a tiny bit of wine at a dinner party—no wonder she was so dizzy now.
“It is rather potent, especially if one is not accustomed to strong drink.”
“How do you know I am not accustomed to it?” Emily said, oddly indignant.
“You don’t have the look of a habitual drinker,” he said. The back of his hand gently brushed over her cheek, leaving soft warmth in its wake. “Your skin is too clear, your eyes too bright.” He took her wrist lightly in his hand, turning her palm up on his. “You are too slender and pale.”
Emily stared down in bemusement at her hand in his, so small against his rough skin. Did he ride without his gloves, work on his estate? Singular indeed. “No, it’s true. I don’t generally imbibe.”
“Is that how you came to stumble?” he asked, his voice full of infuriating amusement.
She snatched her hand away. “I stumbled because my heel broke. Blasted old shoe. I don’t know how ladies wore such heeled contraptions all the time.” She had a difficult enough time with her usual flat slippers.
“Let me see. Perhaps I can fix it,” he said. Much to her shock, he knelt down before her and gazed up at her in steady expectation.
“Are you a cobbler, then?” she said tightly.
He gave her a wide grin. A tiny dimple appeared in his cheek, just below the edge of his mask. It did very strange, twisty things to her stomach. “Oh, I am a man of many talents.”
“That I can believe.” Emily felt that odd, bemused spell come back over her again. She didn’t seem quite in control of herself, especially with her stomach fluttering so nervously like that. She slowly lifted her hem a few inches and held out her foot in the broken shoe.
Nicholas slid his hand around her ankle, his fingers strong and hot through her white-silk stocking. She shivered as his caressing touch slid over her instep. It felt as if he touched her bare skin, and it was quite shocking, quite.
Delightful.
He slid the gold brocade shoe off her foot and examined the broken heel as he still cradled her foot. She would never have thought she would enjoy someone touching her foot. Feet were merely utilitarian, of course, made to carry a person around. They were not especially attractive. But Nicholas touched it as if her foot was something beautiful and precious.
It made her feel dizzy all over again, and she reached down to balance her hands on his shoulders. The feel of those hard muscles and smooth skin sheathed in fine black wool and velvet did nothing to steady her, though. It just made her even dizzier.
“I’m afraid it is quite hopeless,” he said.
“Hopeless!” she cried. Yes, it was hopeless, feeling this way about him. They were so entirely wrong for each other.
And yet, at this moment, she had never felt more right.
“Your shoe is broken beyond repair,” he said. Emily laughed. “Some cobbler you are, sir!” “I said I was a man of many talents. I fear I am master of none.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she whispered. He was obviously a master in the art of touching a woman in a way that made her mind go all soft and misty. Every light caress he ran over her toes, the arch of her foot, sent fiery tingles up her leg that made her want to whimper.
“I beg your pardon?”
Thank goodness he had not heard her! “I said—how am I supposed to walk on a broken heel?”
“Luckily, another of my talents is ingenuity.” He slid the shoe back on to her foot and gently placed it on the ground. Then he reached for her other foot, curling his fingers around her ankle. Emily let him; in that enchanted, time-out-of-time moment, she might have let him do anything.
He removed that shoe and said, “Hold on to me.”
She curled her fingers tighter over his shoulders, and he let go of her foot. As she tucked it back into her skirts, he twisted hard on the intact heel of that shoe and broke it off as well.
“Voilà, madame,” he said. “Slippers. Very à la mode.”
Emily giggled. How very silly she felt tonight! It was really rather nice not being herself. She should do this more often. “You are a cobbler, sir.”
“I do try my best at any task that presents itself.” He reached again for her foot, but that mischievous imp that sometimes came over her took hold. Laughing, she tucked it further in the voluminous folds of her skirt, making him search through the ruffles to find it.
When he caught her by the ankle, he drew her closer to him and leaned down to kiss her instep. A great shiver rushed through her at that touch.
Shocked, she almost cried out his name before she remembered they did not know each other. Her fists curled on his shoulders as his lips slid up her ankle. It was—oh, so very delicious.
And surely not proper in the least! She shouldn’t let him do that, she should—well, maybe just one more little touch. Just to see what happened.
Emily closed her eyes tightly against the sensations his touch created. His hand slid slowly, slowly from her ankle up the back of her calf. His mouth followed, open, hot through the silk. Oh, why had no one ever told her such feelings could exist! This was nothing at all like the terror Mr Lofton’s kiss awakened or the slight disquiet of Mr Rayburn’s touch. This was something else entirely.
He nipped lightly at the curve of her knee, and she gave a strange, strangled mewling sound. She opened her eyes and looked down to see a most startling sight. He was almost hidden by the frothing ruffles of her gown. And he was—oh, he was kissing her knee.
Emily’s legs went weak under her, and she collapsed to the ground beside him. Her skirts dragged free of him, leaving his cloak askew. Off-balance, he fell atop her, sending them both flat on to the path with him above her.
He braced his hands to either side of her head, pushing up to stare down at her. His body blocked the moonlight, the trees, everything. He was all there was in the world, him and his wondrous eyes looking at her as if she was all he desired.
No one had ever, ever looked at her like that, as if they saw her right down to her soul. People saw her beauty, her façade; sometimes they even thought they saw who she was, and dismissed her as chilly, proper and dull.
Ironically, no one had ever looked at her, as he did not when she was in disguise.
Full of wonder and terrifying fear, she slowly reached up and touched his face below the edge of the mask. His skin was warm and taut as bronzed satin, roughened by whiskers along his jaw. She touched the echo of that dimple, hidden now by his sudden solemn intensity. She ran her fingertips over his lips, which parted on a gasp. They were surprisingly soft…
He lowered his head and touched those lips to hers. Emily had been kissed before, once or twice by brave suitors, and thus she thought she knew what a kiss felt like—sloppy, wet, an unpleasant intrusion.
But now she saw she had no idea whatsoever what a kiss was. This was a kiss.
It was slow and soft, almost gentle, as he brushed his mouth back and forth over hers, pressing little kisses to her lower lip. Those slow caresses, though, ignited something deep inside of her, some burning, frantic need. She curled her hands in the folds of his cloak and dragged him closer, her lips parting instinctively.
He groaned deep in his throat, and the kiss changed, became more frantic and needful. Shockingly, she felt his tongue trace the line of her lower lip. When she gasped, he slid inside.
It was so very intimate. She could taste him, wine and mint and night air, feel him as his tongue twined with hers and she tentatively responded. Her palms flattened and slid around his back. Through the layers of cloth she felt the taut shift of his muscles, the tension of his body as he held himself above her.
But she did not want him to be away from her! She wanted him closer. She arched up against him, holding on tightly as that kiss deepened. Through the sparkling haze that had fallen over her mind and senses, she vaguely felt his hand slide along her side to her hip. He traced its curve before curling into her upper thigh and urging her closer to him. His palm smoothed over her backside through her heavy skirts.
Emily was sure there was something—everything—she should not be doing. Her everyday, practical, shy self was screaming at her to cease at once! She should certainly not be rolling around on the ground with the Duke of Manning, kissing and letting him touch her there. But that scream seemed the merest of faint squeals through that fog of heady need. She wasn’t Emily, not now, and he was not the duke.
His lips slid from hers, along her cheek below her mask, tracing the line of her jaw. He nipped at a spot just below her ear that was shockingly sensitive. Emily gasped at the pleasure, like a burst of ripe summer fruit, sparkling and tart on her tongue. She sought his lips with hers again, eager for another kiss.
Barely had their mouths touched when something did break through that haze—an explosion high over her head. A real explosion, not one in her fevered mind.
Emily’s eyes flew open to see fireworks in the sky above her, red and blue and bright-white against the black night. It was as if they illuminated the truth of what she was doing.
She pushed him away. His blue eyes, lit by those incandescent fireworks, were wide with a shock that echoed her own. Their spell was broken.
“I am so very sorry.” he began brokenly.