Five minutes later they had found the mask. A bronzed affair with elaborate upswept wings, it fitted snugly across Georgiana’s upper face from forehead to upper cheeks. Her hazel eyes glittered from the darkened depths of the slanted eye holes. There was no debate on the matter; it was perfect.
When they descended the stairs that evening to twirl joyfully about Arthur in the hall, his face told them they were both visions of delight. “You won’t be able to move for all the beaux at your feet,” he said, taking one hand of each fair maid and gallantly bestowing a kiss on them both.
As he escorted his two charges to their carriage, Arthur smiled in fond anticipation. He was accompanying them ostensibly because the Hattringham House ball was one of the major events of the Season. In reality, he cared little for the social swim but intended to keep a watchful eye on his youthful wife. Bella too often forgot that what she intended as innocent play might be reciprocated by actions far from innocent. As he rarely had time to devote solely to his wife, Arthur was looking forward to enjoying the evening. He knew Dominic would be there and was quite sure he could leave his brother-in-law to look after Georgiana. In fact, he thought, as his gaze rested on the alluring figure clad in topaz silk seated opposite, he doubted his brother-in-law, in his present state, would have eyes for anyone else.
Georgiana travelled the miles to Hattringham House in an unusual state of nervous anticipation. Nervous anticipation of itself was no surprise—she was accustomed to feeling it grow every time she appraoched the moment she would meet Bella’s brother. But tonight the tension was heightened. It was the fault of the dress. If she had known how it would affect her, she would never have worn it. Far from decreasing her anxiety, the realisation tightened the knots in her stomach. Inwardly quivering with trepidation, she accepted Arthur’s hand to descend from the carriage to the torchlit steps of Hattringham House. With assumed calm, she glided beside Bella as they made their way through the hall and into the ballroom beyond.
There was no footman to announce anyone, of course. The guests merely entered and joined the shifting throng. Already the rooms were crowded. Glittering jewels winked under the chandeliers. Gay silks and satins swirled, fans fluttered in flirtation, curls bobbed teasingly about artful faces. A hubbub of conversation rose to swamp them; warm air redolent with a heady mix of perfumes and flower scents wrapped them about.
“Phew! What a crush!” exclaimed Bella. “And it’s not even ten.”
A tall, dark-haired gentleman materialised at Georgiana’s side. He bowed elegantly over her hand. “Could I beg the favour of this dance, fair maid?”
Behind the dark mask, Georgiana descried the features of Lord Ellsmere. “I would be honoured, my lord,” she replied, rising from her curtsy.
“Now how do you know if I’m a lord or not?” her partner asked as he whirled them on to the floor.
“Given that at least half the gentlemen present must be titled, it seemed a reasonable assumption,” Georgiana glibly explained. “And besides, even if wrong, the mistake could only flatter, whereas, if it were the other way about, I could be stepping on toes.”
His lordship laughed. “You never step on my toes, my dear.”
Abruptly Georgiana wondered whether he had accepted her dismissal of his suit or was, in reality, merely waiting in the expectation that she would change her mind. Held easily within his arm, she was loweringly conscious that she felt nothing—no ripple of excitement, no increase in her heartbeat to betray her emotions. His nearness touched her not at all.
The dance ended and they whirled to a halt. Immediately they were mobbed by a crowd of gentlemen, all wishful of securing a dance with the exciting newcomer. Not everyone recognised her; of that Georgiana was certain. But before she could make sense of all their requests and determine whom it was safe for her to accept, a deep voice spoke from just beside her.
“My claim is first, I think.”
Georgiana glanced up, her breath trapped, as usual, somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Her eyes took in the tall, broad-shouldered form at her side, exquisitely garbed, dark hair falling in waves about a dark mask. Blue, blue eyes watched her from the depths of the mask. Even if his eyes and voice hadn’t informed her clearly who he was, her senses were screaming it.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, drawing again on her inner strength, the only way she could weather the storm of emotions his nearness always unleashed within her. She placed her hand on his proffered arm and allowed him to lead her on to the floor, entirely forgetting the rest of her court.
“Well!” expostulated Viscount Molesworth, left standing by Lord Ellsmere. “If that don’t beat the Dutch!” He glared at the broad shoulders of the gentleman whose arms now held t
he lady in topaz silk. His glare turned to a petulant frown. “Who is he, anyway?”
Lord Ellsmere was watching the couple on the dance-floor, a slight smile on his face. He looked down at the Viscount. “Don’t you know?”
Lord Molesworth puffed indignantly. “Wouldn’t ask if I did. Stands to reason.”
Julian Ellsmere continued to watch the dancers, then, shaking his head in wonderment, left Lord Molesworth without his answer.
Georgiana was struggling to subdue her senses, running riot as usual. As they reached the end of their first circuit, she felt almost in control again. If Lord Ellsmere left her cold, Lord Alton did exactly the opposite. She felt flushed—all over. And the peculiar sensation of weakness she had suffered during their more recent meetings seemed tonight to be intensified. Perhaps it was because he was holding her rather more closely than was the norm. Still, at least her brain seemed to be functioning again.
If she had been more experienced, Georgiana might have wondered at her partner’s silence. But, engrossed in her inner struggle, she did not question what it was that kept Lord Alton speechless for the better part of the waltz. Dominic was, in fact, dealing with a revelation of his own. When he had seen Georgiana enter the ballroom at Bella’s side her beauty had stunned him to immobility. In his eyes, she was the most ravishing female in the room. A goddess, all gold and bronze. A golden angel, from the topmost gold curl to the tip of her tiny gold slippers. A prize beyond price. He had watched as she circled the floor in Julian’s arms, dazedly waiting until he could approach her. He no longer questioned the effect she had on him; it was now too marked to ignore. But, as he had deftly extricated her from her other admirers, for the first time his full attention had been focused on her. What he saw had effectively knocked him back on his heels. He was far too experienced not to recognise the signs. In all their previous meetings, his mind had been fully occupied in analysing his responses to her, not her responses to him. Now, all his well honed expertise on alert, he let his senses feel for her, and convey back to him her state. Every little move she made was now registered—every indrawn breath, every flicker of an eyelid. The information came in and was automatically assessed, allowing him to respond to her smoothly, easily, encouraging her, heightening her awareness of him, learning her reactions to his attentions. His instinctive conclusions hammered at his conscious mind. When had it happened? In truth, he didn’t care. All that now concerned him was how to capture what was there, how to foster and nurture her feelings, to make them grow to what he desired them to be. And all his experience told him that wouldn’t be difficult.
So, with gentle patience, he waited until she had herself in hand once more and could cope with his, “And what might your name be, fair one?”
Georgiana blinked. Surely he recognised her? But then, she reflected, she wasn’t sure the others had either. Maybe it wasn’t that obvious. She thought quickly, then replied, “I really don’t think the purpose of her ladyship’s entertainment would be furthered if I answered that question, my lord.”
Inwardly, Dominic grinned, but outwardly he was all dejection. “But what, then, should I call you, sweetheart?”
It was a struggle to keep her tone even. “‘Sweetheart’ will do very nicely, my lord.”
Great heavens! Had she really said that? Georgiana glanced up from under her long lashes and blushed when she encountered her partner’s blue gaze. But he merely smiled, slowly, and said, “Sweetheart it is, then, my dear.”
His deep voice sent tingling shivers down her spine. What on earth was she doing? What on earth was he doing?
The music ceased, and Georgiana turned towards the other end of the ballroom, where she had left Bella. Her partner detained her by the simple expedient of tightening the arm that still lay about her waist. “Oh, no, sweetheart,” he said on a soft laugh. “Hasn’t anyone told you?” At her enquiring look, he explained, “One of the main—if not the primary—purposes of a balle masquée is to permit those who wish to…further their acquaintance to do so without attracting the notice of the tattle-mongers.” His voice had dropped to a mesmerising tone. His breath wafted the curls about her ear as he bent closer to add, “And I find I very definitely want to further my acquaintance with you.”