Sarah Mallory - The Earl's Runaway Bride

Lydia giggled. ‘Nonsense, they are just right!’ She smiled at her maid, who was standing beside an open trunk. ‘Well, Janet, have you put everything ready, as I instructed?’

‘Aye, m’lady.’ She reached into the trunk and with a rustle of tissue paper she pulled forth a gown. Felicity stared.

‘Lydia,’ she breathed, ‘I couldn’t…can you not find me a plain domino? That is all I require…’

‘Nonsense, you will look wonderful in this. We are very much of a height, so it will fit you very well. I would wear it myself but…’ Lydia smiled and placed her hands on her waist ‘…I would not look my best in it this year.’

Felicity looked again at the gown the maid was holding up for her inspection. It was a heavy brocade gown with full skirts and a narrow, boned bodice, but it was not the old style that made Felicity’s eyes widen. It was the colour. The gown was a vividly patterned scarlet-and-black, trimmed with black lace.

‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am not sure this is a suitable gown for Miss Brown,’ offered Janet, eyeing the gown doubtfully.

‘Pho, it is for a wager,’ Lydia responded in an airy tone. ‘Come now, we must help Miss Brown to dress. Quickly, Janet, for there is much to do.’

Felicity submitted meekly to their ministrations. Soon her light, flowing muslin gown had been replaced by pads and hoops and petticoats. She gasped as Janet tugged on the laces of her bodice, fitting it tightly into the curve of her waist. When Lydia sent the maid off to pack away her discarded clothes, Felicity gave a little whimper.

‘I can scarce breathe.’ She regarded herself in the mirror. The tight bodice emphasised her tiny waist and the creamy swell of her breasts above the low neckline. As she raised one hand to her throat the black lace ruffles fell back softly from her white arm. ‘Oh dear, Janet is right: I should not be wearing this.’

‘You want to dance with Rosthorne, do you not?’ said Lydia, eminently practical. ‘Trust me, he will not be able to resist you in this gown.’ She sighed, a faraway look creeping into her eyes. ‘The modiste named this gown “Temptation”. I remember when I wore it: James could not take his eyes off me.’ Lydia gave another sigh, but as her handmaid came back into the room she recollected herself and said in a very businesslike tone, ‘Now for the headdress. Sit down here, my love, while Janet helps me.’

A heavy black wig was fitted over Felicity’s soft gold-brown hair and she watched in some consternation as Janet pulled up a side table and began to set out a frightening array of powders and paints.

‘Is this really necessary?’ protested Felicity. ‘I am sure—’

‘Hush,’ Lydia told her. ‘You must look the part.’

‘Why, ’tis no more than a little powder, miss,’ said Janet. ‘Thirty years ago no lady would ever leave her room without painting her face as white as snow.’

‘And what is that you are putting on my eyes?’

‘Nothing more than a little burnt cork, miss.’

And so it went on. Felicity stared ahead of her as Lydia and her maid worked their transformation. The daylight faded and was replaced by the soft glow of candles before the maid began to pack away the little pots and brushes.

‘Can I look in the mirror now?’

‘Just a few more touches,’ said Lydia.

She handed Felicity a length of black ribbon embroidered with gold thread.

‘To tie up your stockings, of course,’she said in answer to Felicity’s questioning look. ‘And finally, these.’

She produced a square leather jewel case and lifted from it a heavy ruby necklace. ‘This belonged to my grandmother, but no one wears such things now. There…and the ear-drops…well—’ she caught Felicity’s hands and pulled her up to stand before the long glass ‘—what do you think of yourself?’

For a long, silent moment Felicity gazed at her reflection. A strange, exotic creature stared back at her. A dark-haired stranger with white skin and light grey eyes framed by long dark lashes.

‘Well?’ said Lydia again.

‘Even I do not recognise myself.’ Even as she spoke her eyes were fixed upon her mouth: plump, sensuously curving lips painted a vivid red contrasted with the whiteness of her skin.

Lydia gave a little crow of laughter. ‘That is precisely what we want!’ She handed Felicity a mask, a black-and-gold creation with long black ribbons to fasten around her headdress. ‘Now, you are to sit down and keep still while Janet helps me into my dress. Tonight I shall be Aphrodite, the goddess of love.’ She gave her friend a mischievous smile. ‘Quite appropriate, do you not agree? Goodness, look at the hour! We must be quick, Janet, Sir James will be here any minute and we cannot risk him coming upstairs and finding Miss Brown dressed like this!’

The maid’s head shot up. ‘Sir James doesn’t know that Miss Brown is attending—?’

Lydia shushed her maid and waved an impatient hand. ‘I told you it is for a wager. Now not another word from you, Janet, and make haste to help me into my costume!’

Lydia was giving her golden curls a final pat when word arrived that Sir James was waiting below.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have given instructions for your coach to be at the door for you in half an hour. Janet has looked out a domino for you, so your costume will be completely concealed when you leave here.’ She gave her friend a final hug. ‘Do take care, Fee. I will be sure to keep James away from you tonight.’

‘Are you afraid he might recognise me?’

Lydia picked up her mask. ‘No,’ she said, going to the door. ‘I am afraid he might find you too, too attractive.’

Nathan prowled restlessly around Lady Preston’s magnificent ballroom. The walls were covered with swathes of midnight-blue silk that seemed to absorb the light from the huge chandeliers. The colourful costumes lost something of their brilliance as the movement of the dance took the dancers away from the centre of the room and they were eager to push back into the middle of the swirling, swaying mass. Not so Nathan, who took advantage of the shadows to hide himself away against the dark walls or in the shadowy corners of the room. He tugged at his collar: it was very warm, despite the tall windows being thrown wide. Impatiently he fiddled with the strings of his mask and heard a quiet laugh at his shoulder.

‘No, no, my lord, it’s not time for the unmasking yet.’

He turned to find Sir James and Lady Souden beside him.

‘Fie upon you, sir, that is no way to address someone at a masquerade.’ The lady was smiling at him through the scrap of lace that served as her mask.

‘Well, I’m dashed if I’m going to ask Rosthorne if I know him,’ retorted Sir James. ‘It’s perfectly plain to see who he is. But you don’t look as if you’re enjoying yourself, my boy.’

Nathan shrugged. ‘I have been here for most of the day, sir. His Highness got wind of the fiasco in the Stinchcombes’ garden and I was despatched to check that the grounds here are secure.’

‘Ah, yes. We cannot risk another assassination attempt,’ replied Sir James. ‘That would really put a damper on the celebrations. But having done your duty you are free to enjoy yourself now, Rosthorne.’

‘To tell the truth I wish this whole evening was over,’ replied Nathan, grimacing.

‘Is it really so bad?’ Lady Souden gave him a sympathetic smile.

‘I would be more comfortable in a plain domino, but this—’ Nathan indicated his costume, an over-elaborate variation of a hussar’s uniform in royal blue, red, white and gold.

Sir James nodded. ‘Garish, ain’t it? And even the mask don’t conceal one’s identity. But his Highness insists. A display of solidarity for his guests, I think.’

‘And they haven’t even put in an appearance,’ declared Nathan bitterly.

‘But they will.’ Sir James patted him on one heavily gilded shoulder. ‘Bear up, Rosthorne. Prinny and his royals will turn up shortly and depart again even sooner, no doubt. When they have gone you can take your leave.’

‘Aye, I’ll go home and change.’ Nathan grinned. ‘I pity those poor fellows in the Prince’s Own if their uniform is anything like this.’

‘Well, I think you both look very dashing,’ laughed Lydia as Sir James led her away to join the dancing. ‘Every woman will want to dance with you.’

And that’s the problem , thought Nathan as he drew back once more into the shadows. It seemed to him that all the matchmaking mothers in London had begged, borrowed or stolen an invitation to this masquerade for no better purpose than to fling their marriageable daughters at his head. Lord, what a conceited fool everyone would think him if he expressed such a view aloud, but it was true Sir James himself had called him—what were his words? The biggest catch on the Marriage Mart. Nathan’s mouth twisted in distaste. When he had been a mere Major Carraway no one had cared about his marital status, but the wealthy Lord Rosthorne was the subject of constant speculation.

Nathan had not expected to become Earl of Rosthorne, but when he had inherited the title he had thought it his duty to sell out and interest himself in his estates. Now, as he dodged behind a pillar to avoid the gaze of another predatory matron, he began to wish he had remained in the army.

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