Page 2 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

"Oh, my dear," Lady Weatherby patted her hand indulgently. "The worst rakes often make the best husbands. Once they've sown their wild oats, they appreciate the value of a good marriage all the more."

Elizabeth was about to respond when she realized she'd lost sight of Harriet among the whirling dancers. Excusing herself from the group, she moved to the edge of the ballroom, scanning the crowd for her sister's distinctive butterfly mask.

"Looking for someone in particular?" a deep voice inquired from behind her, making her breath catch in her throat.

Elizabeth turned, finding herself face to face with an elaborately crafted wolf's mask. He was the same stranger she’d seen a few moments before.

Something about his proximity made her skin tingle with awareness. "My sister," she replied, proud that her voice remained steady. "Though I don't believe we've been properly introduced, sir."

"Ah, but isn't that the beauty of a masquerade?" His voice dropped lower as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "The freedom to speak without the burden of names and titles."

"I find names and titles serve a rather useful purpose in preventing unwanted liberties," she managed, though her body betrayed her with a slight shiver.

"And yet you haven't moved away," he observed, a dangerous smile playing at his lips. "Tell me, do you always keep such a tight rein on propriety, even when your instincts suggest otherwise?"

Elizabeth felt her cheeks warm beneath her mask. "My instincts, sir, are perfectly aligned with propriety."

"Are they?" He tilted his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "Then why do your hands tremble when I step closer?" As if to prove his point, he moved forward, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact through their masks.

"Perhaps they tremble with indignation at your presumption," she countered, though they both knew it for the lie it was.

His low chuckle sent another shiver down her spine. "Your butterfly, by the way, was seen heading toward the maze. Though she wasn't alone."

Before Elizabeth could respond, he stepped back with a mocking bow. "Do be careful in the dark, my lady. One never knows what sorts of...creatures one might encounter."

He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Elizabeth unsettled by both his words and her body's traitorous response to his presence. The night air carried the sweet scent of Lady Morrison's prized roses as Elizabeth stepped onto the terrace. Her eyes scanned the shadows, counting three couples taking advantage of the relative privacy—all properly chaperoned, she noted with relief—but none wearing her sister's distinctive mask.

"Harriet?" she called softly, not wanting to draw attention from the ballroom behind her. No response came save for the muffled giggles of a young lady whose companion was presumably whispering something terribly amusing in her ear.

Elizabeth's fingers worried at her fan, a nervous habit she thought she'd broken years ago. The terrace wasn't particularly large, but several paths led down into the gardens below. Surely Harriet wouldn't have ventured further without informing her? Her sister could be impulsive, yes, but she wasn't reckless.

Through the maze pathways, she caught fragments of hushed conversation and gentle laughter. Following the sounds, she turned a corner and froze. There, on a stone bench bathed in moonlight, sat Harriet, her golden butterfly mask gleaming. A gentleman in a raven's mask sat entirely too close, his head bent toward hers in intimate conversation.

"I shouldn't," Elizabeth heard her sister whisper, her voice trembling with what sounded like suppressed excitement. "It isn't proper, meeting like this."

"Since when has propriety ever led to happiness?" the masked man responded, his tone gentle but persuasive. "Sometimes we must be bold to grasp what we truly want."

Elizabeth had heard enough. She stepped forward from the shadows. "Harriet Cooper, what do you think you're doing?"

Her sister jumped up from the bench with a small cry of surprise. The gentleman in the raven mask rose more slowly, maintaining his composure even as Harriet clutched at his arm.

"Elizabeth! I...I was just..."

"Getting yourself compromised in a dark garden?" Elizabeth advanced on them, her fear manifesting as anger. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Miss Cooper," the masked man began smoothly, but Elizabeth cut him off.

"Whatever explanation you're about to offer, sir, I suggest you keep it to yourself and depart immediately." Her voice shook with barely contained anger. "Unless you'd prefer I summon Lord Morrison's footmen?"

The stranger in the raven mask bowed slightly. "Until we meet again, my lady," he murmured to Harriet, pressing a kiss to her gloved hand before melting into the shadows of the garden.

"Harriet, what were you thinking?" Elizabeth demanded as soon as he was gone. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if?—"

"Nothing happened," Harriet interrupted, lifting her chin defiantly despite the slight tremor in her voice. "We were just talking."

"Talking leads to compromising situations far too easily at masquerades," Elizabeth replied sharply. "Come, we need to return to the ballroom. The unmasking is in less than fifteen minutes."

As they made their way back through the maze, Elizabeth couldn't help but notice how unusually quiet her sister had become. Harriet, who normally chattered endlessly about everything and nothing, kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground ahead.

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