Page 3 of The Earl's Scarred Bride

The distant clock began to strike the quarter-hour, and Elizabeth felt her heart race. Less than fifteen minutes until the masks came off, and somehow she knew their evening was about to become far more complicated than a simple game of hide and seek in a garden maze.

The ballroom seemed impossibly bright after the darkness of the garden, the crystals in the chandeliers casting rainbow fragments across masked faces that now seemed more ominous than mysterious to Elizabeth.

The first chime of midnight rang out across the ballroom. All around them, masks began to fall away, faces emerging like butterflies from chrysalises. Elizabeth's fingers trembled slightly against her silk mask as she lifted it away.

Her gaze was drawn inexorably to the far side of the room where the gentleman in the wolf's mask stood. As he removed his mask, Elizabeth found herself staring into eyes as dark and dangerous as a storm at sea. His features were aristocratic, handsome enough to justify all the gossip she'd heard, but it was the calculating intelligence in his gaze that made her breath catch.

The Earl of Stonefield. Of course. She should have known from his commanding presence alone.

His eyes swept the room deliberately until they found hers, and Elizabeth felt a jolt of awareness course through her body at the intensity of his stare. His lips curved into that same knowing smile she'd seen behind the wolf's mask, and she forced herself to look away.

"Harriet," she whispered, turning to her sister. "We should?—"

But Harriet's face had gone pale behind her butterfly mask, her eyes fixed on something—or someone—across the room. Before Elizabeth could ask what was wrong, her sister had grabbed her arm.

"We need to leave," Harriet said urgently. "Please, Elizabeth. I'm feeling rather faint."

Elizabeth wanted to question her sister's sudden desire to depart, but Harriet's fingers dug into her arm with surprising strength. Whatever had spooked her, it seemed best to make their excuses and return home.

"Of course," she agreed, though she couldn't resist one final glance at the earl.

He was still watching them, his expression unreadable save for that dangerous smile.

Their carriage rolled to a stop before their townhouse, and Elizabeth was surprised to see lights still burning in her father's study. The Baron of Trowbridge rarely waited up for his daughters' return from social engagements.

"Ladies." Marty, their butler, greeted them at the door with unusual solemnity. "Your father requests your immediate presence in his study."

Elizabeth's sense of unease deepened. "At this hour?"

"He was most insistent, miss."

They found their father standing by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in his hand. He turned as they entered, and Elizabeth was struck by the strange mix of triumph and tension in his bearing.

"Ah, good. You've finally returned." He took a long sip from his glass. "I trust the masquerade was entertaining?"

"Yes, Father," Harriet answered automatically, though her voice trembled slightly.

"Excellent. Then you'll be pleased to know I've arranged a most advantageous match for you." His eyes glittered in the firelight. "The Earl of Stonefield has done us the great honor of requesting your hand in marriage."

Elizabeth turned to her sister, expecting to see shock matching her own, only to find Harriet looking away, tears gleaming in her eyes.

"Harriet?" she whispered. "Did you know about this?"

But before her sister could answer, their father's voice rang out with terrible finality: "The Earl of Stonefield will have a bride in a week's time. That is all either of you need to know."

"This is madness," Elizabeth protested, her mind still reeling from the connection between the commanding figure at the ball and this sudden announcement. "Surely Harriet should have some say in?—"

"Say?" Their father's laugh was harsh. "What say does a daughter need when her father has arranged such an advantageous match? The Earl of Stonefield is one of the wealthiest peers in England. His connections alone?—"

"His connections?" Elizabeth's voice rose despite her best efforts to remain calm. "What of his reputation? The broken engagements, the scandals?—"

"Enough!" The baron slammed his glass down on the mantle. "The match is made, the contracts drawn. Harriet will be a countess, and our family's position will be secured. That is the end of this discussion."

Elizabeth watched helplessly as her sister seemed to shrink into herself, those earlier tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. She wanted to argue further, to fight this sudden pronouncement that felt more like a sentence than a celebration, but years of experience had taught her the futility of challenging their father when his mind was set.

"May we be excused?" she asked instead, her arm going protectively around Harriet's shoulders.

The baron waved them away dismissively, already reaching for the brandy decanter again.

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