Page 11 of Kiss the Scoundrel Farewell
“Except us. Oh, it will be like before, when we were girls and just beginning our first Season.” Florentia paused for a moment, the brightness in her chocolate eyes dimming.
Meg knew it was the memory of her fiancé. In her second Season, Tia had been betrothed to the third son of a marquess. He had fallen from his horse during a fox hunt, breaking his neck. She had refused to consider another suitor, to the dismay of her mother. This year was her reentry into the marriage mart. Meg knew how traumatic it had been for her vivacious friend, never one to remain in the doldrums for long, to avoid society for such a lengthy period. But she was back, as optimistic as ever, ready to indulge in life and all its social events again.
“What if you do find him? Will you stay in London?”
“No, I must return home. I have work to do, ledgers to look over. Two of the tenant houses will need to be thatched this spring, and I must hire a new instructor for the village school.” Her mood lightened thinking of the villagers and children. She had purpose there, was appreciated. Drake House was the silver lining in her dark cloud of marriage. “Did I tell you about Lord Belten?”
The friends spent the afternoon chatting and discussing costumes for the upcoming ball. Since this was a legitimate affair, Meg would need more than a mask. They finally decided Meg would be a pirate. “Mama dressed as one last year, so I’ll see what she kept. You know how she hates to dispose of anything?—”
“Just in case,” Meg said along with Tia. Lady Baldwin was well-known for always having an optional plan of action. One never caught the viscountess unprepared.
Meg convinced herself she was keeping her original promise from the previous night. She would not wear the black and jade mask again. She would wear a silk mask, playing the pirate.
CHAPTER 6
Thursday
The masquerade ball
Simon pulled on his lace cuffs and adjusted the belt across his chest, holding a sword. His mother had come up with the idea of a King’s musketeer, and he rather liked it. Long brown curls fell just past the shoulders of his tabard, a dusty-blue cape on top of that, and loose pantaloons ended just below the knee. The long boots had cuffs that swallowed the hem of the breeches. He had put his foot down on the pasted mustache. It tickled his nose, and he would have sneezed all night.
He found his parents waiting for him in his entry hall. They had insisted on picking him up, and all three arriving together. Simon knew it was to ensure him attendance.
His petite mother was dressed as a Grecian aristocrat, a long dress cinched at the waist with a wide gold band and a veil over her usually dark hair. Lady Tarlton smiled warmly and held out a floppy red hat with a matching feather.
“Must I?” he grimaced.
“You must, my boy,” she said, her gray eyes dancing while she laughed and set it on his head. “Such a dashing young man.”
Simon snorted. “I’m a suckling pig about to be put on the spit.”
“Come now,” his father said. “You will meet your bride tonight.”
“She is not my bride. I have not been formally introduced, nor have I asked for her hand.” Simon’s mind had been on another woman for the past few days. Tonight was business, and though he may accept his fate, it would be on his own terms and his own timeline.
His mother had been childhood friends with the marquess. Their co-conspiracy for the Tarltons to once again grace the higher circles had culminated with this ball. Lady Grestan had confided Lady Lydia would be in a fairy costume of pale rose with glittering ivory wings, a wand, and a blonde wig. Simon wondered how many fairies would be at the ball. The whole bloody situation made him want to scream.
“Where’s your mask?” asked Lord Tarlton, dressed as a shepherd, a white cloth covering his bald head. “Can’t walk in showing your face. It’s a masquerade, Son.”
Reaching inside one of the crisscrossed sashes of his costume, he retrieved the blue mask and waved it in the air. “I shall wear it once we arrive. I’m hot enough in all these layers.”
“All part of the mystique,” said his mother.
Simon would never admit to his mother how much he found himself enjoying the masquerade. Pretending to be someone else, even for a short while, was a type of freedom. Freedom from expectations, scrutiny of one’s every action or word, an opportunity to be who you might have been if given a choice.
The room was crowded with soldiers of all types, Grecian and Roman gods, pirates and sailors, winged creatures, kings and queens, jesters, servants, and even some animals. Men became women, and women became men for a night. He had already met Lady Lydia and been promised a dance later.
She was an unassuming, petite girl, hardly eighteen he would guess. He could understand how easily she might have been seduced. While Simon pitied her, it soured his stomach to think of raising another man’s child. A man who apparently refused to do right by the chit. Or was he a commoner, a servant or stable boy, perhaps? That would explain the necessity to find an alternate husband. Not that he would ask while they danced. Besides, it wasn’t the unborn babe’s fault, he reminded himself. If he committed to this, Simon would make sure the babe never knew he was not the father.
He stood near a balcony door, enjoying the cool February air on the back of his neck. A giggle came from the balcony.
“He’s very handsome,” said a female voice.
“He’ll do, I suppose.” A sigh. “It’s humiliating to have to marry into that family.”
Simon’s senses were alert. The voice was familiar. Lady Lydia.
“It’s not like you have any choice.”
