Page 3 of Kiss the Scoundrel Farewell
Lady Wyndam beamed. “I knew we could count on you. I’ve brought my trunk, so we shall have a splendid evening together before you leave.”
Two weeks later
Margaret traced the lips of the plaster mask. Glazed black with tiny pieces of jade bordering the face, it covered her identity except for her mouth and eyes. She was always careful to wear a dark netting and veil to cover her flaxen tresses.
This was the only gift she’d ever received from her husband.
Your eyes match the gems, my dear, he’d whispered in her ear as he’d placed it on her. It had been the same night she’d learned of his mistress. One of the many he would parade about Town, taunting her for lack of another heir.
She shook her head, dashing away the memories. His only present gave her the anonymity she needed when venturing out. Margaret had sworn she would never again be the lonely wife waiting at home for her husband. She would play the other woman but never, ever give the man what he truly wanted.
So now, twice a year during her month-long stays for the Widows’ League, she had chosen a man to exact her own secret form of revenge. Meg selected her victim from the broad sheets and names rampant in the on-dits. Those merry rogues who considered infidelity an assumed part of the institution of marriage. It often took only two or three rendezvous to bring the man to heel. Then she would disappear and leave them searching for her, desperate to find the perfect courtesan who promised such enticing diversions.
Lord Belten, her third prey, had been particularly satisfying. He was an arrogant man, looking down on those who were not his equal and finding women a vehicle for his pleasure. It had not surprised her when Lady Wyndam said he’d bragged about tupping her. As if she would let that pale, lecherous man touch her. Except for one kiss at the end. The farewell kiss.
It had been so exciting at first, the exhilaration almost addictive. Until she’d come across him.
Tall, broad shoulders, raven hair, and blue eyes the color of a stormy sea. She had run into him quite by accident at a private masquerade last month, looking for Lord Belten. The attraction had been immediate and inexplicable. Margaret thought she’d become immune to seduction. This man’s unsolicited kiss had affected her like… No, she wouldn’t dwell on the past.
Call me Marcus, he’d said, though she knew it wasn’t his name. Why did he also hide his identity? The mystery now haunted her dreams. Was karma turning the tables on her?
Placing the mask in her reticule, she checked her hair one last time. Not a blonde strand to be seen. She wore a dark-blue velvet skirt with a slightly lighter shade for the beaded bodice. The paste diamonds glittered as she moved before the mirror. Long dark gloves covered her hands, and the snood was the same midnight-blue as the gown.
Miss Florentia Baldwin, her childhood friend—her only friend outside of the Widows’ League—kept her informed of opportunities when Margaret was in Town. Tia’s father was a viscount who enjoyed gossip as much as any lady of the ton. She often eavesdropped on his conversations with friends after a dinner party or his valet as he dressed to go out.
Tonight, there was an exclusive event located in an empty warehouse near Cheapside, and one needed a secret sign to gain admittance. She had the black satin ribbon tied to her wrist. Her trusted driver, Mr. Jackson, helped her into the plain black carriage she had bought for her London trips. “It will easily be mistaken for a new hackney,” Jack had told her, knowing she wanted anonymity. He was a large man with gigantic fists, once a guard at Newgate, whose nose looked to have been broken more than once. But his presence gave her a sense of security.
Her pulse raced as Jack slowed to a stop. Meg alighted from the carriage, mask in place, and peered down the dark alley.
“I’ll be waitin’ here, milady, till yer inside safe. The carriage will be around the corner when yer ready to leave.”
She smiled up at him, this gruff man whom she trusted with such secrets.
The neighborhood adjacent to this street was a rookery, and the sound of cursing and laughter floated on the rancid air. A dog barked in the distance. The heavy London fog skittered along the slimy cobblestones, the moon peeking from behind a cloud to reveal a man standing halfway down the alley. She assumed it was the entrance, and he was to guard the door, checking and welcoming guests.
She picked up her skirts and walked toward him, noting the amusement in his eyes as she approached alone. There would be true courtesans here tonight, and he probably assumed she was one of them. Tia said her father would be there searching for a new mistress.
Margaret smiled up at the burly man. He wasn’t tall, but stocky with a large flat nose. “Good evening,” she said, pulling the domino away from her arm to expose the ribbon on her wrist.
He grinned, showing a gap in his front teeth. “Evenin’,” he responded with a wink, then opened the door for her.
Two levels of the warehouse had been transformed, with curtains creating private areas for smaller groups along the perimeter of the main floor. In the center, tables had been set up with small candelabras on each, providing illumination yet keeping the entire room dim. There were no costumes, and the masks varied in size, depending on the wearer’s need for anonymity.
Margaret’s target tonight was a baronet. She knew what mask he would be wearing, for he’d described the blood-red monstrosity to Florentia’s father. There were waiters in black attire offering flutes of champagne, women in daringly low-cut gowns of bold colors, and men in tails. At the far end of the room was a quartet, though no one was dancing. Upstairs, Meg knew she would find the gaming tables.
Searching the attendees, she saw another familiar form. A knot tightened in her stomach. Belten! Meg dared not risk encountering him again, especially after Lady Wyndam’s warning.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” whispered a husky voice in her ear. She froze, though her mind told her it wasn’t Belten, for he was still across the room. She turned to find him, black silk mask in place, those deep-blue eyes pinning her to the spot. He grabbed a flute from a passing tray and handed it to her.
Taking a deep breath, her stomach fluttering as his eyes raked over her, Meg admitted to herself that he was the reason she had come.
CHAPTER 2
Three weeks earlier
London
“I have no issues with the marriage,” Simon explained to his father. “I just want the opportunity to find a wife whom I love, or at least one I could grow to care for, and who satisfies the family. There’s no reason I can’t have both.”
