Page 66 of When He Was a Duke
Could he have gotten in somehow? His mask covered his entire face, which was unusual. Most men wore only half-masks.
“Tell me,” she murmured, scarcely aware the words had escaped, “have we partnered before? You seem most familiar.”
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the orchestra’s lilting melody. “Would you recall such an occasion?”
“Would you not?”
“Any gentleman privileged to hold you thus would carry the memory to his grave.”
Her breath caught as he spun her expertly, his grip tightening possessively at her waist. Who was this mysterious man? She dared lift her gaze, desperate to glimpse some telling detail, but the mask revealed nothing.
How could it be Sebastian? By what miracle could he have gained entry?
The music began its final, haunting refrain. He held her motionlessin that last beat of silence, the spell of the dance suspended between them like a held breath. Then he leaned close, his voice a whisper that seemed to caress her very soul. “Do not marry him tomorrow. Run.”
The words struck her like lightning, sending shock waves through her entire being. Recognition crashed over her with devastating certainty. “Sebastian?”
“Do you know me truly, Lady Rose? With or without this mask?”
“It would seem I do,” she breathed, wonder and terror warring in her chest.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the terrace doors with that distinctive, purposeful gait she’d memorized from her bedroom window. The determined set of his shoulders, the angle of his proud head, the way he moved as though the very world would bend to accommodate his passage.
Sebastian. But how? And why risk everything to be here?
Before she could gather her scattered wits, Baron White appeared at her elbow like a malevolent shadow. “My dear, I believe our dance is next?”
*
Baron White worea heavy, grotesque mask in deep gold and bronze, shaped like a wild boar. How perfect for him. Suddenly, she felt violently ill.
From the moment she placed her hand in his, a cold weight settled in her stomach. His considerable belly pressed against her stays as they moved through the dance, his breath thick with brandy and cigars. Perspiration seeped through his gloves, dampening her own, and she focused on breathing through her mouth, willing herself not to retch.
White led her through the steps with all the grace of a lumbering bear. Where her previous partner had been steady and fluid, White was heavy-handed and oblivious, yanking her too close, moving withjarring, awkward motions that left her stumbling to keep pace. This was the supper dance, meant to be elegant and celebratory—the last before masks came off. But there was nothing elegant about it. There was only dread and the knowledge that if she didn’t escape, she would belong to this sweating, panting creature.
He leaned in close, his voice warm with drink and something far more unsettling. “You look quite appetizing in that gown. When we’re wed, I’ll have different costumes for you each evening. Silk, velvet, perhaps nothing at all. It shall be most delightful.”
She stiffened but kept her expression hidden behind her mask, thanking God for the concealment. “I am not a doll to be dressed up for your amusement.”
White chuckled indulgently, as if she were a child who hadn’t yet learned her proper place. “You say that now, my dear, but you’ll learn soon enough. Wives always do. You’ll discover how pleasant it feels to be properly guided.”
His fingers pressed into the fabric of her sleeve, just hard enough to leave a message without leaving a mark. “You won’t need books or contrary opinions. You’ll have me to think for you. I shall be everything to you. And should you stray—should you give me even a whisper of reason to believe your affections lie elsewhere? I will ensure no gentleman ever finds you desirable again.”
She said nothing. Couldn’t. His tone remained soft, conversational, but carried an undercurrent of menace that made her skin crawl.
White leaned closer still, his labored breathing hot against her ear. “We shall have such agreeable times together, you and I. Provided you prove biddable.”
Her insides recoiled, but she kept her face carefully blank. She had to escape him. But first, she must survive this dance.
Across the ballroom, she caught sight of Arabella dancing with Lord Ellsworth. She tried desperately to catch her friend’s eye, but the masks concealed too much.
“Who was the man you danced the waltz with?” White asked. “You seemed familiar with him.”
“Mr. Clarke means nothing to me.” She spoke calmly, even though she was a mess of nerves. “I don’t truly know him. Whatever you observed was mere politeness. And even if it weren’t, what does it signify now? I’m to be your wife on the morrow.”
He studied her slowly, as if assessing whether she was sufficiently pliable to mold. His damp fingers slid lower on her waist before she managed to edge away.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Someone might observe us.”
