Lord Wentworth, resplendent in a black coat and gold-trimmed waistcoat, greeted guests with cool politeness. His gilded stag mask suited him perfectly. He would naturally choose the symbol of acreature that ruled the forest through size and antler.
And then there was Rose.
She stood beside her father like a figure from a dream, her gown of gold and silver catching every flicker of candlelight. A delicate crescent moon mask covered the upper portion of her face, adorned with tiny pearls and starbursts that gave her an otherworldly quality. Her mouth, left uncovered, was set in a polite smile.
How different she seemed from their stolen moments in the garden. Here, she held herself with practiced grace, but beneath it lay something Sebastian recognized—the careful composure of someone enduring rather than enjoying.
“Mr. Nathaniel Clarke,” the steward announced.
Sebastian stepped forward and bowed. “My lord.”
“Mr. Clarke, welcome,” Wentworth nodded with perfunctory courtesy.
Rose inclined her head. “Welcome to Wentworth Manor, Mr. Clarke.”
Sebastian took her gloved hand briefly, bowing over it without the excessive gallantry a younger man might display. “Lady Rose.”
He released her hand and continued into the ballroom, where another steward announced his arrival. His borrowed name echoed over the chamber, drawing no particular attention. Precisely as intended.
He was in.
The ballroom had been transformed into an enchanted woodland. Chandeliers overhead were draped with gossamer fabric, casting golden shadows across polished floors. Garlands of ivy and jasmine wound along the columns, while arrangements of roses—his roses, though he must not think of them as such—stood in sculpted vases throughout the space.
Glass orbs hung like stars above the dance floor, casting shifting patterns on the walls. Tables along the edges held floating flowers,moss-covered branches, and delicate golden moths pinned among the greenery. It was dreamlike, otherworldly. Designed to transport guests into fantasy.
Rose had created something beautiful. If only she could take pleasure in it.
Sebastian positioned himself near a column where he could observe while remaining inconspicuous. Several minutes later, Rose entered the ballroom, flanked by three companions. One wore a sleek fox mask that shimmered beneath the chandeliers, another had a cream silk mask painted with delicate fawn spots, and the third was adorned in a striking owl mask, its brown and gold feathers catching the candlelight like burnished bronze.
Now or never. He crossed the room and bowed. “Lady Rose, might I request the honor of a dance, if your card permits?”
Her companions drifted away tactfully, leaving them alone.
“As it happens, there are several openings available, Mr. Clarke.” She untied the silk ribbon securing the parchment card at her wrist.
Sebastian glimpsed the card as she opened it. Nearly every line remained blank save one—Baron White’s name claimed the supper dance in bold, possessive strokes.
The sight answered questions he hadn’t dared ask. Her isolation was not by choice.
“The waltz, if you would honor me,” he said, taking the card to write his name.
“The waltz?”
“Unless you prefer another dance?”
She glanced around the room, and he caught her checking for a particular presence. White, no doubt.
“No, it would be my pleasure. Thank you, Mr. Clarke.” Her smile seemed genuine this time. “Your mask is quite remarkable. The Green Man, is it not?”
“You have a keen eye for folklore.”
“It reminds me of someone.” Her voice grew softer. “Someone rather dear to me.”
His heart quickened. “Is he here tonight?”
“No. He cannot attend such gatherings.”
“Then perhaps I might serve as adequate company in his absence.”
