Cecelia noted the auburn curls of the fairy and immediately recognized her aunt. Her father must have as well, for he slid away as her aunt approached, no doubt eager to upend his flask in an innocent cup of lemonade.
“You look marvelous,” Cecelia said to her aunt.
“And you look radiant,” Aunt Nancy replied.
Cecelia flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Indeed, she felt radiant. And eager to meet Lord Brightstone. She leaned closer to her aunt. “Have you seen him?”
At least Aunt Nancy would know exactly who “him” was.
Her aunt glanced about, setting the feathers on her mask quivering. “Ah, there he is now.” Her hand caught Cecelia’s arm, and she pulled her toward a gentleman wearing Athenian robes as Cecelia did.
However, rather than a mask, he wore an Athenian helm that covered his hair and the upper portion of his face, topped with an arcing metal crest. The costume was a happy surprise.
His light-colored eyes slid toward her as she approached, and her heartbeat quickened.
Did he have blue eyes or green? Or something between the two? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember, but she found herself quite eager to rediscover the answer.
He bowed regally as they approached. “Good evening, divine Hermia.”
Cecelia ducked her head to hide her blush. “Good evening to you, Lord—”
“Demetrius,” he supplied as he straightened.
Their gazes met.
Green.
His eyes were green. The color of pale sea glass, which dotted the sandy shores of the beach at the summer home her family had visited when Mother was alive.
“Demetrius?” Cecelia found herself saying. She had assumed Lord Brightstone would dress the part of Lysander if he played any at all. “I daresay that doesn’t bode well for you, good sir.”
His mouth lifted at the corner in a smile that could almost be considered arrogant. “We are only at the first chapter of this adventure, Hermia. We can write the end of our story as we see fit.”
Anticipation tingled over Cecelia’s skin, and suddenly she found herself sliding into the utter fantasy of the night. “What if Hermia prefers the steadfastness of Lysander?”
“Perhaps Demetrius will need to rely on his charms.” Demetrius stepped closer, nearly inappropriate in his proximity. He smelled of cedar and leather, the scents decidedly male and altogether exceedingly alluring.
Had he smelled like that before? Cecelia couldn’t recall but breathed in his appealing aroma now with appreciation.
She nearly backed away to put more space between them when she realized no one would be able to recognize her. Or him. Indeed, most around them seemed to be closer than usual, their conversations quieter, their laughter throatier. As if they all had been anointed with one of Puck’s potions and were carried away by some unseen magic.
Even Lord Brightstone was so forward as to speak of his charms when he had offered little in the way of flirtation in their previous exchanges. In fact, there was a promise gleaming in the earl’s steady stare that made it suddenly hard to breathe.
Perhaps wearing a mask empowered his words as it now held her in place so close to him.
Music tinkled to life, adding even more fae-like wonder to the enchanted scene before them. Demetrius offered her his hand. “Dance with me.”
“You don’t dance.” But even as she said it, her fingertips found the warmth of his proffered palm.
He gave her that lazy grin again. “Oh, I assure you, Demetrius dances.”
“Then, by all means,” she said as he guided her toward the dance floor.
The waltz.
As his arms rose to hold hers, the fabric of his robes parted, revealing strong muscles. Cecelia’s gaze went to his naked arms, transfixed. He caught her in a firm hold and swept her into the dance.
They were close enough that her breasts nearly touched his chest, and the tips of their shoes whispered past one another. Again there was the warm scent of him, cedar and leather and everything masculine that put a pleasant heat in her blood.
