The hush gave way to a babble of voices and laughter. A few squeals. The orchestra began to play a waltz tune.
Roger had moved away from his uncle. He stood in the doorway alone. Eugenia looked at him, raised the rose to her chin, and smiled. He was aware of the smile turning to astonishment when Poindexter stepped in front of her, took the rose from her hand, and lifted away her silver mask.
Astonishment? Was it possible that she did not know, that she had mistaken the red rose for his? He could recall that during the past week when they had talked of roses, she had always spoken of red roses.
But his attention was not really on Eugenia. He was watching and not watching Emily. Harris was across the room from her and seemed engrossed in a conversation with an elderly couple. He made no move to cross the room. And no other man was approaching her.
There were several couples on the floor already, waltzing. Ladies all about him had relinquished trinkets and were submitting to having their masks removed.
Emily was standing alone beside his aunt.
Lord. Oh, good Lord!
He went into action.
Emily was aware of Mr. Harris across the room. At first she thought he was being polite, waiting for one of the people with whom he stood to finish what she was saying. But he did not even look across at her. And she could not look directly at him.
A lady to her left squealed, and one to her right laughed. There was movement all about her. Gentlemen were leading their partners onto the ballroom floor and beginning to waltz with them.
Emily stood tense and cold, unable to move a muscle. He was not going to come. For some reason he had changed his mind. She felt as if she were trapped in some dreadful nightmare. How would she bear the humiliation?
She felt suddenly as if everyone must be looking at her. In pity. With derision. She turned jerkily away. She could not even remember for the moment where the nearest door was. But a hand on her arm detained her.
“Emmy?” he said, his voice uncertain, questioning.
And she turned back to find herself looking into gray eyes behind a black mask.
She looked lost and bewildered, he thought. She really had believed it was Harris. She would be less than pleased when she discovered the truth. He hoped that by the time he got his hands on one Jasper Copeland he would have thought of a more deadly punishment than a severe spanking.
He lifted both hands and gently disentangled the rose from her hair. And then he lifted the mask away from her face. He had not taken his eyes from hers the whole while.
“Ah, how splendidly you kept the secret, Roger, dear,” Lady Copeland said, but he did not hear her.
He threaded the stem of the rose through a buttonhole of his domino, pulled off his own mask, and held out a hand for hers.
“Come waltz with me, my fair golden rose,” he said.
My fair golden rose. It was he. For one moment she had thought that he was merely being kind, having seen her humiliation. But it was he. Emily put her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dancing area and take one of her hands in his and set his other hand at the back of her waist.
They began to dance, eyes on each other’s eyes.
She looked pale. But beautiful beyond words to describe.
“You.” Her lips formed the words, though he did not hear the sound.
“Are you disappointed?” he asked. He wondered if she could hear the words. He had been afraid to say them.
She shook her head very slightly after a few moments.
He did not want to hold her away from him as propriety demanded. He wanted to hold her against him, that shapely and supple body against his own, his cheek against her golden curls, his eyes closed. He wanted to move to the music together with her, feeling her, warmed by her—not forced to look down at her and into her eyes, which she did not move from his own.
He did not want to see or to know what a terrible trick had been played on her. Poor Emmy—thinking she was being courted by a sober and respectable citizen like Harris and discovering that she was being toyed with by a rake.
“Golden,” he said. “A pure golden rose.”
“Was it my dress?” she asked him.
“And your hair,” he said. “And you, Emmy. All golden and beautiful and valuable beyond price.”
