“I must warn you, Hetty” he said as they turned down the Row. “I am an excellent actor. A lesser woman might fall in love with me entirely by accident.”
“I daresay,” Hetty replied, “a lesser woman might. But I, my lord, have made a lifelong study of resistance.”
Chapter 10
The first grand masquerade of the Season was hosted, in predictably ostentatious fashion, by Lady Pritchard, who was renowned for two things: her magnificent jewelled parure and her talent for positioning newly engaged couples at the very centre of every room.
Hetty had not taken more than three steps into the gilded ballroom before the onslaught began. They came in waves: well-wishers armed with compliments, congratulations, and unsolicited commentary on wedding venues, gownmakers, and the naming of future children.
“Such a splendid match!”
“How very fortunate, my dear.”
“I always suspected it, you know. The tension was positively palpable at Lady Galbraith’s musicale last Season. The way Lord Langley looked at you during the Schubert was rather scandalous.”
Hetty smiled with all the gracious serenity of a duchess offering benediction to the masses, even as she itched to throttle someone with her reticule.
She was dressed that evening as the goddess Minerva – the patroness of wisdom and war – a choice both practical and pointed. Her gown was of the palest silver satin, its sleeves trimmed in deep blue. Her mask, masterfully wrought in gilt and pearl, framed her eyes like a helmet of war, and atop her head rested a laurel circlet as a crown of victory.
Theo had chosen to appear as a fallen knight in black and silver, a cape slung rakishly over one shoulder and a mask that revealed just enough to be devilishly handsome without hiding the perpetual smirk tugging at his lips. His costume was excellent, and he was standing altogether too close for comfort.
Though she would scarce admit it even to herself, Hetty’s mind had been utterly possessed by the memory of their near kiss. For the past fortnight, scarce a waking moment had passed without its unwelcome intrusion. Why, in heaven’s name, had he tried to kiss her? And more troubling still, why had she been so near to returning it? She had always regarded Theo with the affectionate familiarity one reserved for a brother, and the very notion of kissing one’s brother was positively grotesque. It unsettled her profoundly that, quite suddenly, she did not find the notion of kissing Theo grotesque at all.
His hand rested lightly over hers as they moved through the crowd, his every gesture the picture of devoted gallantry, as though they were truly betrothed and not mere weeks away from a delicious, perfectly calculated fall from grace. She was compelled to admit that he played his part exceedingly well, and though it was precisely what she had entreated of him, she found herself vexed all the same.
“Your hand is clammy,” she muttered from behind her fan.
“It is not my hand that is clammy, Miss Tolliver. It is yours.”
“Let go of me.”
“Not until they stop staring.”
“Theyneverstop staring.”
He smiled. “Precisely.”
They approached the receiving line, where Lady Pritchard – resplendent in emeralds the size of pigeons’ eggs and a mask so befeathered it resembled a peacock – greeted them. “My dears,” she trilled, taking Hetty’s hands within her own jewel-encrusted palms, “you simply must open the dancing – a waltz, of course. Something slow and so achingly romantic that the very stars themselves will weep with envy, and every soul present shall remember this moment until the end of their days!”
As they moved away from their hostess to the centre of the floor, Theo leant closer to Hetty, his voice sounding far too amused. “Minerva, I do believe you are the evening’s unwilling offering.”
“Mm,” she agreed. “Sacrificed to the merciless altar of societal expectations. Would you cease smiling? It is most unseemly to enjoy a ritual slaughter.”
“Oh, but I must,” he replied with mock gravity, placing his gloved hand at her waist as the musicians struck up the opening strains. “One ought to appear radiant when leading a lamb to the altar.”
Theo guided her with ease, his touch light and steps exact. Hetty followed with her head held high as her gown swept around her. She could feel the weight of a hundred eyes pressing in from the edges of the ballroom like the narrowing rim of a net. This was the precisesort of moment Lady Pritchard lived for: a young couple, newly betrothed, waltzing in time and scandalous proximity.
“Remove that insufferable smirk from your face,” Hetty hissed between clenched teeth, though she maintained a composed smile for the benefit of the onlookers. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“I confess I am,” he admitted, his voice pitched low as they swept in a smooth arc. “You are exceedingly charming when you’re vexed. It adds a lovely flush to your cheeks.”
“If you think flattery will save you from my wrath, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I would be a fool indeed to presume flattery will save me,” said Theo as he drew her in the barest fraction closer. “But I must confess, it does improve the experience.”
She exhaled through her nose sharply.
“Do attempt,” he added, the corner of his mouth twitching, “to appear smitten. We are drawing quite the audience.”
