Page 13 of Vanquishing the Viscount

And stared at her, scowling darkly. He recognized more about the mystery woman than her costume.

And she was definitely no countess!

Chapter Nine

Emma looked around her in utter delight. Not even in the days before the collapse of her family’s fortunes had she seen such opulence as this. Or such excellent taste. Flocked wallpaper of a velvety crimson matched the damask-upholstered chairs with their elegantly carved and gilded frames. Portraits and paintings peered down upon the throng, some of them wide enough to fill the entire hallway of Figheldene.

Massive tulip vases stood on either side of the ballroom’s huge fireplace, which contained a cheerful blaze. On the overmantel, a bronze and gilt clock in the form of Phaeton’s chariot proclaimed the quarter hours. The Earl of Rossbury—whose house this was, if Charles was telling the truth—evidently enjoyed fine art, and must have a particular interest in Delftware and chinoiserie.

As she wandered about at will, totally incognito behind her mask and her flamboyant costume, Emma knew a happiness she hadn’t felt in years. She was quickly supplied with partners for the dances—Charles made sure of that—and before long, the ladies engaged her in conversation, having been told by Philippa that the mystery countess was enormously wealthy and eager to make new friends.

Emma was already tired from the dancing and a little giddy from the champagne when her gaze snagged on a gentleman who had—if she was not mistaken—just been looking at her intently.

He was dressed in dark garb, in a style harking back to the earlier half of the previous century, possibly trying to look like a highwayman, though his deportment proclaimed him to be a man of consequence. He seemed completely at ease in the midst of the mêlée, calmly stepping through the dance without a beat missed or a gesture out of place. She watched him shyly as he did an elegant turn with his partner, then smartly paraded the lady down the line of dancers.

Had he really been looking at her? If so, perhaps he would seek her out…

Even as she pictured him pursuing her, she felt her cheeks flush. Good lord. She was acting like a schoolgirl, merely because a well-set-up gentleman had noticed her. Had she not learned her lesson with Elias? She must keep up her guard.

The thought was bittersweet, for she longed to be gay and carefree as she once had been…especially tonight. She would not attend another splendid ball like this in a long time…if ever. Grateful for the mask that hid the gloomy expression this thought caused, she turned away from the crowd and sought refuge in a window embrasure. She needed a moment alone to gather herself.

“Madam.”

Good heavens, how could someone that tall move so quickly and unobtrusively? The man who’d been watching her now stood before her, trapping her in place with his body.

She swallowed a gasp and plied her fan, needing him to step back a little. He was cutting off her air.

When he didn’t move, but just stood gazing down at her, his mouth set in a grim line, she began to panic. Because suddenly, she once again remembered where she’d seen that tall, attractive male form before.

Was she really that unlucky?

Her voice quavered as she replied, “Sir?”

“Come.” He thrust out his hand and seized hers.

Her heart skidded to a halt, her limbs turned to water, and the only thing working was her racing mind.

It was him.

Viscount Tidworth.

He knew she was no countess, and he was exactly the kind of person not to see the amusement in their innocent deception. Charles and Philippa’s Grand Jest would be exposed, and they’d all be sent home in disgrace.

Unless he hadn’t recognized her and had something else in mind…

“Do you mean to dance with me, my lord?” she asked, struggling to keep the tremor from her voice.

“No. I mean to talk to you. Come with me, if you please,” he added, coldly polite.

Her heart leaped to life again, fluttering like a trapped bird. How could she possibly accompany him? Charles and Philippa were the worst possible chaperones—they cared not what she did with herself, nor what compromising position she might land in because of their silly plan. Who would rescue her if something went horribly wrong? Charles would probably just laugh if she got into a scrape, and deny all knowledge of her.

The grip in which Tidworth held her brooked no denial, however, so rather than appear to be dragged across the ballroom, she twisted her hand so their fingers meshed and allowed him to lead her off, keeping her head held high and her walk confident.

With no memory of the route they’d taken, she found herself in a darkened room, alone with her captor. After releasing her to close the door behind them, he reached out a hand, ripped off her mask, and cast it to the floor.

She froze in shock, feeling naked, violated at the brutality of this action. Then he dragged off his own mask and flung it down, too.

She looked up into the hard blue-gray eyes and quivered at the enmity she saw there. Somehow, she found the voice to protest, “Sir! What do you mean by this ungentlemanly act?”