Page 5 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“And what are you working on now that you have returned from your trip, Lady Winthrop?” asked Lady Simon-Downs, releasing Rosalie. “Those watercolors of Cork?”

“Oh, no,” Lady Winthrop protested, placing a hand on her chest. “That collection is quite finished with.”

“They were on display at Somerset House last autumn,” Rosalie put in for good measure, though her attention had drifted to the dance floor. She was searching for Emily, but if her friend was dancing, she must have been in the thick of things where Rosalie couldn’t see her.

Something had seemed off about Emily earlier that night, and she hoped to discover what before the party was over.

“Only for a week,” her mother said through a shy laugh, though she really loved the attention. “I must say that we met the most handsome man there, a curator. He was very fine.”

“Someone for Rosalie?”

“Heavens, no. The man was married.”

“And yet he did not escape Mother’s attention, or her flattery, much to his dismay,” Rosalie said, remembering the moment in more detail than she wanted.

“I will not apologize for going through life pointing out its fine creations, manmade or otherwise. Speaking of which...” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You have not seen the young Duke of Hartmere, have you? Lady Chipping told us he is the picture of his mother, and was she not a striking woman in her youth?”

Rosalie felt her cheeks go hot beneath her mask. It was one thing for her mother to comment on the outward appearance of a museum curator, and another thing entirely for her to vaunt the good looks of their host while he was within earshot.

“Mother,” she chided, laughing nervously. “He could be anywhere.”

“He won’t be here on the sidelines with us,” Lady Winthrop said. “Unless...” She reached over and lifted Lady Simon-Downs’s mask. “Is that you, Your Grace?” The women laughed, and Lady Winthrop performed the same joke with Rosalie. “Or perhaps he is under here?”

Rosalie covered her mouth and rose, shaking her head. “I have had quite enough of you. May I be excused? I would like to go and find Lady Emily.”

Her mother waved her off with a kiss. Rosalie had only walked three paces before she looked back and found that her mother and Lady Simon-Downs had vacated their seats and were gone.

She let out a breath and stared down at her dance card. She had only danced once that evening with the married son of one of her father’s writer friends. His wife was in the country, heavy with child and abed. He had come dressed as a country mouse, so she had written him down as “shrew” on her dance card. The rest of her card was empty. She preferred it that way and tucked it into her glove for good measure.

“What are you doing?” she heard from behind her and turned quickly on her heel. Emily appeared at her side with her rose-colored mask on her forehead, her face red and glistening from the exertions of her quadrille. She was very fair, with dark brown eyes like a doll, and they were presently rounded in horror as she looked down at the dance card stuffed into Rosalie’s glove. “That is not very ladylike.”

“Only you would ever notice what I have hidden up my sleeve,” Rosalie said, taking Emily by the arm and leading her toward the refreshment table. “Why is your mask like that? You should put it on properly before more people see your face.”

“I will be sick if I have it on for a moment longer,” she protested, fanning her face. “Isn’t it so warm here? My dance partner was a devil. He spun me round and round until all I could see were stars. Were you watching me dance?”

“I tried to watch you,” Rosalie said as they reached the refreshment table. “But my mother engaged me in her usual socializing, and I was distracted by Lady Simon-Downs.”

“She better have been delicate with you, or I will have words with her myself.”

Rosalie winced, disliking the implication that the matrons of the ton were typically unkind to her and she needed to be treated with kid gloves. Taking a glass of water, she offered it to Emily, who thanked her and drank greedily from it.

“I want you to dance with me,” Emily said, returning the empty cup to the table and seizing Rosalie’s hands. “You are such a fine dancer, and a cotillion is coming up next. You are the best cotillion dancer I know. Let’s find a partner for you. My brother must be nearby.”

“To be frank, I am rather tired of dancing with your brother,” Rosalie said. “He always steps on my feet. Besides, he will not want to take me as a partner again. The other guests will start to suspect us of courting.”

And no doubt that will make some of them suffer apoplexy from shock.

“That’s what the masks are for,” Emily replied, resolute. “Nobody will know who you are.”

Rosalie felt her own mask with the tips of her fingers. She and her mother had spent weeks on their masks. Hers was light pink, decorated with small white beads and paper flowers, matching the floral-embroidered dress she had chosen for the evening.

“I shall know,” Rosalie said, “and then I will be thinking about it all evening. Your brother is quite in love with Miss Tiffany Warwick, and I do not want to stand in his way.”

“Miss Warwick is spoken for, if what I have heard is true, so you may as well keep my brother company while he licks his wounds, but only if it’s on the dance floor with me.”

Rosalie knew when she had been beaten. But she also knew that Emily’s attention was prone to shifting quickly from one interest to another. She agreed with a nod, and Emily cried out in joy. Grabbing Rosalie by the hand, she led her into the fray of guests circling the dance floor, hoping to find a prospective partner for Rosalie.

They had walked half the length of the ballroom when Emily suddenly stopped in her tracks. Rosalie narrowly avoided crashing into her, gasping as she came to a stop.