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Alessandro wasn’t so sure. There was more than animosity in the man’s eyes when he looked at her. Still, he held his tongue. There was no point in causing her further distress. He would simply watch over her more closely from now on.
“The king’s masquerade ball is in just two weeks. I’ll speak with him then,” she told him.
“And if he refuses to change his mind?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted reluctantly. “I’ll think of something. I only know that I cannot let Charlotte marry him.”
Alessandro knew of one solution. Tomorrow, he would be paying Pelham a visit.
“Le Renard indeed!” Mélisande clapped her hands in delight as Alessandro bowed. He’d come to pick her and Charlotte up for the masquerade ball wearing a russet coat trimmed with fox fur at the neck and cuffs, matching breeches, and a pair of brown leather boots also trimmed in fox fur. But best by far was his mask: a crafty fox’s muzzle curved in a leering, ivory-toothed grin.
“Perhaps I ought to have dressed as a chicken,” she teased.
Silently, Sir Fox raised a finger and spun about, eliciting further laughter—protruding from the rear split in the skirts of his coat was a large, white-tipped fox’s tail. When Alessandro had revealed to her the comparison he’d made the first time he had seen her unclothed, she’d confessed her nickname for him, as well.
In honor of being dubbed Diana the Huntress, her costume was modeled on a statue of the deity she’d seen while visiting Versailles. It consisted of a long, sleeveless white silk tunic belted loosely about her waist, Roman-style sandals, a silver bow, and a small quiver filled with delicate, fletched silver rods. The mask she held was also silver, spangled with diamonds and framed by soft white feathers.
It was a beautiful costume, but she was almost afraid to wear it in public. The anonymity of the masquerade guaranteed immunity from criticism—at least openly—but it did not guarantee acceptance. The fabric was not quite sheer, and it was draped in a manner that prevented outright shock, but it still left little room for the imagination.
“You had best be cautious, lest you incite the goddess to jealousy.” Alessandro laughed. “According to the old tales, the female deities have little liking for beautiful human women.”
Mélisande snorted at his flattery but gave him an appreciative smile nonetheless.
The Season was nearly over, and while he had not yet evinced any desire to bring their arrangement to an end, in the back of her mind she knew it must be coming. Any day now he would begin to cool toward her. How she would bear it, she did not know.
No matter how hard she tried, she could not close her heart to him. Not even the knowledge that she was setting herself up for incredible heartbreak and misery could stop the tender ache he inspired. It was a sensation she’d begun to notice more and more whenever she was with him.
Every time he spoke, every time his eyes danced with laughter and mischief, every time they made love, the bindings that held her heart tightened a little more.
“I hope the king doesn’t set his hounds on you, Your Grace,” Charlotte laughed from the doorway. The “wood nymph” was covered in jeweled silk leaves in varying shades of green, beginning at the bodice and going all the way down to the bottom of her skirts. The slightest movement made her appear to be floating amid a whirlwind of spring foliage.
The crush when they arrived was incredible, as was the din. Typically staid individuals cavorted about in a wanton display of frivolity, their identities safely hidden behind their masks, their dignity and reputations protected by fanciful disguises. The atmosphere was one of unfettered gaiety.
Mélisande observed Reggie’s scowl as he approached with Lady Angelica at his side. He was dressed as a Turkish sultan, while the Season’s beauty wore the form of a butterfly, complete with a pair of bright, glittering wings and long, curled antennae.
“You look lovely, little fairy,” Reggie told his sister.
“Thank you, O master of the desert, but I’m no fairy. I, sir, am a nymph,” Charlotte replied pertly, spinning so that her leaves rustled.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Angelica. “Who designed your costume? Has Winifred seen it yet?”
“She has not,” answered Charlotte. “We agreed to keep them secret and then to try to find each other during the ball without knowing ahead of time.”
“Well, then. I shall not tell you which one she is.” Angelica laughed. “Come, you must see Olivia and Mr. Kesselman.” She smiled at Reggie. “I shall return before the first dance begins,” she promised.
As the two chattering magpies departed, Mélisande edged closer to Reggie. “Is he here?”
“I don’t know what convinced him to attend, but yes, he is here.” His gaze flicked to Alessandro. “Pelham is dressed as Night, and Herrington’s disguised as a satyr.”
Mélisande’s skin prickled with annoyance. Now she understood why Charlotte had insisted on a new costume, complaining that her Sun was old and tired. “I will make an effort to reason with Herrington once more. You two work on David and Charlotte,” she told him and Alessandro. “Find a way to throw them together for a dance or something.”
Reggie’s face grew grim. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Pelham’s taken a rather unpleasant attitude of late, and he’s been drinking today. Heaven only knows how he’ll react.”
“Well, things can’t get much worse than our current predicament, can they?” Mélisande snapped. “We cannot allow this foolishness to continue!”
“Yes, but that’s not all,” said Reggie. “I suspect Herrington is waiting for him to make a move. He’s been skulking about the edges of the room, watching us ever since we arrived. If Charlotte causes a scene, it will almost certainly end in a duel.”
“I’ll distract Herrington,” Mélisande told him. “He won’t be able to interfere with them if he’s occupied elsewhere. I’ll ask him to speak somewhere in private. He won’t disagree, as the matter in question is not likely one he wishes aired in public.”
