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She once again searched the room for the one who met her criteria.
She couldn’t see him.
The handle of her fan dug into her palm. She could not fail. The ladies depended on her.
Monty had given strict instructions as to what to do. Taking a deep breath, she searched again.
She caught the eye of one of the male guests. A glance showed her that, superficially at least, he met the criteria. Though doubtful he was the one, she took a deep breath, then briskly walked toward the Mark Antony copy. As he watched her approach, he smiled. She stopped in midstride. He wasn’t the one.
Just as she went to turn away, the man-sized potted palm he stood beside started to wobble for no apparent reason. He reached out and tried to stop it from falling, but with a resounding crash the pot toppled over, leaving him trapped beneath it.
Ria watched as footmen hurried over, lifted the remains of the pot and battered palm, and helped him to stand. Apologizing profusely, they led Mark Antony from the room, leaving in their wake a trail of leaves and soil.
With a deep sigh, she slipped past the massive mahogany doors into the adjoining refreshment room. This was where she should have been all along, but having no luck here, she had ventured into the ballroom. Pausing by the champagne fountain, she took a glass proffered by a servant.
Ria turned at a sudden shriek and burst of laughter. A woman ran past her, around the champagne fountain and then bolted out the nearest door.
Lord Arden smiled wryly as the shrieking shepherdess ran past him out the door, hotly pursued by a baying wolf. Clearly the masked guests were already suffering from the intoxicating effects of the wine.
There were two types of guests at the earl’s bacchanal. Most were there to attend the masked ball, but a small select group was there only for the gambling. The gamblers, like Arden, were largely sober. Only a fool drank at the earl’s gaming tables. All of them, however, were prepared to brave a day’s travel in winter weather to relieve the frustration that had built up in the four months since the end of the London season.
He leaned against the wall near the doorway, his fingers idly playing with the key in his pocket, given to him earlier by his host in case he decided to play games of a different sort.
Arden turned his gaze back to the room, back to the masked woman in red who had attracted his attention. He straightened and his eyes narrowed. He had lost sight of her. Where was she?
He nearly missed it, but in a second scan of the room, he caught a glimpse of her red gown—though she was almost totally hidden by a large statue.
Arden relaxed back against the wall and watched as she peered out from behind the statue and looked around.
Fascinated, he saw her glance at one particularly amorous couple, then hurriedly look away. Because of the mask it was hard to tell, but something in her manner convinced him she was embarrassed at their behavior. Surely not. Only women interested in striking up a liaison attended the earl’s masquerade ball. But then why was she hiding behind a statue?
He looked at her again, surprised at the strength of his reaction to her. His immediate intense physical response was unusual. These days he preferred to make his seduction slow and easy, but not with this lady. As soon as he saw her, he had a primal urge to claim her.
She looked around the room once again. This time with more purpose. As though she searched for someone.
He frowned, surprised by what he felt at that thought. Surely he wasn’t jealous? He didn’t even know her.
But he realized he soon would.
As her gaze neared where he stood, he drew back into the corridor. He caught the eye of a footman resplendent in silver livery, his knee breeches and lace cravat reminiscent of an earlier period.
Arden beckoned him over. “Convey my apologies to the earl and advise him I am withdrawing from gaming. Also, have bottles of champagne and supper placed in the southwest sitting room.”
“Yes, my lord.” The footman bowed low and left to carry out his instructions.
Arden then turned and reentered the room. It was time to meet a certain lady.
Ria’s grip tightened on her wineglass. She was sure she was being watched but could not see anyone.
She took another soothing sip of champagne. The wine, mixed with the herbs she had taken before the masquerade, had created a potent cocktail that trapped her anxiety behind a wall. She knew it was there—occasionally she could feel it flutter against the barrier—but it could not escape.
Her senses were deliciously heightened. Sipping her wine, she savored the fruity flavor as though for the first time. Her body swayed in time to the music coming from the ballroom, and the air trapped beneath her ruby skirts swirled around and caressed her legs. She reveled in the sensation, in the soft, silky feel and lightness of her gown.
From her safe position partially hidden behind a large statue, she once again surveyed the room.
She envied the confidence and apparent ease with which the guests outrageously flirted. The ladies used their fans to advantage. With just a tilt and a flick, they informed their male companions of their desires. They then reinforced the message with a flutter that drew attention to the swell of breasts rising above their extremely low-cut necklines. Not to mention their raised nipples peeping from the diaphanous material of their gowns.
Some were doing more than flirting. Her gaze was drawn back to the couple passionately kissing on a couch in the corner, hidden from the view of most people by a large potted palm.
