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“Might I ask what sort of event it will be?”
“A masquerade.” He carefully etched away another bit of marble. “It will afford some anonymity for everyone, myself included, which makes it an ideal introduction to the scene.”
“I can imagine.” There was warm amusement coloring her tone, and his glance revealed a sparkle of mischief, as though she possessed some form of knowledge he did not. “But surely, I had heard that, well, there are not so many of the ton in comparison to the population of London, let alone the whole of England. Would they not guess at your identity as a relative stranger in their midst?”
“A risk I shall have to take. Though there are enough nobles and gentry to make such identification difficult, I think. Besides...’tis not uncommon to have guests from the Continent at times, and there are other members of the ton who share my preference for solitude, of that I am quite certain.”
He worked in silence for a while, the sort of comfortable silence that happened every so often, and gave him time to focus on his efforts, to the exclusion of all else. Delicate flakes of marble were tapped away, but the rough shape was well enough formed that he wasn’t sure how much more he could do with the chisel. After a moment, he set aside the chisel and picked up one of the coarser planes to work with, shaping gentle curves with careful, smooth strokes.
He would have to use sanding paper for the final details and surface, not skilled enough to do it only with the rasps and planes as a master sculptor might.
He actually didn’t mind that much. It let him get close to the statue, feel the smoothness and the curves in a way that using a plane didn’t.
“You use a number of tools for work. I had not thought sculpting would require so many.” The soft observation came from the other side. “However do you know which you need?”
“Practice, and some instruction from an artisan I once knew as a boy. A chisel for copious amounts of excessive stone. Then smaller and finer tools until I polish the stone at the final layer with fine sanding paper.” He chanced a look over the statue’s shoulder. “Have you an interest in sculpting?”
“I have admired finished works, but I would not wish to attempt it myself. I fear I would have little skill in that regard.” Her eyes shone with a soft glow of interest. “I was only thinking that watching you work...it is like watching a master cook in the kitchen, or a seamstress at her craft. It is quite fascinating.”
Interesting. Had she been in a trade or an apprenticeship of some kind? Well, a governess might still have had cause to watch a craftsman at work. Perhaps one of her family had engaged in such activities?
“Have you had much cause to watch a tradesman at work?” There was nothing to be lost by asking, so far as he was concerned.
“Oh, very little. But I have seen them plying their trade, at times in the market, or through shop windows, or in the kitchens of the high society folk, and it has always seemed to me a sort of magic or miracle, the creation of something out of another that looks quite different in the beginning.”
Warmth raced through him. “It is nothing quite so impressive as a miracle, but I thank you for the compliment.”
“If the work is deserving, then should not praise earned be freely given?”
“Perhaps. But in that case…” He set the plane aside so he could turn and catch her gaze. “In that case, you may bear as much praise as I, for an artist is only as good as his inspiration, or so I have often found, and to serve as a muse deserves its own recognition.”
She flushed, a delicate rose tint rising to her cheeks, and spreading down to her elegant shoulders. “I have done little, save stand where you asked and attempt to serve well.”
‘I assure you that is quite an accomplishment, and your assistance is most valued.” The blush deepened and spread, highlighting her chest in rosy tones that made him think of delicate flowers opening under the sun.
Another silence fell, this one borne of her evident shyness from his compliment. After a moment, he resumed his work.
When the clock tolled the dinner hour, he was reluctant to put away his tools and leave her to dress. Reluctant to leave the room at all, propriety be cursed. He forced himself to attend to his appearance and take his leave, despite the powerful temptation to remain. And to perhaps step closer, to brush his hand along the sheet, or those bared shoulders and soft skin…tip her face up with a hand cupped along that shapely jaw and plant a tender kiss on those soft-looking lips.
The meal was also quieter than before, a somber recognition of the fact that tomorrow they would both be firmly ensconced in their own positions; a marquess, attending a society party; a working girl, attending to the duties of her family and the work of her station, whatever it might be beyond his estate.
* * *
Henrietta lingered over her meal, unwilling to leave. She had come to enjoy her time with Daniel more with each session, and she did not want this one to end. Not when tomorrow would see her firmly in the role of Henrietta Stanton once more, with none of Hetty Smith’s freedom for questions and relative anonymity.
Not when her only time with Daniel would be when they were both at the Duke of Merriweather’s masquerade, hidden behind masks from all others...and from each other.
She suspected she would know him the instant she saw him. No other of the ton had his build, his dark hair caught in the somewhat untamed length of too long to stay neatly combed and too short to be tied back.
No other of the ton had his stern, rugged countenance, or those intense moss-colored eyes that could spark and dance with his passion and his humor, or darken with memories of the darkness of war, left behind but far from forgotten.
It hurt to think that she would know him, but he would not know her. Hetty Smith had no place in society events like masquerades, nor mingling with the peerage. And Hetty Smith was the woman Daniel had given his name to. It was Hetty Smith that she fancied sent warmth into his eyes and brought those tiny, slightly crooked smiles to his lips.
Henrietta Stanton was nothing to him. And would probably seem to him to be just another pretty girl searching the marriage mart for an eligible bachelor to coax into matrimony. He might dance with her—he did dance, by his own admission—but it would be courtesy and duty, not interest.
Worse, Eva would be at the masquerade as well. And she knew quite well that Eva was hopeful for an introduction to Daniel—to the Marquess of Salisbury, the Dark Prince—at that same masquerade. She would likely presume, quite correctly, that Henrietta would be able to identify the man, even masked, and take appropriate steps.
It was what she should do. The masquerade was a perfect place to make the introduction. Daniel would not know either of them. He would not expect either of them to know him. He would, therefore, most likely be polite, and from there he might dance with Eva. And Eva would charm him with her winsome smiles, and the stage would be set for their relationship to bloom.
