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Timothy finished his dance set with the woman he suspected was Andrew Weatherby’s sister, Anne. Not only had she asked him point-blank if he was unmarried, but she also touched him repeatedly on the arm, running her hand up and down as if she were brushing a well-groomed dog.
He liked Andrew, but Timothy wondered if he should have a talk with the man about keeping a tighter rein on his sister. Luckily, Anne, if that’s who his partner had been, made quick work of finding another dance partner as soon as Timothy had mentioned that, although not betrothed, he had formed an attachment with someone.
At least courting Lady Honoria had some perks. Although, he’d yet to see her, or at least he hadn’t recognized her if he had—that thought more than a tad disconcerting. Shouldn’t a man recognize the woman he planned to marry, even if she wore a mask?
For the moment, the need for a bit of peace took priority, and he threaded his way out of the ballroom in search of a bit of respite in a vacant parlor. Passing one room, which he discovered someone already occupied, his eyes trained on a darkened room at the far end of the long hallway.
Ah, solitude!With quickened steps, he approached, but before he could enter, the sound of someone weeping drifted out from the room’s shadowed depths. He paused, his fingertips skimming the door frame. Should he enquire if the person within needed assistance, or should he leave them to their sorrow in silence?
The physician in him won out. He’d heard rumors of women being accosted in secluded rooms. Had they not been best friends, Timothy would have beaten Laurence to a pulp when he’d been found with Bea in a state of undress.
Keeping his voice low so as not to frighten the woman any further, he announced himself. “Pardon me. Are you in need of help?”
She turned, her face barely illuminated in the soft light of the single candle, but from her gown, he recognized the woman who had captured his attention when she first arrived. Emboldened, he stepped farther into the room, only to realize she no longer wore her mask.
He had witnessed many shocking things in his military career, but little prepared him for seeing the face of Emma before him.
Here.
In London.
At the Duke of Ashton’s masquerade ball.
As if in slow motion, her gaze rose, locking with his.
His heart stuttered as he stared into those startling blue eyes.
“Emma?” He choked out her name. Was she a figment of his imagination? Had he projected his longing onto another woman’s face? If he blinked, would he find his vision cleared only to find another, less alluring blonde?
“What are you doing here?” He choked out the words, both elated and perplexed when the vision before him didn’t shift into something more easily explained.
“Marbry? Is all well?” the masculine voice called from behind him.
Timothy turned to find Laurence, whose gaze slid toward Emma, then immediately returned to Timothy. “I saw you exit the room as if it were on fire.”
“I sought some solitude, but I heard sounds of weeping.” He faced Emma again. “Emma, what’s wrong?”
“Emma?” The surprised tone in Laurence’s voice had Timothy pivoting again. Lord, he was like a child’s top. “This is Miss Priscilla Pratt. Why did you call her Emma?”
Priscilla Pratt?Why did that name sound so familiar? And why did she look just like his Emma?
HisEmma?Good grief, man, get hold of yourself.
He failed miserably. “What the devil is going on here?” He veritably shouted the words as he yanked off his mask. The need to confront her—literally face-to-face—overruled the pretext of the masquerade’s anonymity.
Emma—err—Miss Pratt stumbled against a nearby settee. “I can explain, Dr. Marbry.”
Heedless of the impropriety of the situation, he strode forward, grasping her upper arm with a punishing grip. “Damn right, you will explain,” he replied, lowering his voice to a more subdued level.
Laurence was on his heels. “Careful, man. Regardless of her reputation, there is no cause to mistreat her.”
“Mind your own business.” Timothy snarled the command, then pointed a finger at Emma—err—Miss Pratt. “She lied to me! I demand to know why.”
“You can’t interrogate her without another woman present. It simply isn’t done.”
Laurence and his infernal rules!
“It’s fine, sir,” she said, her voice soft with resignation. “My reputation is already in tatters. What does it matter if the gossips receive more fodder?”
