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Heart pounding, Margot stood at the threshold of the extravagantly lit glass-and-iron domed hall that was decorated in a kaleidoscope of vibrant color, and felt panic close around her ribs. Alexandre Dumas coined the word demimonde in his play nearly a half-century ago, and it literally meant half-world…a society that existed on the fringes of the real world where hedonists thrived in their search for pleasure. Drugs, gambling, and wanton vices were rife.
The incongruity was almost too much because the Marchioness of Waverly wouldn’t be caught dead here. And yet, here she was, embodying Venus, of all things.
She couldn’t be more boorishly transparent if she tried.
“You’re here!”
Lips parting in greeting, she turned to a woman she hardly recognized and promptly lost her breath. Ara was clothed in a luscious cream gown that hugged every willowy inch of her body. From the modest display of bosom above the lacy, corseted bodice to the cinched-in waist that flared out to liquid ripples of fabric, she looked like she belonged at a grand ball in Mayfair. Her chaotic curls were clipped in place with jeweled hairpins and a gold feathered mask with strands of pearls covered the top half of her face. That bewitching smile was glossed in pink and quirked with pleasure.
“Aphrodite?” Ara asked with an appreciative look at Margot’s costume.
“Close, Roman inspiration not Greek,” she rasped through a dry throat. “Venus.”
“Well, you’re stunning as either,” Ara said, eyes shining with approval and something more intense that Margot could not immediately identify. “Marie Antoinette, at your service.”
“You…” Margot’s voice thickened and trailed off. There was no earthly expression to describe Ara, who simply outshone the French queen she was meant to be by leaps and bounds. Her mouth opened and closed, mind unnervingly blank. Oh, the absolute irony that words would fail the infamous Ice Queen, who wielded them like poison-tipped arrows, was pure comedy. She licked dry lips. “How did you know it was me?”
“I’ve drawn and painted this body for weeks,” Ara said softly. “Do you think I wouldn’t recognize the mesmerizing sharpness of this jaw or the elegance of this neck?” Her words were draped in sin and velvet. Then she laughed, the sound rich, low, and full of pleasure, doing inconvenient things to Margot’s heart as she tucked her arm in hers. “Come on, let’s find some godawful champagne.”
Margot stuffed her embarrassment away and let herself be led into the melee. It was fascinating to see this version of Ara from the artist—so radiant and sparkling in a ballgown—and her mind could barely keep up. Margot couldn’t help noticing that Ara drew attention wherever she walked, from men and women alike. Or were they looking at her? She went rigid, her spine locking with apprehension and feet stumbling on the polished floors.
“What’s wrong?” Ara asked, pausing before the refreshments area.
“People are staring,” Margot whispered.
“Of course they’re staring. You’re a goddess in that costume, if you hadn’t realized. And that dress, well, I’d bet my entire building that many of them are fantasizing about how it would look on the floor of Mount Olympus.”
Margot frowned and then realization dawned. Oh. “You’re teasing me.”
“Only a little, though in that ensemble, you deserve it. I’m certain you only wore that to torture me.” Ara leaned in, the familiar scent of toasted vanilla filling her nostrils, eyes brimming with fondness and…blatant interest. The latter made Margot much too flustered. “Relax, Venus. No one will recognize you. The dress and mask are ideal. Now let me get you some champagne. Stay put.”
Shifting closer to one of the wrought iron pillars wrapped in artificial flowers, Margot nodded and swallowed her pointless dread. Ara was right. It was a sea of anonymous faces. The rose-colored, one-shouldered gown, however, was more risqué than anything she would normally wear. Clearly, it had been a stupid choice considering how much attention it garnered, though as Ara had said, it was to her the woman, not her, the marchioness.
The bodice dipped nearly to indecency and the corset she wore was several years old. It was a miracle it even fit, but what it did to her décolletage was utterly criminal. Thank God then, for the mask, a concoction of onyx and deep vermillion feathers, which concealed most of her face. It wasn’t as though anyone would recognize the breasts of the Marchioness of Waverly.
A puff of self-deprecating laughter was expelled. No one had seen her breasts in sixteen years, and even old Waverly had done his conjugal duty in the dark.
“Well, I must say, Margot, Venus suits you.”
Clearly, she’d let her guard down much too soon.
Time suspended as her heart climbed and lodged into her throat when she angled her head to the new arrival. For a dreadful moment, she did not immediately identify her best friend in the inventive bat costume, complete with black wings that stretched from her wrists to a matching satin cape. An ornate bat brooch rested over her chest. Margot blinked with delayed recognition, and then relief—was it relief?—sluiced through her.
“Well, wonders will never cease,” Honoria drawled. “You said it would be a cold day in hell before you attended one of these parties, no matter how many times I begged, and yet, you insufferable wretch, here you are.”
All Margot could manage was a choked noise. “I…”
Goodness. If Honoria recognized her, who else would? She never should have come here. Her reputation would be compromised. People would talk and gossip. Percy would be mortified that she had lowered herself to such tomfoolery.
Hands grasped her trembling shoulders. “I can see the wheels turning in that brain of yours,” Honoria said. “Stop it this instant. I only knew it was you because Miss Vaughn told me to make sure you did not run away.”
“No, I shouldn’t be here.” Her mouth opened and snapped shut. She’d done what? Good God, every logical sense in her brain had abandoned her. Even the air had the sickly sweet taste of panic. “I must go.”
A figure in gold and cream precluded her escape and a flute of champagne was lifted in front of her eyes. “Drink this and breathe,” Ara said in a low tone, meant only for her ears, as if she could sense the brewing turmoil. “Lady Rawdon invited me. Us. This is her party. I thought you knew.”
Margot fought for breath, hand grasping the stem of the glass as she sipped thirstily, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She glanced at her best friend who was watching her with a look of concern, green eyes narrowed behind the simple but stylish diamond-studded mask. Of course Margot hadn’t known—Honoria’s social life was impossible to keep track of. If she had, she would never have come.
She took another sip and felt her nerves start to settle.
