“The Fates may conspire all they like, sir. I have no intention of dancing with you, so pray do not ask me again.” She fled from the sultan in a blind panic, not caring which way she went as long as it was away from him.
What had made her think she could attend an event crammed with wealthy, powerful men who felt entitled to take whatever they wanted from a woman? Worse yet she had been foolish enough to flaunt her looks and figure in such a flattering gown, with only the flimsy disguise of a mask to conceal her identity.
Had the fact that Lord Steadwell behaved with honor toward dowdy Miss Ellerby made her forget the liberties other men were eager to take with an attractive woman? Or had she been willing to run that risk in the hope that her master would see her true appearance and be drawn to her? How could her fancy for him have grown to such perilous heights when she had done everything in her power to suppress it? Could those efforts have only intensified her feelings—like putting a stopper in the spout of a boiling kettle?
Those thoughts flitted through Grace’s mind like a flock of frightened starlings as she strove to escape the lecher who pursued her. But they only added to her growing alarm, which the predator seemed to scent. The long curled toes of his slippers did not slow him down. At last he cornered her in a distant sitting room where refreshments were being dispensed.
“Let me help you to a cup of punch, dear lady,” he insisted. “Then perhaps you will feel more like dancing.”
Though Grace told herself her virtue was safe with so many people around, no one seemed to notice or care that she was being harassed by this horrible man. His relentless pursuit revived terrifying memories of the night she’d returned to her quarters and discovered her master’s uncle waiting for her.
He had flattered her and offered to make her his mistress. When she’d declined and tried to flee, he had blocked her way and attempted to take by force what she refused to surrender willingly. Somehow she had fought her way free, escaped from him and hid below the stairs. The next morning she’d crept out, packed and given immediate notice. Grace had not even bothered to tell her mistress what happened—she’d learned the folly of doing that in her previous position. She sensed Mrs. Hesketh suspected something amiss, though the lady did not bother to seek the truth. Perhaps guilt for that had led her to give the departing governess a good reference.
“Please, sir, let me be!” Grace implored her pursuer. Though only a few inches taller than she, the sultan looked easily capable of overpowering her. “I have told you I do not wish to dance. I am trying to find my friends.”
She peered about for any sign of Rebecca and Lord Benedict. Why had she been so daft to stray from the protection of their company?
“They are poor friends if they let you wander off, my beauty.” He seized her hand and subjected it to the assault of his demanding lips. The sensation made Grace’s gorge rise. The heavy musk of sandalwood that wafted off him sickened her further. “Make me your new friend and I assure you I will be more constant.”
“Please, sir, keep your distance! The last thing I want from you is constancy!” She longed to cry out for help, but her fear of drawing attention to herself was even greater than her terror of him. Since she’d left school and the protection of her friends, harsh experience had taught her that no one would come to her rescue.
Had he been there long enough? Rupert peered around one of the less crowded refreshment rooms at the Countess of Maidenhead’s Victory Masquerade and wondered if anyone would notice if he went home early.
The evening had not turned out at all the way he’d planned. He had been so certain a masked ball would provide the perfect setting to tender his marriage proposal. In the convivial atmosphere, with their faces partially hidden, he could pretend that he and Mrs. Cadmore were different people entirely. That might provide the spur he needed to overcome his irrational reluctance.
He had been all dressed and ready to set out when he received a message from Dungrove that Mrs. Cadmore would not be able to attend the masquerade after all. Young Henry had fallen ill and she could not bring herself to leave his side. Rupert did not blame her for putting the welfare of her son above other considerations. After all, it was her motherly devotion he most valued in his prospective bride. Yet he regretted this missed opportunity to propose. When would he find another quite so good?
Part of him wanted to shed this costume and spend the evening at home since his chief purpose in attending had evaporated. Then he caught sight of his reflection in the looking glass and realized that might not be wise. His costume was called a bauta. The sweeping cloak and cowl topped with a large black tricorne hat was the traditional disguise worn in Venice during Carnivale. Its featureless white mask covered the entire face except the mouth and chin. His uncle had brought one back from his Grand Tour. Rupert had worn it a number of times over the years, dismissing Annabelle’s claim that it defeated the purpose of a masquerade to always wear the same costume.
If only he were not so well known by his Venetian bauta, he might have stayed away from tonight’s masquerade and no one would have been the wiser. But he did not want his absence to be noted and commented upon. It would appear unpatriotic and nothing could be further from the truth. He loved this land and its people. He rejoiced that it was safe from conquest at last. He honored the sacrifice of those who had fought to keep it free. Attending an evening’s entertainment was little enough he could do to show his gratitude.
Yet he knew better than to suppose he would enjoy the evening for its own sake. He’d never been comfortable in large crowds. The only thing that had made such events bearable in the past was Annabelle’s enjoyment of them. He had been content to bask in her pleasure. Left to his own devices he preferred to stay at home, savoring a quiet stroll under the linden trees or watching the sun set and the first stars appear in the evening sky.
The masquerade was well under way when Rupert arrived. It seemed at least half the ton had made the trek into Berkshire for the countess’s ball. Every room was packed with garishly costumed guests drinking and talking loudly. The warm, still air hung heavy with the conflicting scents of expensive perfume. It made Rupert’s stomach seethe.