Page 6 of Duke of Moonstone
“You know all of my circle. You have spent three Seasons with them. You know whom Eleanor Moonwell dances with, whom she avoids, and what she says when Lady Ashworth cornersher about her embroidery. All you must do is get through the evening without anyone looking too closely.”
Eleanor reached across and took her hand. “And then, before midnight, you go out through the garden as though you are stepping out for air, and the carriage I have arranged will take you home. By the time Alexander notices I am gone, Malcolm and I will be well on our way.”
Frances looked at the costumes on the bed for a long moment. She knew that this was the point where a sensible person would say no. She also noticed that Eleanor’s hand was trembling slightly around hers and that the brightness in her friend’s eyes was the light of someone holding themselves together through sheer determination, who had been doing so for several days.
“All right,” she said, and Eleanor’s grip tightened immediately. “But if we are caught, I am telling everyone it was entirely your idea.”
“It entirely was my idea,” Eleanor agreed, and for the first time since Frances had arrived, she laughed.
They dressed without the lady’s maid’s help—Eleanor had sent her off on an errand with enough specificity to keep her occupied for the better part of the evening—and they helped each other with the small, fiddly things that usually required assistance.
The costumes were well-made, flowing white with a gold border, and the masks were full-faced and carefully matched. Standing side by side in front of the glass, Frances had to admit itwas quite effective. She looked at Eleanor’s reflection and saw herself, and when she turned to look at her own reflection, she saw Eleanor. The whole setup was either very clever or absolutely terrifying, and she had not yet decided which.
When the first sounds of the guests began to drift up from the floors below, Eleanor drew her into an embrace. “Frances, you are saving my life, and for that, I owe you.”
Frances held her tighter. “You deserve to be happy.”
“You may call upon me for whatever you need. I promise.” Eleanor pulled back and smiled.
“Then I shall hold you to it,” Frances said with a grin.
With one final embrace, Eleanor ran into the dressing room to hide.
Frances sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the house fill up around her. Then she told herself to breathe and checked the clock on the mantelpiece rather more frequently than was useful.
She had just made up her mind that it was time to join the ball in Eleanor’s stead when a knock at the door made her flinch so sharply, she nearly came off the bed entirely.
Frances pressed her hand to her chest. Then, in the steadiest voice she could muster, “Who is it?”
“You are late for the ball,” a deep, male voice called from the other side.
Frances’s stomach dropped somewhere in the approximate direction of the floor. That was the Duke.
For a moment, she contemplated joining Eleanor in the dressing room, but then the lady in question poked her head out. She made a gesture that Frances interpreted as‘go on then’.
This is it.Frances stood and adjusted her mask. She thought briefly of every decision that had led her to this moment, and then she opened the door.
Whitestone was dressed for a ball at which he clearly had no intention of actually participating in the spirit of the occasion—everything immaculate and formal with only a silver demi-mask conceding to the evening’s theme.
Frances was deeply, profoundly grateful for her full mask.
She stood very still beneath it and kept her breathing even by force of will. Then he offered his arm.
She took it, and they walked.
His arm beneath her hand was solid in a way that she had not quite anticipated, not that she had anticipated anything, and the warmth of it came through the fabric of his coat, making it ratherdifficult to keep her attention where it needed to be: on the hallway ahead of them, not on the arm she was holding.
Stop it,she told herself firmly and focused on the middle distance.
They had almost reached the top of the staircase when he stopped.
Frances’s heart went immediately from a manageable pace to something considerably less so. She kept her eyes forward, her hand still on his arm, and she hoped the mask was doing everything she needed it to.
He was looking at her. She could feel it.
“You seem taller,” he said.
Frances took a breath that she devoutly hoped was not audible. “The Goddess Diana is tall and regal, brother,” she said, pitching her voice to Eleanor’s particular cadence which was a shade warmer than her own. “I had the shoes made for accuracy.”
