Page 60 of Red Masquerade

Mother was laughing elatedly at something the man had said. He grinned at her from across the table, seemingly pleased at how easily he’d delighted her.

Dinner had come and gone, the clinking of china far gone, and I’d hardly touched my plate. Still there sat roast, potatoes, salad, all neglected. The men’s plates were clean, Mother’s picked at enough to prove she ate.

I wanted a drink. A cigarette.

It was hard to look in Lord Highsmith’s direction. He was attractive enough, in a simple way, but the way he and Lucas laughed, their camaraderie plain to see, I found it hard to believe that he was a good man. Surely he must know Lucas well, unless Lucas had become such a successful liar that he could trick anyone into thinking he was a good American businessman witha doting wife and mother, whom he loved oh, so very much. If Highsmith knew the cruelty that lurked beneath Lucas’ skin, I wanted nothing to do with him.

I sipped on the chilled cucumber water I had asked for, only able to stomach the subtle flavor.

“Sister,” Lucas started. All eyes at the table turned in my direction.

I pulled the glass from my lips, heat rushing to my cheeks.

“You’ve hardly eaten,” Lucas continued. “Was dinner not to your liking?”

He’d hardly looked at me all evening, keeping to entertaining his guest. They’d all done a grand job of ignoring me, the three of them. I barely even listened to their conversation. Shouldn’t Lord Highsmith want to speak to the girl he was agreeing to marry?

“I’m not hungry,” I said. “I haven’t been feeling well today.”

Lucas’ eyes flashed like he knew I was sick over my situation.

“That’s no good,” Lord Highsmith piped in.

Mother’s smile remained, but as she spoke through her teeth, I knew she was displeased. “Helena, dear, you were alright earlier?”Snap out of it.

I wasnotalright earlier. She had seen that.

I set my water down. “Perhaps I’ll go to bed. It is getting late.” Never mind I was normally out in the evenings, I couldn’t stand being in that room one moment longer. Glancing at the clock on the wall, the face read only eight-thirty. But Lord Highsmith didn’t know any better, didn’t know I was a night-owl.

I began to stand, but Lucas gripped my wrist. His eyes were fire. “Stay,” he said, fingers tightening. “We were all just getting to know eachother so well.”

Lord Highsmith seemed not to read into Lucas’ glare, into Mother’s insistence of my health. He smiled, his lips still pulled into a kind expression. “Yes,” he agreed. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know your family.” He stood, offering me his hand. “But I’ve hardly talked to the woman of the hour.”

I was supposed to take his hand. I was supposed to stand and let him lead me wherever he wanted, so he could continue his interrogation. So he could truly meet his bride-to-be. But I felt stuck to my seat. “Truly, I—”

Lucas stood as well, his chair creating a low screech as it moved. “Perhaps we should give them some time.” He gave Mother his arm. “Let us go to the parlor, and the two of you can spend some time together. Helena, why not show him the garden?” A brow lifted, his instruction clear.

I looked between him and the baron-heir.

Just take his hand. Then maybe I can feign sickness and escape to my room.

When his fingers met mine for the second time, I felt no spark, just the warmth coming from his skin, soft and unworked.Not like Adam’s. Adam’s hands were rough, strong, hardened after years of work, and then the war.

Had Lord Highsmith even gone off to war? Or was he protected, cozy and safe on his estate?

He looked pleased when I acquiesced, and nodded once to Lucas.

“The garden?” He placed my hand at the crook of his elbow. We were close, his cologne strong and foreign, the fabric of his jacket impossibly soft. It was a luxurious fabric, probably more than even Lucas would spend on a dinner suit. He stankof wealth, of old money, of servants forced to stay on his land for generations, while his family lorded over them, with no merit or real reason for their positions in society.

We must have seemed so small to him. Just a little American family.

“I’m sure it’s nothing like the one you must have at home,” I said, forcing politeness into my voice. Mother and Lucas left without a second glance, their voices trailing off down the hall. The servants began to enter, taking plates and glasses, the majority of the feast leftover, likely to be taken into the kitchen and eaten for their own dinners.

I showed the lord down the hall to the garden’s doors, the same ones I’d ran through the other night. Outside, a brisk breeze flowed, softly rustling the leaves around us. We had no moonflowers, only roses and dahlias, heathers, daffodils. The garden was still very much fashioned into Mother’s decades-old ideal, her head still stuck with the Victorians.

“Would you be surprised if I said I hardly ever went into our gardens?” Lord Highsmith looked around, his expression clear of distaste, only a faint curiosity. Perhaps he didn’t know flowers at all.

“Maybe,” I said.