Page 64 of Regency in Color

Her mask was the final touch, a delicate silver filigree half-mask attached to a lorgnette. Thalia had purchased it after closing the shop for the day, spending more than she had on a single item in a long time. If she was to enjoy herself tonight, Thalia supposed she could allow herself the small indulgence. Holding it over her face, she studied her reflection and smiled. There were few occasions for dressing so well, and a part of her felt like a different person entirely.

Theo murmured a half-hearted, “Have a good time,” as Thalia exited into the parlor.

Her mother glanced up from her mending, her gaze both approving and criticizing as she looked Thalia over. Thalia could hear her mother’s thoughts as if they were her own: her bodice was too low, but her hair was well arranged, and while the shawl was a nice touch, the mask had been an unnecessary expense.

In the end, her mother merely gave a short nod and returned her gaze to the mending. “You will be careful.”

It wasn’t a question, Thalia realized. Her family knew her well. Thalia was never anything but careful … practical.

“Of course,” she replied. “I will not tarry late. I simply wish to experience the sights and sounds of the garden in the evening.”

“I do not like you going alone.”

Thalia arranged her reticule to hang from one wrist. “I will be perfectly safe, and as I do not intend to remain late, I am not worried about being alone.”

Her mother looked uncertain but said nothing. Once Thalia had reached her majority, her mother had been content to allow her to make her own decisions. It was Theo who gave cause for worry; never Thalia.

“Will you wait up for me?” Thalia asked, pausing at the door.

Her mother smiled, producing deep lines about her eyes and lips. “There will be a pot of tea, hot and ready. We will drink it while you tell us about your evening.”

Thalia smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”

Her mother waved her off, content to return to her mending.

Thalia’s heart began to pound as she rushed down the back stairs and threw open the door that led out onto the street. The sun hadn’t yet set, but it was slowly descending, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. People came and went on foot and in carriages, many dressed in costume and already masked. A festive mood had filled the air, and Thalia had a spring in her step as she moved down the street, eyes sharp for a hackney coach. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling as it occurred to her that she had never done anything like this in her life.

For as long as she could remember, her life had been ordered by responsibility and obligation to her family. Only between the pages of her novels did she find adventure and passion. Leaving home dressed in her favorite gown, with her hair whimsically arranged, Thalia felt as if she’d stepped out of reality and onto the fictional pages.

Which meant that anything could happen.

* * *

Stephen’s cheekshad begun to ache, but he kept the forced, genial smile pasted across his face as he walked alongside the Baroness Atherton. The woman had been introduced to him months ago at a soirée, and seemed to have designs on him as a prospective groom for one of her four daughters. Stephen had always gone out of his way to be polite toward everyone who crossed his path—though his mother constantly reminded him that as a duke he was not obligated to pay notice to those beneath him.

However, as a peer of the realm with very few equals, Stephen shunned his mother’s philosophy on the matter. It seemed a very lonely way for one to live. Upon the evening of their acquaintance, Stephen had fetched punch for the baroness, who had nearly swooned in reaction to the gesture. He had then danced with each of the woman’s daughters—whose names he could not recall, and knew only that they each began with the letter ‘A.’

The feathers in the older woman’s turban bobbed as she smiled up at him, a cup of arrack punch clutched in a black-gloved hand. She was dressed as a chess piece—the queen—complete with a turban shaped like a crown and adorned with so many feathers and gems that one couldn’t miss her if they tried. Despite her mask, he had recognized her by her voice when she’d called out to him moments ago.

Stephen blinked, tearing his gaze away from the dancers and returning his attention to the baroness just in time to catch the tail end of her monologue.

“…and then, she suggested the ghastliest lace in a most unbecoming shade of puce. Puce, Your Grace! Have you ever heard of such a thing? My Amelia has not the complexion to carry off such a drab color. Anyone with sense could have seen that. Why, her presentation at court would have been a disaster had she arrived in such a monstrosity of a gown!”

Stephen, who was not well-versed in the complexities of women’s clothing and the making of them, merely clicked his tongue and shook his head. “A disgrace, to be sure. Everyone knows white is the only acceptable color for a debutante’s presentation. And the number of flounces you mentioned—”

“Eighteen in all, if you can believe it!”

“I cannot,” he replied with a shake of his head. Outwardly, he was the very picture of an attentive gentleman. Inside, he was trying to plot an escape that did not entail hurting the woman’s feelings. She might be a chatty old bird, but she was not without her charm … even if she was scheming to match him with one of her daughters.

Stephen’s mind wandered yet again as Lady Atherton blabbered on, his gaze flitting about the dizzying display of Vauxhall Gardens. He had arrived less than an hour past, and ever since been overwhelmed by acquaintances and strangers alike. The informality of an evening where the classes mixed in one venue had emboldened many people, who could pretend not to know who he was—freeing them to address him without the benefit of a proper introduction.

Normally, he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to meet new people or converse with them, especially on a night such as this. However, there was a baffling sense of restlessness plaguing him this evening, and Stephen couldn’t puzzle out why. The back of his neck tingled, and he kept glancing about as if looking for something.

Yet, there was nothing to be found that he hadn’t expected. The fairy-like glow of thousands of colored lanterns set the night ablaze, while people in vibrant, outlandish costume enjoyed the entertainments of the evening. The fireworks had not yet begun, but the amusement of the hot-air balloon had enraptured many. Stephen had sent word ahead to smooth the way for his uncle to enjoy an ascent, and was contemplating taking advantage of the privilege for himself later in the evening.

Lively music flowed from the pillared openings of the Gothic Orchestra, and a sea of dancers moved in time with it—much like undulating ocean waves. The various paths leading this way and that offered many options for amusement, but Stephen could not seem to settle on a single one. It was as if he was being torn in many directions at once, unsure of what to do or where to go. His mother and uncle had parted ways with him upon arriving, which left him unable to even rely upon their whims for guidance.

“My darling Agatha did so enjoy her dance with you at the Smythe’s ball earlier in the season,” Lady Atherton went on, drawing Stephen’s fickle attention back to her. “She has not stopped speaking of it, and the two of you did partner so well. Oh, and my dear Anne is quite accomplished on the pianoforte—did I happen to mention that before?”