Page 66 of Regency in Color

Chapter Three

Thalia had never seen anything more stunning than Vauxhall Gardens—except, perhaps, for the Duke of Westerfield adorned like a foreign king. He had come to her shop dressed in all manner of finery, each garment tailored to fit his tall, athletic form. However, she could never imagine anything like the splendor standing before her. He looked as if he had been born to wear such clothing—which, in a way, he had. The golden coat he wore clung to his chest and shoulders, the intricate beading doing nothing to detract from his potent masculinity. If anything, it was enhanced. His trousers were a loose fit in the hips, but then tapered close toward the ankles, displaying a fine set of calves.

She only briefly took in the matching slippers on his feet before jerking her gaze back upward. There had to be a law against ogling a duke’s calves. He had released her hand, but the skin of her palm still tingled from where he’d touched her. Her knuckles had warmed, as if the phantom touch of his lips had actually landed.

Her heart was lodged in her throat, making speech all but impossible. She had imagined encountering him here, of course, but Thalia hadn’t let herself get her hopes up. There were thousands of people crowding the gardens tonight. What were the chances that she would come face-to-face with him?

Thalia’s question was now answered as she sought out the mysterious dark pools of Westerfield’s eyes through the slits of his mask. Less than a half hour in the gardens, and she had found him. Or, rather, he had found her.

She cleared her throat, realizing he had asked her a question. “I … I beg your pardon?”

“Are you here alone?” he asked, that charming smile curving his lips—which she could not help but notice looked fuller and softer with the upper half of his face covered.

“I am,” she admitted with a sheepish smile. “My mother has arthritic joints and would not enjoy a long promenade down these paths, and my sister has been declared too young to attend a masquerade.”

“What a shame,” he said, though his tone implicated he did not think it a shame at all. “One cannot enjoy their first evening in the gardens without a proper guide. I volunteer myself for the honor, if you will have me.”

Thalia couldn’t wipe the look of surprise off her face. “You want to … with me? I mean … I am certain there are many people here you would rather—”

“Miss Ramsey,” he cut in.

“Yes?”

“Accept my offer. I promise you an enjoyable evening.”

Recovering from her surprise, she raised an eyebrow. “Only enjoyable.”

“Fine then,” he conceded with a chuckle. “A spectacular evening.”

“I accept,” she replied.

Thalia felt as if she had fallen into some kind of dream. She was about to enjoy the beautiful and thrilling gardens on the arm of a duke.

No, not just a duke but the man of her dreams.

On any other day she might have chastised herself for such thoughts. They were not like her, and went against the rule she had set for herself. It was a very important rule, one that protected her from certain disappointment. Do Not Long For The Duke.

However, she had already decided to allow herself this one evening of excitement. Thalia had had so few such occasions in her life. To be free from responsibility and the weight of her family’s livelihood. To be enjoy herself without second thought.

Perhaps she could allow herself one night of longing, and nothing more. Whatever happened, she would cherish this night as a fond memory for the rest of her days.

It had to be enough.

“Well, come along, there is much to see.” The duke offered his arm “The first rule of a Vauxhall masquerade … never lower your mask when others can see you. It ruins the mystique of the evening.”

Thalia took his arm with one hand, while quickly raising her lorgnette with the other. She wished she had purchased a mask that tied on with ribbons, but could never wear one comfortably over her spectacles. Theo had suggested she go without them, but Thalia had wanted to enjoy the gardens with the full benefit of her eyesight. Without her glasses, the lanterns would be no more than bright smudges against the splotchy backdrop of the trees.

“Now then,” Westerfield said, deftly guiding her through and around the groups of people strolling along the paths. “First, the Prince’s Pavilion. It was built for the particular use of Fredrick, Prince of Wales.”

The duke led her past the elevated orchestra, skirting the crowd of exuberant dancers. The pavilion in question sat adjacent to the proprietor’s house, through which Thalia had entered the gardens. The white stone appeared to glow in the lamplight, its open, airy portico occupied by small clusters of people inspecting its insides. Two flights of steps faced one another over a stone archway, and Thalia held her skirts as they ascended. The portico was framed by four large columns, and several elegant chandeliers hung from its ceiling. A large door led the way into a wide drawing room, which Thalia could see was lit by a chandelier as large as the three outside fixtures combined.

“The prince and his set spent many an evening here,” Westerfield said as they approached the doors. “He held court in this very drawing room, and those who were in favor with him enjoyed wine, dinner, dancing, and of course, his illustrious company.”

“Is there no Duke’s Pavilion?” she teased.

Westerfield snorted. “No, and it surprises me. I have trouble believing that not a single duke in the history of these gardens was pompous enough to demand such a structure be built in his honor.”

“Perhaps you will be the first.”