Page 10 of The Gilded Masquerade

“Darcy, it is time to dance with Anne. I insist,” his aunt bellowed loud enough for those in their immediate vicinity to hear.

His back straightened; he felt the blackness of his mood returning despite the cheerful polka music and the recollection of the titillating conversation over floriography and brashness. His gaze traveled the width of the dance floor, meeting his mother’s. She need not indicate her desire, for he knew the expression well. Ever dutiful, he asked. “Anne, will you do me the honor of dancing the next waltz?”

She inclined her head, forcing a meager smile. “You do me the honor, Fitzwilliam,” she breathed quietly, opening her fan, then clandestinely touching its upper edge.

“Would you care to sit, Cousin?”

“Yes. That would be lovely,” she replied, closing the fan.

He offered his arm and escorted her away from Lady Catherine.

“You look improved since the last time we gathered at Matlock for the Paschal Feast,” he lied, noting how the French costume hung from her bones.

Gently lowering herself into the chair she said. “Do I? That is a comfort. Mother insisted on a costume to complement hers. I am sorry she forced your hand to dance.”

“She did not force my hand. It would be a pleasure to dance with you.”

“You are too kind.”

“How are you getting on? Are you well enough to waltz?”

“I shall endeavor for the sake of peace.” With poised comportment, Anne held her head high and gazed out at the dance floor. She never complained, but he could see the longing in her eyes at how lively the couples moved side-by-side through the polka figures.

“Perhaps, one day you will be quite proficient,” he lied again.

Anne smiled tightly and looked up at him. “I am no longer a child, Fitzwilliam. You do not need to sugarcoat my situation. I will join my beloved father in eighteen eighty-seven. Of this, I am sure.”

His heart broke. “Then let me and Richard assist in making it the happiest year of your life. What is your Christmas wish, Anne? Allow us to fulfill it.”

He could see how bravely she held onto her dignity in a public setting, but he must hear from her directly, for she had never conveyed her amenability to the unsettled understanding.

She looked up at him. “I wish for you to remove me from Rosings.”

“Very well then! As soon as weather allows, we shall away and take the waters at Bath or visit the health resort in Torquay.”

“No. I wish to be finished with England and Mother’s reach as soon as possible. I desire to contentedly pass from this life at the Spanish seashore, feeling the Mediterranean sun warm my aching bones. She would not follow me there. She abhors Spaniards.”

Leave Pemberley? This, he had not considered and did not comment, for that was an untenable option. Gazing out at the dancers, he searched for a calm in his storm.

There, at the edge of the floor, he spotted the dark-haired beauty, her shimmering gold and crystal skirt floating around her with each turn. She glittered like gold dust touched by the radiant sun. At the sight of her angelic smile, his breath caught and his heart skipped as it had in the library. How fortunate her dance partner to hold her, guide her hand with steady assurance, to receive her smiles! Miss Dauntless American was a vibrant breath of fresh air. He looked down at Anne’s fair hair and white complexion. His poor cousin walked beside death. The American danced in the light of the living. One’s figure was sickly, bony, and fragile, whilst the other’s hourglass shape was alluring and healthy. Anne wished to fade from this world, hidden and without fanfare. The anthomaniac aspired to discover the unknown. No two women could be more dissimilar.

“She is lovely, the American wearing the tiara,” Anne breathed.

“How can you tell behind the mask?”

She chuckled and shook her head at his absurd question. “She looks like an angel,” Anne added in wonderment.

Tilting his head, he admired the way her crown glittered like a halo under chandelier light, but both dimmed in comparison to her bright, joyful countenance. “What brings her here from so far?” he asked, assuming Anne knew her family or history.

“The same as the others—to catch you, dear cousin. Is it not the purpose of the evening? Last year, the Hungarian made quite a spectacle in her pursuit.” She breathed hard, placing her gloved hand on her neck.

The American was nothing like the Contessa.

“And yet, I did not pursue her,” he teased.

“The landholdings you sacrificed …”

“Were not worth the effort.”