Page 14 of The Gilded Masquerade

Enthralled with the golden angel’s story he waited with bated breath for her next words.

Elegantly and softly, she spoke with gentle inflection as though telling a child a bedtime story. “It is said the kind-hearted Chloris turned a sad, dead nymph into a rose. She then requested Apollo to warm the bloom and the goddess of love, Aphrodite, to lend the rose her beauty. Dionysus added his sweet nectar, and the Three Graces supplied their charm, joy, and magnificence. Chloris called the rose the ‘Queen of Flowers’.”

“What is the meaning ascribed to the rose, pray tell?” he asked.

“Well, sir, that depends upon the variety or the color. Tonight, the lovely Chloris has thoughtfully entwined the symbolic white buttercup Christmas Rose with the crimson Tudor Rose in honor of Great Britain’s strength and resiliency and the hope for what is to come.”

“And I thought they were just pretty!” the heiress replied.

“Oh! They’re quite becoming and so very appropriate. You are a Grecian rose, certainly,” she kindly complimented.

“I do believe, dear Willie, that our storyteller is named Ophelia, and she is one of the new people residing on Fifth Avenue. Am I correct?”

“Heavens! Let us hope I do not come to Ophelia’s unfortunate end.” The golden angel sweetly smiled, then looked up at him. “It’s a masquerade, and I am rather enjoying the anonymity. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

“Quite irksome as it is. Perhaps at the end of the festivities we will all remove our masks to reveal our identities.”

“Ah, but as the gentleman has said—what amusement the riddle provides in the guessing.”

“And what is your story regarding my costume?” Willie asked with a puff to his slight chest.

“You, sir, with your clever wings, are Chloris’s husband, the gentle Zephyrus, the god of the west wind who bestows upon the world the warm breeze of springtime.”

“It would explain your desire to travel the world,” Darcy politely noted.

“I’m impressed! You must come and visit when back in New York. I think we have invented a new parlor game, Bessie,” the gentleman said.

Miss Chanler did not reply; the set of her lips indicated she considered Miss Dauntless American unwelcome competition in the marriage mart back in the States.

Still, the anthomaniac held her tongue, neither denying or confirming her residence or family. Only demonstrating the finest manners and kindness to the fellow, albeit brash, Americans. He could see none of the self-deprecating flaws the lady admitted to when in the library.

“Perhaps you will all find pleasure visiting Pemberley’s winter garden this evening.” He looked down at her gazing up at him. “The Christmas blooms and palms are a delightful contrast from the harsh winter.”

“I should like that very much,” she said.

And I should like to press my lips upon yours, even to my utter undoing.

The music came to a close, and Chanler bent his elbow. “Excuse us. That’s our cue. Shall we prepare for the quadrille?”

Taking the gentleman’s arm, she chanced a quick glance back at him, conveying something tender yet regretful as the immature Chanler escorted her away.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Chloris?” he eagerly asked the heiress. The quadrille would give him a ready opportunity to once again dance with his golden angel without causing speculation.

“It would be an honor, sir.”

Anne had retired for the evening before the midnight meal, thereby releasing Darcy from his obligation to dance with her. This, of course, caused him an immense amount of guilt, particularly when his good friend, her new physician, Dr. Charles Bingley arrived to attend her. He hated feeling so torn between duty and desire.

Truly, he tried not to be envious of his cousin as he watched from afar how Miss Dauntless American tucked her hand into the crook of his arm to be escorted into the main supper room for a light meal and refreshment. Their humored expressions and exchanges sent a ripple of something vexing—dismay, fear over his cousin’s usual intentions, jealousy, desire, protection?—through him. She had stirred up a storm of emotions he hadn’t realized he possessed. Should not Richard be escorting a wallflower, not the engaging beauty who every man in the ballroom sought to win favor? That, too, sent a shot of warning up his spine. That type of woman, the fawning, vain, and scheming Caroline Bingleys of the world, he discounted immediately. Although the young lady in gold was self-possessed, he did not believe she owned such abhorrent traits. He believed she was unaffected and doubted that she realized the result her radiant smile had on him or the stag line each time she innocently danced by them. Her natural grace together with her charming personality were, alone, a magnetic pull.

After prodding his cousin for fifteen minutes, the military man remained stalwart in his secrecy. His mother had chosen the colonel wisely in keeping her Intelligence, only divulging what was already known to him. The dauntless American lived in Switzerland and attended the ball with her aunt and uncle. His mother loved Richard too much to condemn his fraternizing with the help, attributing it as a military comfort need. The man always chased admiration as though it a sport even before joining the regiment. Richard, when of a mind or in his cups, was the libertine alter-ego Hyde residing deep within in every gentleman. The thought repulsed him. God forbid he ever acted with such a mind.

Escorting his mother from the ballroom toward the main supper room down the hallway, he said. “You have arranged the evening to perfection, Mama. It is an unequivocable success.”

“I am exceedingly pleased. The company is well engaged, and the music has been agreeably well received.”

“I have but one reservation. Why ever did you select Richard as a cavalier?”

“Should I have chosen you? A gentleman so resolutely disinclined to dance?”