Page 7 of The Gilded Masquerade
Directly above her, a soft throat clearing snapped her to attention. Her breath caught. Mortified, she looked up at her detector.
An impeccably dressed, clean-shaven, tall man wearing a black leather Colombina stood barely two feet away, his arms crossed, dark eyes fixed on her with a mixture of curiosity and something else, something that made her stomach flip over inconveniently.
“How long,” he said evenly, “have you been hiding behind this chair, madam?”
Cheeks aflame, she awkwardly stood, stammering, “I … I beg your pardon, sir. I was merely … reading.” She gestured at the shelves.
“At ground level?” he asked, his full, pleasing mouth cheekily twisting.
“I admit it’s an unconventional, somewhat uncomfortable angle,” she conceded, eyes meeting his. In any other circumstance than a masquerade ball, direct gaze with a strange man was improper. She promptly diverted her regard to the stunning gold stickpin in his scarf. The diamond in the lion’s mouth fascinated her.
“And what did you overhear whilst … reading?”
“I heard nothing of my concern.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, then glanced down to where she had left the book. “Floriography. A curious choice for a masquerade.”
“I find flowers far more honest than people covered by masks,” she replied before she could stop herself. Dash it! Could she not temper her straightforward impulses?
His mouth twitched. “A fair observation.”
Stepping closer, he regarded her with the same dissecting focus as she regarded the most tantalizing dark wave of hair at his forehead.
“And what other volumes would you have plundered had I not discovered you?” he inquired.
She did not reply straight away, considering her aunt’s caution in the carriage, but where would the harm be in speaking the truth? He did not know her identity, nor did she care what his opinion would be. In two days, she would be journeying back to Lucerne and never see the gentleman again. “Have you the esteemed British Journal of the Society of Telegraph Engineers and of Electricians in your collection?”
Setting back, he appeared stunned. “Interesting choice,” he said crinkling his brow. “You are an American.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your obvious accent.” His gaze softened; a gentle smile played upon his lips. “And the fact you unapologetically speak of a lady’s rather unorthodox reading choice.”
“Oh dear … then, I am the brash, barely tolerable ‘Yankee’ of whom you spoke?”
“Ah, but you heard nothing?”
“Only that of my concern. Your personal affairs and private candor are not.”
“Madam, it would appear there are several brash American guests.”
“Several? That they should travel so far when balls are aplenty in New York?”
“I have pondered this question as well. Admittedly, brash may be unfriendly. With no aim to cause insult, I imply that it simply may be the nature of our cousins across the pond.”
“We are hardly all alike, sir. Frankly, I prefer the words ‘intrepid’ or … ‘dauntless’ ascribed to me rather than the broad assumption that all Americans are equally rude and overbearing. I admit that distinction—may—be suited to New Yorkers, but I’m never impolite. I try to be gracious at all costs.”
He nodded.
“The truth is, I—may—have a slight propensity to speak my mind too freely. I have been accused of impertinence but only when provoked, and, at times when a library awaits plundering, I’m gravely impulsive, but never brash. It’s not the earmark of a respectable lady.” She bit back a coy smile.
“Duly noted. I beg your pardon.” He bowed his head.
“That being said, is brashness frowned upon by everyone in England?”
“Only by those who deserve to be offended.”
She liked that reply. In fact, his conversation with her was courteous given her offenses. There was an intonation of jesting in his deep voice. Regardless, there must be some defect in him, a point his cousin had made twice regarding his lack of suitability.
