Page 9 of The Gilded Masquerade

“Very well, Miss Dauntless American. We shall remain a mystery to the other, heightening the riddle of our identities.” He offered his elbow. “May I escort you back to the ballroom?”

She prevaricated, unsure of the impropriety.

“The purpose of a masquerade ball is the informality. I assure you my intentions are quite harmless.”

“Yes, I believe they are. However, tittle-tattle is not, and I would be dismayed at being the cause of further consternation to all parties in your present predicament and my perceived compromise, as innocent as our meeting was. Your reputation, sir … we have already breached respectability by being alone in your private library.”

The gentleman nodded, then sighed. “Indeed, we have. Again, my sincere apologies, for I should have taken my leave at the sight of your glittering skirt in the candlelight.”

“No, it is I who must apologize. I should not have trespassed,” she softly admitted.

“It is done. I bid you happy reading, madam, with the hope you will honor me with a waltz this evening.”

“That would be quite agreeable, and I thank you for your graciousness in allowing me to linger in the company of Lord Byron and Shakespeare for a tiny moment longer.” She breathed in wonderment and looked around her. “It’s so grand. Grander than I have ever beheld.”

He bowed formally, leaving her to consider this Christmas—this masquerade, this chance meeting—would remain with her for some time. And Mr. Darcy, masked though he was and nearly betrothed to his cousin, felt far more dangerous to her future plans than any charming fortune-hunter back home. She hoped, after tonight, she would never see him again.

Sitting in his comfortable chair, her mind swirling about what had just transpired, when suddenly the gentleman reappeared, holding a book.

“For your reading pleasure,” he said handing her a brown volume. “I found the discussion on the production of electric currents by magnetism quite … illuminating.”

Stunned, she didn’t have time to reply before he bowed, turned on his heel, and left the library, closing the door behind him.

There was no censure or ridicule about her interests; he was of like mind and clearly not so rigid in propriety.

Looking down at the volume cradled in the palms of her hands, she considered the choice before her. Opening the 1886 volume of Journal of the Society of Telegraph Engineers and of Electricians, she exhaled. She must get back to her aunt and uncle.

Just a minute more. No one will miss me.

Yet, she closed the book, eager for the gentleman’s assured dance and perhaps a discussion regarding the promising outlook for alternating current.

Chapter IV

His Christmas Wish

Although amused by the loquacious Baron Aitchison-Denman’s costume, Darcy’s mind drifted from the man’s political posturing. He tried to set his countenance to one of rapt attention and interest, though it was difficult when considering the fine eyes of the intriguing American he discovered in his library. She was not brash; she was refreshingly genuine and unusually learned. The way she bit her lip to keep from smiling left him spellbound. He wondered if she was still lost in his volumes.

Lord Denman’s breathless pause awaited his reply.

“I quite concur, my lord. As a crossbencher, you must stand united with other independent members on the issue of suffrage,” he half-mollified, unable to provide a noteworthy contribution to the topic, but could not be outright rude. As a rule, he never discussed politics or other weighty subjects of which he had no intimate knowledge at a social event.

“But women’s suffrage is—”

“Darcy, have you no manners? Rudeness is not to be borne. I arrived nearly ninety minutes ago, and you have not properly greeted your cousin or me,” his aunt disciplined.

He formally bowed. Forgoing his usual knee-jerk response to pander to her, he decided deference to the baron was significantly more advantageous given their frequent contact and his current annoyance at his aunt. “Forgive the interruption, sir.”

“Who is this popinjay?” his aunt insulted. “I insist upon an introduction.”

Internally, Darcy cringed.

“I am no popinjay, madam. I am King Louis the Fourteenth,” the eccentric baron said with an air of jocular superiority, having elevated himself from English nobleman to French king in one evening.

“Baron Aitchison-Denman of Middleton Hall, pray allow me to present my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and her daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, of Rosings Park in Kent.”

Everyone nodded politely, but his supercilious aunt—the daughter of an earl—dismissed the baron, who huffed, stiffly bowed, then promptly turned on his heel. How appropriate she would be costumed as Marie Antoinette! Tomorrow, he would call upon Lord Denman to make amends for the insult.

“Good evening, Lady Catherine, Cousin Anne. My most humble apologies for not seeking you out sooner. I meant to give no offense.” His ill temper over the forced betrothal and his embarrassment over the rude interruption with his lordship softened slightly at the ghastly sight of white powder and red cheeks and lips on his cousin’s already wan pallor. That Lady Catherine would insist on her attendance—without a proper mask to hide her afflictions—upset him terribly, though he did not show it. The set of Anne’s thin lips acted as a window to her physical discomfort, and likely the mortification over her mother’s brusque manner. He surmised the constricting corset and heavy gown she wore caused excruciating pain. The emptiness in his cousin’s gaze suggested how much laudanum she had consumed to endure the evening. Of course, this made his decision not to marry her all the more difficult. He alone possessed the power to save his cousin from her overbearing mother and suddenly felt a rush of self-disgust for the conversation with Richard.