A Mistletoe Masquerade

'Very comfortable, and enjoying their holiday. See-your organza is clean again.' It had taken three more rinses, and then careful pressing with warm irons, but now it was perfect again. The manual work had allowed her to think in rather more tranquillity about Lucas. Because of the mystery surrounding Lady Danescroft it was easy to see mysteries everywhere. Lucas simply did not want to become entangled with a woman. He could tell she was falling…no, becoming attached. That was all he could see, surely? He could see this, and was acting to let her know it was going no further than a flirtation.

As Penny admired the dress Rowan let her mind wander back to him. It was her duty to marry well. Sooner or later she was going to find a man, a suitable gentleman, of whom Papa approved and whom she could respect enough to marry. She did not have to love him. Many people would say it was desirable that she did not. And in her heart she would hold the image of the man she did love. So impossibly.

'Did you say something?' Penny looked up.

'What? No. A hiccup, that was all.'

She would go to the ball and have her magical evening with Lucas. And then, like Cinderella, it would all vanish at midnight. Only she would leave her heart behind with him, not her slipper.

'Rowan?' Penny was watching her, frowning. 'You look sad. What is wrong?'

'Nothing.' She forced a smile.

'You are tired, and bored with this, I am sure. I do appreciate you being here, you know.'

'How is it with Lord Danescroft? Honestly?'

'I wish I was not so shy.' Penny looked down at her hands, clasped tightly together. 'I wish I had the courage to speak out about what I truly want.'

'It's the rest of your life, Penny. You must tell the truth about how you feel. I can't help you. I realise that now. There is nothing about Lord Danescroft that your father could possibly object to, and I truly believe he is innocent of everything except making a very poor choice of first wife.'

'Yes.' Penny drew in a deep breath. 'I will do my best. Now, what are you going to wear tomorrow night?'

CHAPTER EIGHT

December 25th

'Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Daisy Lawrence!'

Rowan paused at the top of the ballroom stairs and blinked. The room was thronged with the indoor staff of the big house, the outdoor staff, estate workers and the tradespeople and professional men who serviced Tollesbury Court. Those who were married had brought their spouses and their adult children. It was almost as hectic a crush as a Society ball: the noise level was certainly as great.

But the guests were decidedly different, she realised as she began to descend. There were the upper servants, dressed as she was in the good-quality discards of their masters and mistresses, well groomed, assured in their setting. There were the lower indoor staff, more plainly dressed, awkwardly on their best behaviour, but comfortable in a room they knew.

Then there were the outdoor staff, red of face and decidedly weather-beaten, stiff and proud in their Sunday best. Mingling with them were the tradesmen and their families, the doctor and the curate, the banker's agent and the shopkeepers, their respective prosperity and standing accurately reflected in the gloss of the ladies' dress fabrics and the cut of the men's coats.

Lord Fortescue had done them proud. A string band was playing on the rostrum, hired footmen circulated with laden trays of wines and cordials, and the hothouses had yielded up some of their precious blooms to make the evergreen arrangements glow in the candlelight. On her visits to the kitchen, nervously checking to make sure she did not bump into Lucas, Rowan had seen Cook ordering about a battalion of hired staff to produce a lavish supper.

Now Cook herself, magnificent in deep green bombazine and a turban, was holding court halfway down the room. The prevailing fashion for high waists and low-cut necklines could hardly be said to be flattering to her, but Rowan considered that she had seen less impressive dowager duchesses.

'Miss Daisy?' It was Mr Philpott, nervous in high collar and slightly shiny suit. 'I expect all your dances are taken already.'

'Why, no-none are. I have just come down.' Rowan opened her dance card and showed its clean pages.

She circulated, chatting, her card filling slowly but surely. Where was Lucas? Had he decided after all that this was a mistake? It was becoming hard to maintain her poise and her smile and to focus on whoever she was speaking to, not look over their shoulder for a glimpse of a dark head and elegant back.

She was exchanging polite, if barbed compliments with some of the other dressers, whose sharp eyes had seen the mark on her hem and were smug as a result of it, when she felt a touch at the nape of her neck-as tangible as though he had laid his fingers there. Lucas was watching her.

'Miss Lawrence. May I hope your card is not filled?'

'Mr Lucas.' Her curtsey was shallow, the graceful acknowledgement of a gentleman who was her equal. She was aware of Miss Browne's raised eyebrows, but ignored it. Another few days and she would never see these women again. Provided she did nothing to bring opprobrium upon Penny, she did not care what they thought. She lifted her wrist so he could write in the card against whichever of the four remaining sets he chose. When she looked down she saw the bold 'L' against every one-including the supper dances.

It was shocking-or it would be if this was a London Society ball, or Almack's, or anywhere else Lady Rowan Chilcourt frequented. But this was a ball out of place and out of time. A magic ball: the rules did not apply to her. She let the little card drop on its wrist cord and smiled. 'The second set, then Mr Lucas. I look forward to it.'

With a bow he was gone, leaving her to the mercy of Miss Browne and her colleagues. 'You have made an impression there, Miss Lawrence. Are you looking ahead to when your mistress and his master are married?'

Rowan laughed lightly. 'Goodness, no. But he is the best-looking man in the room, don't you agree?'

They bridled, scandalised by her boldness, but then Miss Pratt giggled. 'He is indeed. Why, we are all jealous.'

Rowan smiled and passed on to meet the head gardener's wife and pretty daughter, both of whom were looking very handsome, with hair well dressed. She felt a pang, wishing she could emulate them.

Lucas's dark looks suited the severity of evening black tailoring and crisp white linen. He was as well groomed and dressed as many gentlemen, whereas she had had to be very wary about her appearance.

Her heart wanted her to look as beautiful as she could for him-to style her hair in the most becoming way, to dress in the silks that best showed off her colouring, to wear her pearls to gleam against her skin. But it was not safe. Soon she was going to have to go back into Society: she had to preserve a distance between Daisy Lawrence, even in her prettiest gown, and Lady Rowan.

She feared she would disappoint him, but the look in his eyes when he came to claim her for the first dance of the set put her mind at rest. A series of vigorous country dances with Mr Philpott had put colour in her cheeks, but she could still blush when he took her hand for the quadrille, murmuring, 'Magic, my lovely.'

The formality of the dance steadied her, and the need to watch out for the less able dancers on the floor

distracted her from retreating into a world that held only Lucas. By the end of the set she was composed, confident that she was showing a decorous face to the company.

He yielded her hand to the curate for another set of country dances and strolled away. She managed to follow him with her eyes under the pretext of paying close attention to the figures of the dance, while all the time maintaining a sprightly conversation with the curate. He was young, cheerful, much given to sporting pursuits and proved a boisterous dance partner. By the time Lucas found her for the first of the set preceding supper she was panting slightly and fanning herself.

'My, it is warm in here! And you look as cool as a cucumber-have you been sitting out?'

'Strolling around and flirting wildly,' he said with a chuckle, taking her hand and sweeping her onto the floor. 'What is it? Did you not realise this was a waltz?'

'No. How very dashing of the Steward to permit it!' She had not expected it. Not expected to have to be in Lucas's arms in front of everyone. Not expected to have to guard her expression and her gestures so very