Guests, dressed in a variety of costumes from the demure to the outrageous, filled Lady Moore’s ballroom. They laughed and cavorted beneath the bright streamers. Carrie didn’t know the gentleman who danced the quadrille with her, for they had not been introduced. He wore a pirate’s costume, and a mask hid much of his face. But he was an amusing partner, making sly observations about some of the costumes.
He returned her to her seat, made his bows to Gwen and herself, and left them.
Gwen wore a milkmaid costume with an apron and frilly white mobcap. “Did you like Lord Frankstone? He’s quite charming.”
Carrie picked up her fan and slowly wafted it before her warm face. “Was that who he was? Yes, he was droll.”
“Frankstone couldn’t hide his identity behind a mask. Not with that flame-colored hair.” Gwen looked disappointed. “I thought you might like him. He is more amusing than Ludlow.”
Carrie was immediately contrite. “I am sorry, Gwen. I must be a great disappointment to you and Nellie. But none of these men appeal.”
Gwen cast her a sideways glance. “Do you believe you might meet one who does?”
She noticed Gwen’s shrewd expression her blue mask failed to hide.
“I certainly hope so. I imagine I’ll know as soon as I meet him.”
Gwen waved her fan, her gaze intense through the slits in her blue bask. “Perhaps you’ve already met him?”
Carrie flushed. “But how could I?”
She snapped her fan shut. “Carrie, my dear, Nellie and I have exhausted all the single men this Season, and I don’t anticipate anyone else. But if a gentleman should appear, I doubt he could claim your heart, because I suspect it is already taken.” She looked across the room. “Here comes an interesting gentleman, and just as they call the waltz.”
A tall man dressed all in black approached them.
“Who is he? Should I waltz with him?”
“Lord Barraclough. He’s a dreadful rake and shall flirt with you outrageously. But dance with him. Few will question it tonight. Don’t take him seriously and refuse him if he should invite you to stroll on the terrace.”
He bowed before them, dressed all in black. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Aphrodite?”
“I am Titania, sir,” Carrie amended, rising to take his arm.
“You are Aphrodite to me.” His dark eyes searched hers through the slits in his black mask.
He led her onto the floor.
The music began, and he swung her into the dance. His hand settled low on her back, pulling her close. She tensed and tried to move away. “That’s quite close enough, sir.”
He laughed. “Nonsense. This is a masked ball, look around you.”
It was true everyone behaved differently tonight, as if they had left their manners at home for the evening.
His hand slid down farther over her hip.
“Sir!”
“Shall we walk in the moonlight after the dance?”
“It is raining,” Carrie said, relieved to find an excuse to prevent this forthright gentleman from whisking her off without her consent. She could imagine an embarrassing tussle.
He spun her around until she was breathless, then drew her against him, so close she could smell the champagne and tobacco on his breath. Carrie attempted to place some space between them without being too obvious. Why had Gwen allowed her to dance with him? She longed for the waltz to end.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nicholas descended the stairs to the ballroom. He made his way through the costumed guests. Lord Ludlow, in a musketeer costume, which made his shoulders look narrow and his knees knobby, wasn’t dancing. He stood looking dejected with a group of people. Carrie was not among them.
Was she waltzing? Nicholas searched the dance floor. It was easy to find her, her glorious hair piled high and decked with flowers. He swore under his breath. Not only was she waltzing, but with the worst rake in London, Julian Barraclough, and his hand wandered where it shouldn’t.
Every muscle tensed as Nicholas pushed through the swirling dancers. They stared at him in his black and white evening wear, and some called out to him. Gwen knew he would be here tonight. Was this to provoke him? He would speak to her later. He did not need his sister meddling in his affairs of the heart.
A fool could see he was in love.
He reached Barraclough and Carrie. “Unhand Miss Leeming, sir,” he said, stepping in front of him.
A collective gasp came from the surrounding dancers. Some men laughed and called encouragement.
“What, Pennington? Have I trod upon your turf?” Barraclough asked. When he dropped his hands, Carrie spun around. Her eyes widened.
“Nicholas.”
“I believe you have confused the waltz with something else entirely,” Nicholas said to Barraclough. Julian looked as if he’d argue the point.
More couples dancing around them stopped to watch with titters and guffaws.
Barraclough stepped back. “A duel at dawn would bore me,” he said. “Much better sport to pursue.” He bowed to Carrie. “It was my pleasure, Aphrodite.” The dancers parted as he made his way through them and disappeared into the games room.
Nicholas grabbed Carrie’s hand and led her from the floor.
“Nicholas?” Carrie began again.
A footman opened the French doors, and Nicholas led her out to the terrace.
Fine, misty rain fell. Nicholas found a sheltered corner, partly in shadow. He gently removed her lacy white mask. Her gaze met his, as soft as a caress.
“Carrie. I love you, sweetheart.” He drew her into an embrace, his cheek against her hair. “You crept into my heart from our first meeting, my love. And fool that I was, I fought against it. The thought of losing you
