devil in disguise

In Regency England, Lady Marah Brooke disgraced herself by choice and ran away from an arranged betrothal. Years later, she encountered her former intended at a masquerade, and fell for the man who had every reason to mistrust and rebuke her.

Devil in Disguise is suitable for single title publication at 80,000 words in length. The first two chapters are provided below for your further consideration.

excerpt

Chapter One

A young lady wishing to rid herself of an arranged marriage might first plead to her parents. If this failed, she could ask her fiancé to recommend the engagement be called off. If that didn't work, she could refuse to eat until they were no longer betrothed (or until she became too hungry to worry about principles a day and a half later, the choice being up to the maiden).

A more creative bride-to-be could, all subtler methods exhausted, wait until her intended came to visit and poison his drink with an emetic that caused him to relinquish his eight course dinner to a chamber pot. She could release chickens into his bedroom at dawn. It was entirely possible, though not recommended, that she could take his clothes from his room and throw them directly into a bonfire which happened to be blazing outside.

Lady Marah had done all these things, and with little to show for it except an aggrieved fiancé who was still bound to her by honorable agreement. Unfortunately, he wasn't the sort to dismiss his honorable duty, even when faced with seven chickens and one irate rooster pecking about his blankets at five in the morning.

Week after week, her father wouldn't stop rattling on about his favorite young ally in parliament. Oh, yes, Lord Reston showed such promise! The young earl was brilliant, sophisticated, honorable and every other amazing thing under the sky. And he even took the time to raise some of the best sheep on the British Isles! The duke acted as though being able to harvest fine wool up north was the most impressive feat known to man.

The duke proudly claimed Nathan Harbury, the estimable Earl of Reston as the son he always wanted. He never realized that his only child took offense that he might like someone else in that way when he never showed any interest in her, his actual child. She could have been rather affectionate, had she ever been encouraged. But she was not.

Marah never understood why her parents failed to see her when they were in the same room, why no amount of chattering or displays of brilliance ever caused them to take notice of their daughter, except when she stunned them with her misconduct.

The duke didn't see his young daughter's confusion or her distress when he invited Lord Reston for hunting or to go over special plans for the House of Lords, or just to spend a week or two in each other's company, lolling about the estate and talking of this and that. She had never spent a private moment with the duke in her life. Her father never would have understood why she disliked Lord Reston. After all, she was only a girl, and didn't she need a good husband some day? Any other daughter would have been thrilled to be so ideally matched. But Marah was not like those daughters.

She was optimistic when her seventeenth and eighteenth years passed without a visit from the earl, but distance did not nullify their engagement. With each year, the duke found more reasons to indicate that Lord Reston should be held up as the hope of the nation, what with his aptitude and unwavering convictions, and shouldn't Marah strive to be worthy of her future husband? She never did anything right enough for him, and it took years before she stopped trying. A song memorized, an accomplished portrait drawn, perfect dancing steps, a book translated—nothing impressed her parents, and nothing she did would ever be so grand as Lord Reston's slightest accomplishment.

By age nineteen, her mother started urging them to set a wedding date, and Marah realized that more desperate measures were required. As luck would have it, one of the estate's footmen considered himself very dashing and knew just how frantic she was to shed her ties to Lord Reston. A few seductive ploys were all it took before she eagerly and awkwardly relinquished her innocence to the first man to ever notice her, listen to her sentiments and suggest a way out of her engagement.

The very next week he vanished from the estate without a word to her—though he'd had many words, apparently, with the other footmen. Within a day of his departure, the entire servant's quarter was abuzz with the scandalous tale of her terminated maidenhood, and ten minutes after the head butler knew, so did the duke.

When her father stormed into her rooms, shouting about her disgrace, Marah drew up all her confidence and shouted right back. “I'm leaving,” she yelled to him, “and I'm never coming back. You cannot stop me.” And for all his political influence and high rank and millions in the bank, she was right: he could not stop his own daughter.

She packed her things and bought a carriage ride out of town. She needed to be far, far away from the family that had never asked her what she wanted. With every new scandal she made and every gambling hell she entered, every man she teased over the years, she sent another silent message to her father: Here I am, your only child, and you cannot stop me.

The rumors grew from one telling to the next. Lady Marah (that brazen hussy), sole progeny of the Duke and Duchess of Hillcrest, had slept with fifty men. No, a hundred men at the very least! No, no, it was only a dozen or so—though rest assured, the details of these were more shocking than even the suggestion of a hundred partners. Of course, at least half of her conquests were married, and she had tempted dozens—no, hundreds of male members of the ton into her clutches for a kiss, an embrace of the scandalous sort, or even worse—as they were all willing to testify while they smoked their cigars and drank their scotch in exclusive clubs and private homes.

She went to the demi-monde parties, prowling around for a romantic, impressionable young man, luring him away from his sanctified commitment of matrimony and into her—and this part was whispered—bed of sin, where she ruined him for any relations he might have in the future with any decent woman. She had no heart, no honor, no conscience and certainly no virtue of which to speak.

The rumors became more scandalous with each passing day as society clinked glasses and dined together. On one detail, however, all the gossips were in absolute agreement: Lady Marah Brooke was not, under any circumstances, a lady.

The gossips would have been thrilled to discover a meeting taking place in a pub off an inn, located in a somewhat unsavory section of London. But no one who was anyone knew a thing about it, because society folk would never traipse into such proletarian environs, not even for the choicest gossip.

♦ ♦ ♦

Marah's brilliant red hair drew the eyes of more than one man, but they kept to their business and she kept to hers. She was dressed simply and modestly in clothes that had never been au courant unless one was a peasant girl from the country, which she most decidedly was not.

Marah watched the pub's entrance from her table. This inn was certainly cleaner than the last she stayed in when visiting London, but still nowhere near fashionable. One could smell the stables right next door, and the clientele was decidedly common, bursting out in raucous laughter at any given moment while flourishing their mugs of cheap ale. The duchess would be horrified—which was, naturally, the main reason why Marah had chosen this place.

And of course, the moment her thoughts rested on her lovely mother, Marah spied the duchess entering the pub. Her mother edged across the room as though she were in a stable and might step in something if she didn’t keep watch. The duchess wore a large hat to shield her face from gazes and, if that weren’t melodramatic enough, a black lace veil as well. How very proper. One certainly wouldn’t want anyone to spy the Duchess of Hillcrest in a place like this, talking to, of all people, a ruined woman. And that was what Marah was. Before she was a human being and certainly before she was the nobly-born daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hillcrest, she was first and foremost a ruined woman. Her mother never let her forget it.

Marah placed a smile on her face. Her cheeks smarted from it already. I will not lose my temper today, she told herself. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Show me to your room,” the duchess said without so much as a greeting—not that a greeting had been expected. Marah stood up and turned around, not bothering to pursue conversation further. She led her mother past the patrons of the inn and through a few more common rooms.

The hallways had a bit more grime than she would have liked. Marah finally came to her own room door, jiggled the key in the lock when it wouldn’t give immediately, and finally, after a couple of shoves that were not quite the picture of poise and polish she would have wished to display to her mother, succeeded in unlocking it. She silently gestured to the duchess to follow her in, purposefully avoiding the woman's gaze while she still felt embarrassed by something as absurd as a tricky door. Once they were both inside, Marah locked the door, counted to four in her mind with slow, even breaths while she pulled the key out of its keyhole, and convinced herself to turn around. When she did, the duchess was just standing there, arranging the lace on her sleeve, not even looking at her.

“I assume there was a reason for your desire to see me, Mother?” Marah prompted.

The duchess fiddled with her lace a bit longer, and then looked up. She gave her daughter a slow once-over, and Marah immediately felt judgment coming for her clothes, her hair, her very posture. She could not help the instinct to stand up straighter and square her shoulders more surely, but she also lifted her chin and trained her eyes on her mother just as she had been taught many years ago to receive one of equal status. Her mother sniffed slightly, and finally spoke.

“You appear to be...healthy.”

“Yes. I am fine.”
“No diseases?”

Marah’s gaze turned hard. “No.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.”
“Why did you ask me to meet you?”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “I see you’ve let your freckles get the best of you. You’ve been in the sun more than you should be.” She made a show of inspecting the table for dust with a run of her gloved fingers before taking her hat and veil from her person and setting them on the table, along with her reticule. “Well. Are you going to ask me to sit down?” Her tone became haughtier by the moment.

“Do sit down. Mother.”

The duchess eyed her daughter warily and sat on the room’s only upholstered armchair, radiating obvious displeasure. The furniture was acceptable by most standards, but Marah knew that it in no way compared to the London townhouse furnishings of the Duke of Hillcrest. Her mother might as well have been sitting on a rag upon the floor, judging by the riled look on her face.

“I have requested a meeting due to a matter which requires your immediate attention. Tonight.”

What could she possibly do for her mother? “I don’t see why you should need my help in anything,” Marah replied evenly.

“Your help is not necessary.” Her mother eyed her as though she were some audacious pauper on the streets, hovering near her to beg for a penny. “Your cooperation is all that is needed.” There was a pause. The duchess held up one of her hands to the light, apparently eyeing the embroidery on her gloves.

“Would you care to tell me, then,” her daughter asked, determinedly ignoring her mother’s inattention, “how I might cooperate in some way?”

The duchess nodded to the table. “Bring me my reticule, if you would.”

So she was acting the servant now. How lovely. Marah fetched the reticule and handed it to her, not even bothering to ask why. Her mother took it and opened the drawstrings with great care, as though the very act were elegance itself. She took out an envelope, pulled tight the strings with another flourish of refinement, and set the reticule beside her. Finally, she held out the envelope to Marah.

“What is this?” Marah took it. It had the crossed-sword insignia of Hillcrest embossed upon it. She opened the envelope and was met with bold black calligraphy script. She scanned its contents carefully, re-reading it again with slight confusion she refused to let show as she looked up.

She modulated her voice to be as even and forthright as she could manage. “Mother, why are you giving me an invitation to your masquerade tonight?”

“You need to see your father. He has very important information for you. You must go there tonight.”
Marah’s eyes narrowed and her voice was firm. “I mustn’t do anything he or you order me to do. I believe that was made clear four years ago. Elaborate, if you will.”

“It is not for me to say,” her mother answered sharply. She actually sounded irritated that she could not elaborate. “You will go there tonight, dressed in costume. I will acquire one for you and have it sent to this room later today. Properly attired in the middle of a masque, no one need know we have allowed you to step inside the house again, even for a moment. I cannot stress enough the importance of not revealing who you are to a soul tonight. You must keep your mask on the entire time you are in the presence of guests.”

“You act as though it is all but done, just like before.” Marah’s voice took on a sharper edge. “Tell me why I should be compelled to do anything you say.”

“You must—” the duchess paused, seeming to gather her thoughts. There was a slight pause, and the smallest flicker of her mother’s eyes. “It is very important that you see the duke tonight. Tonight, Marah. None of your flitting about and showing up a week late. As to why, I am not at liberty to say. That is the truth. If it were up to me, I would dispense of the whole notion altogether, but your father has made his decision.”
“And if I do not come tonight? I told him I would never come back.”

“Anyone might revise one's sentiments for the right reasons. We need not rely upon words said in heated passion.” The duchess picked up her reticule and opened it with somewhat less flair than she had before. She took out a twenty-pound note and held it out to her daughter. “Take this. It should keep you for at least a month—what with the level to which you have grown accustomed, apparently.” She made a quick, dismayed survey of the room. It may as well have been a pig’s sty.

Marah took the note. She wasn’t about to refuse a substantial amount of money because of pride.

“Will you do this? I am trying to help you.”

“I don’t ever remember your wanting to help me before. What has happened, Mother?”

“Will you come?” the duchess asked flatly.

Marah hesitated, and her curiosity got the best of her. “Yes, all right.”

“I will send a costume over.” The duchess raised herself from her seat without another word. In a trice, she was gone from the rented room completely.

Well, Marah thought as she jiggled the key in its keyhole again to lock the door from the inside, at least I got twenty pounds out of this. It would indeed last her a month, perhaps even two if she were careful. Four years ago, she would have spent it in a day without a thought, with more at hand if she so wished it.

But she was very, very different now. Money and the privilege that came from it were what she missed most about being estranged from her family, much more than she missed her mother and father. With three nannies and a governess between herself and her parents, they firmly separated themselves from everything she had ever done, and yet they still expected her loyalty. Any affection she might have felt for them faded years ago, along with any hope of their ever warming to her.

She had felt like an afterthought who would go where they said to go and do as they told her to do in every situation. You will learn to play the pianoforte, because that is what a lady does. She probably would have liked playing the pianoforte if it hadn’t been something she had been required to do every day, so instead she hated it—especially because whenever they heard her play, they always found fault in her performance, always pushed her to the next level as though she were an automaton, without feeling or preferences.

You will marry the man we tell you to marry. She had never even bothered to acquaint herself with Lord Reston because he was just like the pianoforte. She had no choice in the matter, so even if he hadn't won the affection from her father which she had never been given, she still might have disliked him. As it was, the duke had made it meticulously clear that she didn't deserve the political virtuoso who was Nathan Harbury, Earl of Reston. The duke might as well have disowned her and adopted Lord Reston instead; it would have saved the price of a wedding.

At the time, she reveled in whatever way she could disrupt her unwanted fiancé's existence. These days, she was a bit discomfited when she thought of all the immature schemes she had terrorized him with during her youth. It hadn't been his fault that the duke preferred him to his daughter. She couldn't change the past, though, and the thought of him still vexed her a bit, so she was never overly troubled by it. Wherever he was now—writing superb treatises, giving orations that amazed and tending to every last beautiful sheep in his possession in his most particular manner—he had once experienced the calamity which was Lady Marah Brooke, and the balance that brought to his perfect existence was enough for her.

Chapter Two

Marah watched from her velvet-lined chair next to the punch table as three men approached her corner of the ballroom. Being a candid observer of the goings-on, Marah knew the men had been sent on their quest for punch by Miss Fiona Channing, Miss Mary Worthington and Lady Tabitha Swan, who were doing a terrible job keeping their identities secret. They must have conspired together, as all three wore angel costumes. How perfectly trite.

This trio had been attended to all night—and all season, truly, if the gossip rags were to be believed—by the eager gentlemen who sought their hands. Hand in a dance, hand in marriage, hand in a scandal; the men and their purposes varied, but the ladies stayed the same.

Marah watched from her chair and wondered what it would be like to be a lady like that. Miss Channing, Miss Worthington and Lady Tabitha were all quite lovely, in addition to possessing impeccable social skills. They had been near the punch bowls earlier in the night, so Marah could say with certainty that one might describe their ability to converse on the subject of hat ribbons as superb. In addition, it was known among the up-and-ups that Lady Tabitha Swan in particular had seventy thousand pounds for a dowry, which naturally made her the most alluring and captivating of the three.

Marah watched them laugh, flirt and dance. They seemed to laugh and flirt best in the arms of a dancing partner. As for Marah, well, she was currently pretending to be completely absorbed in what she was doing—taking a sip of the warm yet acceptable punch—which, incidentally, she had fetched for herself. Not that it was likely that the three men at the punch table, or anyone, really, watched her.

The outfit her mother had chosen was flamboyant enough, but Marah did not want to cause a scene, so she stayed out of view and only talked to the people who happened to come over near the punch bowl. She just wanted her mother to contact her again, so she could find out why she was here and go back to the inn.

Her costume was obviously Cleopatra, complete with kohl lining her eyes, though that was nearly covered with the white demi-mask she wore firmly tied to her face with satin laces at the back. A black wig with golden headpiece covered her red hair. Astute of the duchess to think of Marah’s hair, which needed covering if she were to avoid notice. The freckles she could do nothing about after a thorough powdering that had made her sneeze and still left plenty of them to be seen where the mask did not cover them, but that wasn’t much of an issue. Her hair was. Red hair stuck out in a crowd and in people’s memories, and that was exactly what she could not do tonight.

On the off chance that someone glanced her way at some point or other during the evening, she had assumed a cool air which showed her absolute indifference to the fact that she had not been asked to dance even once this evening. I don't want to dance, she told herself. I want to stay out of the way.

Still, she argued to herself, it wouldn’t do to appear anti-social. It would be nice to dance, she admitted, especially at a masquerade where society’s rules were slightly relaxed, and she wouldn’t have to be introduced to anyone before they danced. The excitement and mystery of concealment for one night trumped the social strictures.

And if he asks your name after the dance, she asked herself, internally rolling her eyes, what would you tell him? No, it was best to just avoid everyone and wait the night out. Hopefully the duchess would fetch her soon. She had never anticipated her mother’s company with more devotion.

She took another poised sip of punch. Her eyes lifted from the cup, and—goodness! She started from surprise, nearly knocking over her cup most ungracefully.

A man had come to stand in front of her, a handsome man with brown hair. His green eyes peered out of a white mask. The mask stopped right above his mouth, which smiled at her. He bowed and asked, “Do I know you?”

She considered him. “I doubt you do, sir. Nor do I know you.”

“Well, then, good Cleopatra—you are Cleopatra, yes?—will you honor me with your hand for the waltz?”

She considered him briefly. He was in a classical black suit and tails. Clean, straightforward and presentable. Oh, it couldn’t hurt much. She would just tell him a different name than her own if he asked, and then they would conveniently never cross paths again.

“I would be delighted,” she said evenly, raising from her chair and setting her punch cup onto the table. He took her empty hand into his and gave her another smile, a big, dashing one that matched the light in his eyes. Those shiny green eyes stood out from under his mask. They were almost, she thought, too pretty to be a man's eyes. She had read of eyes sparkling in books before but had never seen the like in person. Females about London were surely keen for those eyes, or jealous of them, whether he be a footman or a duke.

They danced the waltz for a few minutes before either said anything. He was a good dancer: sure with his steps, light on his feet and considerate rather than showy. She had to admit that she was somewhat distracted by his close proximity. His hand was firmly entwined about hers, with the other nestled close to her waist. It had been a while since she had been to a dance, and even longer since she had been with a man. That would surely surprise society.

She often told herself that those who clung to gossip were desperate for news that someone was worse than they were. And maybe they were a bit jealous that she lived her life as she wanted, without fear of them. Well, the life that she wanted when she had the opportunity. If she'd been as scandalous as her reputation suggested, she probably wouldn't have been so aware of his hand on her waist.

“You look entirely fascinating when you are deep in thought,” said he in a friendly manner, interrupting her mental reverie, “and I somewhat dislike infringing upon your reflection. I could almost ask you what you were thinking.”   

“Almost?” she asked back. She certainly couldn’t tell him she was thinking how his hand about her waist would feel if it were to glide down ever so slightly. She let it show just a bit in her smile, though.

He smiled back. “Sometimes the mysterious is more amusing. Once I spied you in the corner, I couldn't help but glance in your direction every so often. There you would sit, Cleopatra of the Nile contemplating something at which I surely couldn’t guess. I decided I must ask you to dance, if only to hear some of the thoughts in your head spoken aloud. I admit, I had been contemplating whether I should ask you to dance for the last half hour entirely.”

She gave a lilting laugh. “Had you, then? Can you even tell whether I’m contemplating through this mask?”

“Yes and yes, and I am most pleased with the result. You could have said no, and I would have been terribly broken-hearted.” His grin belied the melodramatic nature of his words.

“I am glad to hear that things went well for you.” She cast him an amused look. “We would not want you to suffer a broken heart. I hear it is a ghastly condition.”

“No, we would not at all. I believe the Baron of Littlefield is portraying the Broken Heart in costume tonight, and if his cries of agony and the fake blood that trails him across the floor are anything to go by, you have truly saved my health. I am sure I would have been pining for days. You are a good soul indeed.”

“Days, really?”

“Hours at the very least.”

“Ah: so quickly is your malaise abbreviated from days to hours! In a moment, it will have been better for me to have said no, for it would be but a second of brief yet heavy sorrow, and then all is over, and on with your life.”
“And you on with yours,” he sighed. “You could right now be drinking another cup of punch.”

“Alas! It is so.”

“But dear mademoiselle, one second of sorrow is far from the pleasure which we enjoy while dancing. The past is in the past, and speculation is just that. I have asked you to dance, you have said yes, and here we are: we are dancing.”

“You are triumphant,” she acknowledged.

“Indeed. And in celebration of our shared triumph—for you are spared from drinking that questionable punch and pretending to enjoy it, so you have achieved a victory as well—I suggest that we introduce ourselves, though it be not in the spirit of the masquerade. I would love to have your name, in the event that we miss each other after the midnight unmasking.”

She smiled back at him. “Of course.” Bother.

“Splendid! Since I asked, I will start. I am Nathan Harbury.” 

It was a credit to herself that she didn’t misstep, but instead kept on lightly meeting his dance steps with her own, as though his name were the most unremarkable thing in the world; as though her stomach hadn't jolted from feelings she had thought long buried. Her voice was a touch softer than before, because she was finding it difficult to stop her throat from contracting.

“Nathan Harbury, the earl of Reston, would it be?”

“The very same,” he said easily.

She found herself needing to cough, and the next few seconds were an uncomfortable mix of trying to control her coughing reaction while she half-heard his concerned inquiries as to her well being. She shook her head and made light of it, clearing her throat, but her mind was on full alert. There couldn’t be anyone in this ball from whom it was more important to keep her true identity hidden than him—and damn it all, her eyes were starting to water.

“I'm sorry, I must have breathed in some dust,” she managed. She cleared her throat again as ladylike as could be done.

“Should we stop? Perhaps if you—”

“No. No, I am well.” And she was, she told herself. I am well, and all is well. Keep dancing, and then it will end, and then you never speak to him again. Easy as anything.

He seemed younger than she remembered him. He couldn’t be much older than thirty now, but their gap in ages had seemed greater when she was younger. He had just finished studies in university when they were betrothed. Over the years of their engagement, she had never thought to ask her parents his age, or to look him up in a genealogical book of peers. In truth, she had barely spared it a thought.

“So then,” he spoke, bringing her out of her daze. “We have established who I am. And you, Miss...? Or is it Lady..?”

“It is neither,” she answered quickly.

“Oh?”

She smiled at him again, endeavoring to keep a calm façade. “It is Her Royal Highness, Queen Cleopatra of the Nile.”

He laughed. She didn't want to notice he had a nice laugh. She didn't want to be near him at all. “Your masquerade spirit is more fervent than mine, I see.” And there was that voice, low and charged with a charming quality. Of course he was charming. He was the paradigm of excellence; everything her father respected.

She quickly changed the subject, lest he press the issue. “So I am gathering from your costume. What are you dressed as, my lord?”
He shrugged as they turned on the dance floor. “What do you think it is?”

“I just don’t know. I tried to think of the different things you could be. After ‘man with mask on’ I ran out of dull ideas. I imagine you did as well. I’m surprised they let you in at all.” She didn't know whether she was teasing him or berating him. It came to her so easily, though, that she had to regulate her voice so it stayed pleasant.

His smile became a bit rueful in answer. “That is exactly it, actually. I decided to come as Lack of Inspiration. The doorman almost didn’t accept it as a costume, but I convinced him in the end.”

“You could have just worn a domino cape and mask."

"Everyone comes as a domino. By comparison, Lack of Inspiration is very original."

Her lips curved slowly into her own smile before she could stop it. They revolved around the dance floor, going through the rest of the steps with an amiable dialogue as she tried to tell herself that there was no reason for her to engage in more conversation.

But it was hard to resist. He didn't know who she was, so she was receiving the full Nathan Harbury charm. He was intelligent, charismatic and polite, just as her parents had always praised him for being. Though she was guarded, she couldn't help warming to the discussion bit by bit. At the least, she returned his wit with her own, thank goodness.

It was the first time they had actually engaged in amicable discussion, though they had been in each other’s acquaintance a number of times when she was younger. The last time was over six years ago, if she remembered it rightly. She had been so different then, so focused on showing everyone that she would not cooperate with their plans for her. She was accountable for herself now, and her struggles were entirely different. She was different. And he seemed to have grown even more into the ideal gentleman than before. Even as it grated on her, she found herself responding to him before she realized what was happening.

When the dance was over, he bowed to her and she curtsied absentmindedly. They walked off to the edge and he struck up their conversation again. “My Queen, if you reveal what name you go by when you are not Cleopatra of the Nile, you would make a poor uninspired man very content indeed.”

Drat. She looked at him considering, weighing. “Oh, no one you would want to know, my Lord.” Truer than he knew.

“Of course I do.”

She looked at him oddly for just a quick moment before she covered that up, smiled again and gave him a teasing look. “My name is Louisa Hall.” Louisa was her middle name. It would do. And her mother’s maiden name would also do the trick very properly. She could claim to be a poor relation.

He bowed again. “Miss Hall, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She curtsied again. “The honor is entirely mine, my lord.” And if he knew how truly she spoke, she’d receive the cut direct, no doubt. He would probably walk out on her without another word. Any civilized person would, she wagered, especially one such as the Earl of Reston. He had always been a very civilized and respectable sort, except for that one time.

He always tried to resist her impudence, and usually succeeded. Once, though, his temperance was exceeded. After she tossed the contents of his wardrobe into the bonfire, she saw the flash of passion within him. They had stood in the clearing behind her estate yelling at each other, near the hot flames that destroyed his clothes. She had reveled in his long-awaited reaction to her resentful antics. He raged at her and called her names, and she yelled them right back. He had been so unlike the perfect gentleman her father named him to be. She remembered the spark of interest she had felt for this different man behind the gentleman.

Her attention was brought back to the present as he bowed to her. “Miss Hall,” he started, “if it would not be a great sin to deprive you from the activities of this ball, I was wondering if you might take a turn about the garden with me. It is a lovely night, and I would enjoy conversation, if you are up to it.”  

“Oh,” she said, “I—” but she was interrupted by a hand placed firmly upon her arm. She turned to face the bearer of that startling grip.

It was her mother, dressed in Grecian garb with a delicate crown atop her head. Hera, no doubt. The duchess had a particular fondness for the mother of the gods. Her mother released her arm, and Marah curtsied carefully. “Your Grace,” she murmured. She must act as though she were any other guest—though every other guest was probably more welcome than she.

The earl bowed to the duchess. “It is lovely as always to see you, Your Grace.”

The woman nodded slightly to him, no recognition in her eyes, and then turned her attention to her daughter. “Your presence is required elsewhere,” she said shortly.

Marah felt her mother’s hand grasp her own hand, and she felt herself being abruptly led away. She turned back to see the earl gazing at them in their retreat. She shrugged to him and lifted her free hand in a slight wave.

He nodded once and smiled at her.

It was a nice smile.