Unfortunately, Henrietta could not. She had a penchant for disorder and a tendency to waver over every decision. Alas, it was not her fault she had such a flighty disposition. Truly, it wasn’t. Henri
etta was the youngest offspring of Baron Nicholas Ashby, and, as such, the most pampered of the lot. She also served as the baron’s surrogate son, thus the nickname Henry.

You see, the baron had a brood of children—all girls! Desperate for a male heir, he had christened his
fifth
daughter Henry, and like any indulgent papa, the baron catered to his “son’s” every wish and whim without complaint. Though there was no property to inherit or title to come into, that did not stop Henrietta from acting the part of the doted-upon son and heir. The only trouble with being Henry was the freedom to do as she pleased without a thought to the consequences.

“I think I’ll go with the pink,” said Henrietta.

“Fine.” Lady Ashby sighed with impatience. “I want you below in five minutes!”

The door thudded closed.

Jenny, the poor chambermaid, blanched at the command, not that Henrietta noticed. She eyed the rose silk ruffs and heart-shaped neckline and thought:
It’s perfect!

The peach frock went flying through the air, skewered on a bedpost. Discarded and forgotten, the dress dangled in neglect like so many other wisps of fabric scattered across the bedroom floor.

Musing, Henrietta glanced around the cluttered space. “Now for the mask.”

She went over to the bed, tossed the weekly gossip papers aside—she’d been reading the juicy tid
bits earlier in the day—and sifted through the many scattered headdresses, looking for the best match.

With a pleading look in her eyes, the young chambermaid lifted a bejeweled headpiece. “Will this do, miss?”

Henrietta eyed the glittering adornment. “Yes, that will do.”

Jenny whistled a sigh of relief and quickly ushered her mistress to the vanity. It took a little longer than five minutes, but soon Henrietta was all decked out in a resplendent evening gown of shimmering rose silk and a lovely jewel-encrusted mask to match.

She twirled in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting her reflection. The frock complemented the auburn glow of her hair and deep brown hue of her eyes to perfection.

If this doesn’t draw his notice, I’m going to scratch out his eyes
.

With that encouraging thought in mind, Henrietta thanked her maid.

Jenny started to tidy up the room.

“Never mind that,” said Henrietta. She took Jenny by the hand and shooed her out the door. “Cook needs help in the kitchen, I’m sure. You can clean the mess later.”

Jenny sighed and skirted off. “Yes, Miss Ashby.”

A spring to her step, Henrietta made her way down to the ballroom. Baron Ashby’s annual masquerade ball was fast becoming a tradition. The
third so far, it was first initiated at the behest of Lady Ashby to help find her youngest daughter a mate. With four sisters already wed, Henrietta was the last of the brood to get leg-shackled. Spinsterhood was fast approaching, and that, of course, put Lady Ashby in near hysterics.

But what Mama did not realize was Henrietta’s determination to resist every suitor save one—Viscount Ravenswood.

Henrietta’s heart pinched at the thought of Ravenswood. Even his name made her shiver right down to her toes.

Oh, love was such a pesky affair! For eight long years she had dreamed of Ravenswood, ever since his younger brother Peter had married her eldest sister, Penelope.
Eight
agonizing years, and still the blasted man thought of her as a charming chit, nothing more.

Henrietta had a mind to clout the viscount for his mulishness. She wasn’t a lass of twelve anymore, but a passionate woman of twenty with a need for one equally passionate man. And if the vexing lord would only stop thinking of her as a spirited imp, she could finally take her rightful place as the next Viscountess Ravenswood. She wasn’t getting any younger, didn’t he know?

The ballroom loomed ahead.

Her steps more refined, Henrietta gracefully moved to the arena’s threshold. She paused under the arched entranceway and scanned the array of
twirling dance partners. Her eyes skipped over the feathered headdresses and looked beyond the crystal chandeliers and polished marble statues of Roman gods, searching for Ravenswood.

“Good evening, Miss Ashby.”

She bristled. He was the only one in the family who didn’t call her by her nickname. It annoyed her beyond words, his willful refusal to grant her even
that
small level of intimacy.

Slowly she turned around to confront the towering figure of masculine energy.

Henrietta let out a little gasp at the sight of Ravenswood. He was decked in striking sable black attire, the white ruff of his cravat set high in an elegant knot at the center of his throat. A thick throat. A strong throat. One that made Henrietta wonder where a peer like Ravenswood would get such corded muscles.

But soon thoughts of “where” turned to thoughts of “who cares” as something squirmed in her belly. A moist heat that dazzled her senses every time she stood near the man. He was immaculate in apparel; only his sable black locks were a bit untidy, a few stray curls draped over and around his red silk mask.

Heavens, he was stunning! Oh, why hadn’t she brought along her fan? It was overwhelming, the heat radiating from Ravenswood.

“Good evening, Sebastian.” Voice unsteady, she called him by his Christian name. He would
not
deny her that familiarity, at least.

Sebastian quirked a smile at her lack of deference, but otherwise did not remark on her failure to call him “my lord.”

“And how are you this evening, Miss Ashby?”

His voice was deep and measured, and it made her heart thump loud and fierce.

“I’m very well, Sebastian, thank you,” she squeaked. “And you?”

“I’m quite well, Miss Ashby.”

Oh, she wanted to tweak his tongue and get it to say her first name! “I’m so glad to hear that.”

The viscount folded his hands behind his back, the breadth of his chest exposed to her eager eyes. And, oh, that spicy scent of Eau de Cologne! The rosemary and lemon made Henrietta positively light-headed.

It was a deuced bother, being in love with such a man. He was much too cavalier; it always put her at a disadvantage…well, not this time. This time she had on
the
perfect dress.

Her pulse throbbed. It throbbed even harder when he drawled in that oh-so-husky voice, “You look lovely this evening, Miss Ashby.”

“Thank you, Sebastian.”

For just a moment, his smoldering blue gaze dropped to caress the swell of her bosom, and Henrietta thought her heart would break through the breastbone.

It’s working,
she thought.
He’s finally going to see me
as a grown woman!

Her hopes soared even higher when he leaned in so achingly close to whisper, “I think you have outgrown your frock, Miss Ashby.”

Oh, curse him! Was that all he could say? What about
You look bewitching
? Or
I must claim the next dance
?
Anything
but an overprotective, brotherly remark.

She wanted to rail at him. She bit her tongue instead.

Forcing a smile to her trembling lips, she said, “Have I really?”

The richness of his voice tickled her skin. “I suggest you run back to your room and fetch a chemisette.”

And with that, he bowed and walked away.

Henrietta just stood in the entranceway, utterly dumbfounded. A chemisette! She had draped her body in the softest of silk—and all but exposed her bosom with the low cut of her neckline—and he told her to cover up!

She was going to wring his neck. Why, every other gentleman at the ball was gazing at her in admiration. Why couldn’t
he
?

“Bloody hell,” she muttered in the same vein as her best friend, Mirabelle Hawkins. Things were not getting off to a good start.

And that discourse! Could she have said anything more mundane?

Drat!

Why couldn’t she find her voice when in the
presence of the viscount? Why did her flesh tingle and her heart patter and her mouth grow dry? Why couldn’t she flirt effortlessly like that wench across the room ogling
her
Ravenswood?

Henrietta let out a soft snort, then turned away from the spectacle. She hated to see Ravenswood converse with other women—pretty women. It downright made her heart hurt.

Taking in a deep breath to ease the tightness in her limbs, Henrietta made her way through the throng of guests and headed for the lemonade bowl. She needed a cool refreshment.

She also needed the company of her dearest chum, Mirabelle Hawkins. The two women were kindred spirits. But alas, Mirabelle’s family was in the most dreaded of all professions—trade—and while Henrietta did not give a whit about her best friend’s familial roots, Mirabelle did. The young woman was quite aware of the stigma upon her head, and she did not wish to besmirch Henrietta’s reputation by maintaining an obvious friendship. And so Henrietta could not even invite her best bud to the masquerade ball—and she thus had to suffer the sting of Ravenswood’s dismissal alone.

A tap on the shoulder diverted Henrietta’s attention, and she set her glass of citrus fruit aside. “Oh, hello, Cat.”

Catherine Smith was an amiable acquaintance. A shy girl, she lacked the spirited character Henrietta longed for in a chum. But she was a sweet debutante,
eager to please. Henrietta had asked a favor of her, to help her woo Ravenswood. She was about to inquire after Catherine’s progress in the endeavor—when she noticed the rose pigment marking the young woman’s throat. Was the girl blushing?

“Is something the matter, Cat?”

Catherine stuttered.

“Cat, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

The girl paused, took in a deep breath, then said, “I spoke with Ravenswood, just like you asked me to.”

Henrietta blinked. “When?”

“Tonight. The ball’s been under way for more than an hour, Henry.”

Heavens, was she that late? Henrietta brushed her astonishment aside and fixed her gaze on Catherine. “Well, out with it, Cat. What happened with Ravenswood?”

The girl knitted her fingers. “I-I mentioned your name and remarked on your pretty eyes and—”

“Yes, I know what
you
said. We rehearsed the monologue last week. But what did
he
say?”

“Oh, he was quite in accord about your eyes, and all.”

“But…?”

“Well, you s-see.” Catherine glanced at the polished ballroom floor. “He was so nice and we talked about all sorts of things.”

“Things?” Henrietta reared her head back. “What sorts of things?”

“Nothing of consequence. The beautiful summer weather, the approaching end of the Season, the retreat to the country…”

Henrietta wasn’t a soul to practice patience. Lord knew, she didn’t have much restraint when it came to her temper, either. And Catherine was beginning to gnaw at what little equanimity she had left.

Setting a hand over the girl’s fidgety fingers, Henrietta encouraged, “Yes, Cat?”

Catherine looked up and sighed. “I think I’m in love with Ravenswood.”

Henrietta blinked again. It took her all of two seconds to gather her stunned thoughts.

“Why, Cat, you little hussy!”

Henrietta snatched the wide-eyed girl’s mask, and in a fit of feminine pique, plucked each and every feather from the frilly headpiece. She cared not a jot that she was standing in the middle of the sumptuous ballroom, amid a throng of masquerading guests, and causing a bit of a stir. Nor did she heed Catherine’s whimpers. All Henrietta minded was the ghastly declaration young Catherine had just uttered, causing her mind to whirl and colorful spots to dance before her eyes.

“I say, unhand me,” Henrietta protested, as a hand suddenly pinched her wrist and yanked her roughly away from a sniveling Catherine.

Dragged to the other side of the ballroom and shoved behind a potted fern, Henrietta glared at the
masked female with obvious ire.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Indignant, Henrietta demanded, “Who are you?”

At that moment, the mysterious female lifted her feathered headdress.

Henrietta gasped. “Oh, Belle!”

Henrietta flung herself at Mirabelle Hawkins, her very dearest friend in the whole wide world. The horrible downward spiral of the evening immediately brightened, as the two girls hugged and hopped in glee—and let out a few feminine squeals to boot.

Henrietta had not seen her chum in almost a year. Gracious, it had been too long! Though studious in her letter writing, Mirabelle had not come to Town to visit. And Henrietta had missed her terribly…so what was Mirabelle doing here? Henrietta had not invited her to the ball. Was the woman in some sort of trouble?

Discarding Catherine’s tattered mask, Henrietta removed her own bejeweled headpiece. “What’s the matter, Belle? Are you hurt?”

“I’m all right.” Mirabelle took in a rather shaky breath, indicating otherwise, then pointed to the shabby mask on the shiny ballroom floor. “What was
that
all about?”

Her temper rankled once more, Henrietta made a moue. “Oh, Cat’s a conniving little witch.”

“Cat?”

“Catherine…never mind.” Henrietta waved a hand. “The girl
was
my friend up until a minute ago.”

BOOK: Too Scandalous to Wed

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