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Authors: Jennifer McNare

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BOOK: When Only a Rake Will Do
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“And what of Lord Palmerston?” Daphne queried a moment later, turning to Lizzie.  “Has he given you any hints as to the costume he’s chosen?”  She knew from a previous conversation that Lizzie and Lord Palmerston had playfully challenged one another to see which of them could identify the other first at the masquerade, and considering the hundreds of costumed guests who would surely be milling about the Richfield’s ballroom it wouldn’t be an easy task. 

“Not a one,” Lizzie replied with an overly-dramatic frown.   

“Not that she truly wants one,” Amelia whispered to Daphne in an overly dramatic tone, “for she intends to let Lord Palmerston win, as he has requested a kiss be her forfeit if she should lose the challenge.”

“Amelia,” Lizzie gasped, her cheeks blushing scarlet.

“Oh hush silly.  It’s only Daphne and she won’t tell anyone.”

“No, of course I won’t.”

“Well alright then, tis true,” Lizzie admitted with a small, secretive smile.  “I do intend to let him win.”

“Good for you,” Daphne replied with an answering grin.  Grasping Lizzie’s hand she gave it an encouraging squeeze.  She was happy for her, she truly was.

“You don’t think me terribly wicked?”  Lizzie asked a touch bashfully.

“Of course not,” Daphne assured her.

“Don’t be a ninnyhammer, Lizzie,” Amelia said laughingly.  “If Lord Haywood had suggested a similar challenge I would likely be doing very the same thing,” she asserted with an impish grin.

“Alright then, I suppose I’m not too terrible.  But that’s enough talk about that,” Lizzie said a little laugh and a dismissive wave of her hand.  “I think there is something else we need to discuss,” she continued, turning to Daphne with a pointed expression.

“Involving me?”

“Yes, you.”

Daphne shrugged.  “What about me?”

“While Amelia and I have been going on about Lord Haywood and Lord Palmerston for weeks now, you haven’t expressed the slightest interest in any of the gentlemen of our acquaintance,” she stated in a matter of fact tone.  “Isn’t there
anyone
to whom you’ve taken a liking?”

“Daphne, the Season is nearly halfway through and you haven’t expressed a genuine interest in any of your suitors,” Amelia added.  “Is there really no one who’s caught your fancy?”

“I…well,” she faltered, the question catching her off guard.

“Surely
someone
must have caught your eye by now,” Lizzie asserted.

In that moment Daphne wished more than anything that she could tell her friends about her engagement to the Earl of Blackburn and about the charade she’d been acting out for the past weeks, for she desperately needed someone to confide in.  But even so, she didn’t dare.  Amelia and Lizzie would want to help in any way they could, but there was no point, for there was nothing that either of them could do.  Besides, the truth would only elicit their pity, and undoubtedly cast a pall over their happiness, neither of which she wanted.  And she certainly couldn’t tell them about Brendon.  So instead, she played their questions off with a pretense that she was becoming far too good at enacting. 

“Regrettably no,” she dissembled with a heavy, melodramatic sigh, “but I haven’t given up hope.  Perhaps I shall find him at tomorrow night’s masquerade,” she continued, forcing a lightness to her voice and an overly bright smile to her face, “in the guise of a king, or a poet, or mayhap a chivalrous knight.”

“Oh yes,” Lizzie exclaimed excitedly.  “Perhaps you will find the man of your dreams
there
, a masked stranger who will woo you first with his words and then overpower your senses with his devilish good-looks when he removes his mask and reveals his true identity.”

“Wouldn’t that be simply marvelous,” Amelia breathed, her eyes wide with excitement.

Daphne merely nodded her head, for what Lizzie and Amelia didn’t know was that she had already found the man of her dreams, a man whose touch set her afire, a man she loved with all of her heart, but alas, a man who would never be hers.

Chapter 11

 

 

With Charlotte’s urging, Daphne had chosen to dress as Queen Guinevere for the Richfield’s masquerade ball.  Now, having donned the costume just moments ago, she stood before the tall cheval mirror in her bedchamber, critically studying her reflection.  Her gown was beautiful, simple but elegant.  It was made of emerald-green velvet, had an embroidered square-cut bodice, long flowing sleeves and a burgundy-colored underskirt, all of which were trimmed with an abundance of lustrous gold braid that sparkled and shimmered when the light hit it just right.  Atop her head she wore a golden crown that Charlotte had helped to adorn with paste jewels of varying shapes and colors and her hair fell in a mass of loose curls down the middle of her back.  All in all, she had to admit that her appearance was quite regal-looking and seemed to fit the part nicely.

“What do you think?” she asked, turning from the mirror to face her sister.

Sitting upon the edge of Daphne’s bed, Charlotte clapped her hands gleefully.  “Oh Daphne, you look magnificent, just how I imagined Queen Guinevere would look in real life.”

“Indeed, my lady, you look perfect,” Sarah agreed.

“Thank you both,” Daphne said, smiling graciously as she moved to retrieve her gold embroidered mask from atop the vanity table, “for the kind compliments as well as the assistance with my costume.”

“I cannot wait until I am old enough to attend a masquerade ball,” Charlotte exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement as she watched Daphne lift the mask to her face.

“And which character will you choose to go as when the time comes?” she asked as Sarah stepped toward her, reaching up to tie the gold satin ribbons together at the back of Daphne’s head.

“Why Snow-White of course,” Charlotte replied after only a second’s hesitation.  “Or perhaps Rose-Red.”

Daphne grinned.  “I should have known.”

“There you are, my lady, all set,” Sarah said as she finished securing Daphne’s mask.

“Thank you, Sarah,” she said, before turning back to her sister.  “Shall we go and see if Thomas has finished donning
his
costume,” she asked, casting one last glance toward the mirror as Charlotte hopped down from the bed.

 

They found him in the hallway.  Having just exited his bedchamber, he walked toward them with a disgruntled expression upon his handsome face.  Dressed as Shakespeare’s Romeo, he wore a feathered hat upon his head, a starched white ruff around his neck, a red-velvet doublet with long puffed sleeves and adorned with lavish gold embroidery, and a pair of short velvet breeches that fell to a point just above his knees, lined and stuffed so that they flared out around his hips and thighs.   In addition, a pair of tight-fitting, gold-colored tights encased his legs and a pair of gold-buckled shoes adorned his feet. 

“God’s teeth, how any man could stand to dress like this is beyond me,” he grumbled as he made his way toward them, raising his hand to tug ineffectually at the pleated ruff.

Daphne was tempted to chuckle at her brother’s obvious discomfort, for she knew that it was Prudence Flemming’s decision to attend the masquerade as Juliet that had prompted Thomas’ choice of costume, but wisely she refrained from expressing her amusement aloud.

“I think you look splendid,” Charlotte stated, smiling with artless conviction as she gazed admiringly upon Thomas’ extravagant attire.

“Yes, I’m sure Miss Flemming will be duly impressed,” Daphne agreed with a perfectly composed expression.

“Indeed,” Charlotte seconded.

Looking slightly mollified, Thomas finally dropped his hand from the bothersome ruff.  “Do you think so?”

“Oh yes, I’m quite certain of it.”  With Prudence’s decided lack of suitors, Thomas was well on his way to securing the young lady’s hand, his only competition a handful of dissolute fortune hunters like himself, none of whom possessed both his persuasive charm and winning good-looks, however.

“Well, I suppose I can bear it for one evening.”

Not surprisingly, Thomas made no mention of Daphne’s appearance as they continued along the hall, made their way downstairs and prepared to take their leave, for as usual his entire focus was upon himself.

Bidding farewell to Charlotte a few minutes later, Daphne assured her that she would tell her all about the masquerade the following morning, before sending her back upstairs to ready herself for bed.

 

 

When the Hewitt coach neared the Richfield residence some twenty minutes later, the line of carriages waiting to discharge their occupants stretched in a long, slow-moving column that circled around the entire block.  As such, by the time their conveyance reached the front of the queue, Thomas was in a fine fettle.  Daphne, however, didn’t mind the delay as it only served to shorten the time she would have to spend performing her act under Blackburn’s ever watchful eye.  

Once they were finally deposited at the front steps, though, Daphne had to admit to feeling just a tiny bit excited.  It
was
her first masquerade ball after all, and gazing upon the sheer number of costumed guests, as well as the extraordinarily wide variety of characters and curiosities represented as they made their way inside was actually quite remarkable.  In addition, the inherent challenge of attempting to discern which individual’s features were hidden behind the various masks seemed a rather enlivening undertaking, as did the task of keeping her own identity a secret.

“How the devil am I supposed to locate Miss Flemming in the midst of all this?” Thomas groused when they made their way into the ballroom a few minutes later, frowning as he scanned the hundreds of costumed guests circulating throughout the room.

“Perhaps you should begin your search near the refreshment table,” Daphne suggested, for that was usually where Miss Flemming’s mother preferred to station herself.

Thomas immediately turned his head in that direction.  “Yes, that is probably the most logical place to start,” he agreed.  “Are you coming?” he asked then, glancing back at her.

“Why don’t you go on ahead, I think I may have spotted Lizzie and Amelia just over there,” she fibbed, motioning to an indiscriminate area off to her right.

He nodded and then quickly moved off in search of his quarry, leaving Daphne to her own devices.  Not surprisingly, playing the dutiful chaperone had never been a role to which he aspired.

Surveying the masses, it didn’t take her long to spot the Earl of Blackburn, despite the denseness of the crowd, for he had positioned himself just a short distance from the ballroom’s entrance.  He was garbed as King Henry VIII as he appeared in one of his latter portraits, his lavish costume replicating the king’s opulent attire in striking detail.  Unfortunately, however, he spotted her as well, nodding his head in recognition, for per his request she had provided him with a detailed description of the garments she would be wearing.  Having little doubt that he’d been watching for her arrival, the trifling bit of enthusiasm she’d felt just moments ago abruptly diminished, knowing as she did that she would be forced to bear the oppressive weight of his vigilant gaze from that moment on. Tipping her head in return, she could only hope that the sheer size of the assemblage would offer her an occasional reprieve from his weighty stare.

 

 

 

Entering the Richfield’s ballroom long after the festivities had already begun, Brendon was able to make his way into the crowd relatively unnoticed, just as he’d hoped.  The costume he’d chosen was a simple one and perfectly suited to his needs.  Attired in the guise of a highwayman, he was dressed in black from head to toe.  Wearing a long, concealing cloak over his dark jacket and trousers, tall leather boots, a hat pulled low over his head and a simple, yet rather sinister looking mask to conceal his features he was well-nigh unrecognizable.

Moving slowly through the throng, he immediately began his search for any sign of his brother and sister-in-law, for the sooner as he was able to prove to Ashleigh that he had in fact made an appearance, the sooner he would be able to leave.  But even so, as he progressed through the multitude of costumed guests he quickly realized that he was looking for someone else as well.  For eyeing each young lady he passed by, he found himself scrutinizing their height, build, hair and eye color, invariably searching for that one particular combination that only Daphne possessed.  Damn, he shouldn’t have come.  But he had.  He should leave, before it was too late.  Unfortunately, however, the desire to see her, knowing she was there somewhere amongst the hundreds of masked individuals was like an irresistible lure, a temptation far too powerful to ignore.  And so he stayed.

He spotted her not long after, standing within a small group of people near the edge of the dance floor, waiting perhaps for the orchestra to begin the next set.  She was dressed in the garb of a medieval queen, the shimmering blonde hair cascading down her back a dead giveaway, for he’d run his fingers through those long, flaxen curls a dozen times or more and he knew their rich, golden hue by heart.  He paused there for a time, simply watching her from where he stood.

 

“She makes for a lovely Guinevere, does she not?”

He recognized the voice at once.  Turning, he allowed a smile to curve his lips as he regarded the masked countenance of the Dowager Marchioness of Roxleigh.  “How the devil did you know it was me?”

“Those blue eyes of yours are unmistakable, dear boy,” she said with an answering smile.  “I noted them when you passed by me a short while ago.”

“You always were remarkably observant, as I recall.”

“With you and Andrew constantly plotting one misadventure after another, I had to be,” she replied with a warm laugh.

“We were rather rambunctious in our day, weren’t we,” he agreed wholeheartedly.

“I’ve no doubt that your own sons will pay you back in kind someday,” she said lightheartedly.  “Andrew is well on his way to discovering that for himself with Harry and Miles, but you my boy still need to settle down and find yourself a wife,” she continued, lightly tapping his forearm with the tip of her folded fan to emphasize her point.

“Do I now?” Brendon grinned.

“She’s a delightful girl, Brendon.”  Her tone was more serious now.

He didn’t need to ask to whom she was referring.  “Indeed she is,” he replied with absolute sincerity.

“Well then?”

“Even if I
were
interested in taking a wife, you know her situation as well as I,” he replied.  “The lady is already spoken for, Margaret.”

She shrugged.  “The engagement hasn’t been announced.”

“But it soon will be.”

The marchioness eyed him thoughtfully for a moment.  “She’s in love with you, you know.”

Brendon tensed.  “She told you that?”

“She didn’t have to,” she said with quiet conviction.  “It was readily apparent during our return to London that she’d fallen in love with you.  I could see it in her face.”

“Margaret-”

“I know you, Brendon.  I also know that you never would have agreed to her request if you didn’t have feelings for her.”

Feelings?
  “Perhaps,” he admitted.  “But you know as well as I that physical desire and love are two entirely different emotions.”

“I also know that the two are not mutually exclusive,” she countered with an affectionate smile.  “But enough, I have said my piece.  The decision is yours and I shall leave it at that, except to say that I wish you nothing but happiness, my dear.  I hope you know that.”

Having lost his mother at an early age, Lady Roxleigh had helped to fill that void in many ways and it was something he would be forever grateful for.  “I do,” he assured her.  “And I appreciate it, Margaret, truly I do.”

 

As Lady Roxleigh moved off to rejoin her circle of friends, five little words kept repeating themselves in Brendon’s head. 
“She’s in love with you.”
  Was it true, he wondered? 
Was
Daphne in love with him?  Was it even possible to fall in love with someone in such a short amount of time?  Perhaps Margaret was simply confusing attraction, infatuation even, with love.  Love was something that came with time, something that developed slowly, gradually. 
Wasn’t it? 
Then again, what did he really know about that particular sentiment?
 
Aside from the type of love he felt for his family, it was an emotion he was entirely unfamiliar with.  

Or was it?

There it was again, that niggling little voice in the back of his head, that same little voice he’d been trying to silence since returning to London.  Cursing under his breath, he shook his head in exasperation.  The truth was that he didn’t know
what
he was feeling and it was utterly vexing.  He desired her physically, that went without saying, and he was captivated by her winsome personality, most-definitely, but
love
?  Bloody hell!  All he knew with absolute certainty was that Daphne Hewitt affected him as no other woman ever had before.  But was that enough to turn his world upside down, to give up his life as he knew it?  Sighing in frustration, he returned his gaze to where she stood, watching her once again. 

BOOK: When Only a Rake Will Do
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