My Viscount's Madness: A Fake Courtship Enemies to Lovers Stuck together Next-Door Regency Romance by Kristina Earl

Author:Kristina Earl [Earl, Kristina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2025-02-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Masquerade

Peers and debutantes filled the dance floor of Lady Crawford’s ballroom. Marguerite recognized half the Ton behind their disguises, though Lord Guildford remained conspicuously absent from the crowd. She adjusted her mask—silver threads of filigree weaving with pearls matching the embroidery on her white silk gown.

Behind their masks, society’s usual restraints loosened perceptibly. Ladies laughed more freely, gentlemen spoke more boldly, and even the most proper matrons seemed to embrace the evening’s air of mystery.

A naval captain in peacock blue danced with a merchant’s daughter, their ranks forgotten behind matching golden masks. Two young ladies whispered secrets they’d never dare voice with faces uncovered. Even Lord Morton, notorious for his coldness, had abandoned his usual corner to lead his wife in a sprightly cotillion. The safety of anonymity transformed the Ton’s control into something wilder, more dangerous.

“I cannot believe you convinced him to attend,” Dinah murmured beside her. Rich crimson silk draped her tall and slim form, shot through with golden details. “Though perhaps the masks provide sufficient cover for his sensibilities.”

Marguerite’s fingers traced the edge of her mask. “He hasn’t arrived.”

“Hasn’t he?” Her sister’s knowing smile curved beneath her own disguise. “Then who is that gentleman by the doors, whose entire bearing screams constant vigilance?”

Marguerite turned, her breath catching at the sight of him. His shoulders filled the doorway where he stood. The upper half of his face was covered by a black satin mask, but she recognized him immediately. Unlike the more elaborate costumes worn by other gentlemen, no excesses marred the perfection of his black evening clothes—save for the single white rose in his lapel that matched the ones woven through her hair.

Their eyes met across the crowded room. Even through the mask, she recognized the moment he saw her—his shoulders aligning infinitesimally, his chin lifting as though preparing for battle.

“You watch him differently now,” Dinah observed, her voice pitched for Marguerite’s ears alone. “Less like a convenient shield and more like…”

“Like what?”

“Like a woman who’s discovered her heart has betrayed her careful plans.” Her sister’s knowing look pierced even through her mask. “Be careful, dearest. Such discoveries rarely remain private in our circle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Go to him,” Dinah urged softly. “Before he convinces himself to retreat.”

Marguerite moved through the crowd, wanting to run to him but unable to do so. She caught only fragments of the other dancers—a flash of emerald silk here, a gentleman’s laugh there. Her attention remained fixed on the man who watched her approach while he stood still, watching her tenderly.

“My Lord.” She dropped into a curtsy before him. “I confess, I had begun to doubt your attendance.”

“I considered remaining away,” he whispered. “Though someone once suggested that healing requires facing one’s fears.”

“A wise observation.” She offered her hand, and without her gloves as required by the masquerade’s traditions, the brush of his skin against hers felt shockingly intimate. “Then perhaps you might allow me to help you face them?”

The roughness of his palm pressed against her softer skin.

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