Love, Unmasked

  Love, Unmasked

  Vivian Roycroft

  δ

  Dingbat Publishing

  LOVE, UNMASKED

  Copyright © 2014 by Vivian Roycroft

  ISBN 978-1-940520-25-4

  Cover art and formatting by Dingbat Publishing

  Humble, Texas

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are entirely the produce of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual locals, events, or organizations is coincidental.

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this e-book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

  For my Grey, John Grey (“Bond. James Bond.”), he of the sweet smile and wicked puns. Love you, Garfield.

  And to the Atascocita Culver’s crew — Lisa, Don, Haydee, George, Joshua the quiet one, Diana with her beautiful smile, Guillermo who shares my coffee addiction, Ashley who always waves — for creating the perfect atmosphere to soothe a desperate author.

  1

  Tuesday, December 7, 1813

  Fidelity Scott sucked in a shivery breath and froze, knitting needles poised like twin exclamation marks amid her neatly coiled pink yarn. All sensation faded away and around her, the morning room paled to a foggy grey nothingness. The crackling fire warmed her face but lost all color and sound, and the tremor in her hands started in her knitting needles and rippled through to her toes, missing none of her in between.

  It happened every time, without fail. Her friend Clarissa Pelham had mentioned that name, the one guaranteed to draw Fidelity into dreamy, mindless yearnings no matter the circumstances, and it did so with its usual heady abandon. The raw emotions shivering through her seemed to suck all the bones from her body, leaving her trembling like some loathsome sea creature.

  Her younger cousin, Jessica Alcock, sprawled back across the sofa, one arm falling over her face in a pretended swoon, the other grabbing for one of the overstuffed pillows propped among the cushions. The lower half of her face, all that could be seen through her amateur theatrics, seemed to melt into a gooey puddle of drool. “Oooh, yes, Mis-ter Bright-en-burg!” she trilled in a vibrato sing-song.

  A chorus of sighs broke through Fidelity’s name-induced fog and she shook herself awake. Embarrassing, that was. Honestly, if she couldn’t control her reaction when a certain gentleman’s name was mentioned, then she scored no higher on propriety than her two young cousins, which was very very bad indeed.

  At least no one else in the morning room had managed to stay unaffected. On the chair by the hearth, Clarissa stared at the wallpaper, sewing forgotten in her lap and a dreamy expression blanking out her face. The two cousins, younger Jessica and elder Georgette, were too busy indulging each other’s overly dramatic silliness to notice anyone else’s. Strange, how no one was able to avoid collapsing into a pitiable, quivering mass whenever that name was mentioned. Of course, considering the incredible masculinity said name represented… Just the thought moved a few coals from the fireplace to somewhere deep inside her belly.

  Georgette squirmed, a single indecorous wriggle of unbearable delight. Several blond curls broke free from her careless knot and dangled around her face, one sporting a forlorn hairpin that swung with her movement. “Oooh, yes, Mister Brightenburg, he of the most delicious legs. What he does to a pair of silken hose and breeches—”

  Appalled, Fidelity dropped a stitch. “Georgette!” Not that it wasn’t true. But saying it aloud was beyond the pale, even here in the privacy of the morning room. Although come to think of it, it would be lovely to just hang it all and squirm along with her.

  It didn’t help that her traitorous thoughts dwelled on the legs in question. Those lovely curving calves, the whip-cord muscular thighs, and above that…

  “Indeed!” Jessica flipped upright on the sofa and whirled, grabbing Georgette’s shoulders. “Such men should be required by law to wear nothing else.”

  Fidelity’s hands jerked and another loop slid off the needle. Those girls can’t get any worse. It’s impossible.

  “Or nothing at all!”

  So much for that notion.

  The girls collapsed into a single pile of giggling foolishness, blond and brown hair intermixed. Heat climbed Fidelity’s cheeks. She was no prude, but those two were becoming more — well, more overtly mature by the day. Thankfully Clarissa was discreet; she’d never gossip about their behavior, at least not with anyone besides Fidelity. Which is another reason to let go and join them.

  The sudden thought startled her. Um, no. Actually, it’s not. And now she was arguing with herself.

  Fidelity cleared her throat. “Young ladies, neither of you is old enough to be noticing any such thing.”

  Sudden movement from Clarissa’s chair, then a stillness, just as sudden.

  Two pairs of blue eyes peered from the heap, artless as kittens and just as innocent. The blond head rose and Georgette propped herself on her elbows atop her sister. “And when shall we be?” she asked, ignoring Jessica’s writhing beneath her. “When we’re your age, cousin dear?”

  Little minx. Fidelity folded her knitting and put it aside. Too much to ask, getting something productive accomplished with those two in the room. “That’s unfair. There’s only a handful of years between us.” And yet, since their governess had left (with a discreet mop of her brow) and their mother refused to come to town, Fidelity now bore responsibility for their education and manners, ensuring their gowns and entertainments were appropriate, and chaperoning them around Mayfair. Just the thought infuriated her.

  I am not some pitiful spinster. Not yet, at least.

  She hid the shiver. There was nothing wrong with being unmarried at three-and-twenty. It didn’t mean she’d never be loved nor have a home of her own. It only meant — well, it only meant she’d not yet married, and nothing more. The right man had come along, but—

  Don’t be a ninny. It means Sylvestre Brightenburg hasn’t proposed yet, and that’s because he hasn’t noticed you exist.

  Clarissa shook out her sewing, a controlled billow of white lawn. “Funny how we never forget our decorum when Mister Greysteil’s name is spoken. And yet he’s as handsome as Mister Brightenburg, if not more so. I challenge any young lady—” she eyed the girls meaningfully “—to dispute that.”

  On the sofa, Georgette froze, staring down at her still-flattened sister. Likewise, Jessica stilled her wriggling, staring back. Both creamy foreheads began puckering.

  Fidelity flashed Clarissa a tiny smile. Could taming her cousins be so simple?

  Then Georgette shrugged and grabbed Jessica’s pillow, yanking it away. The shrieking began immediately, the renewed wriggling a second after.

  “I must grant you the point, Clarissa,” Georgette said through the ruckus. With one hand, she lifted the pillow overhead, out of Jessica’s reach; with the other, she propped herself on her sister’s midsection, keeping her pinned. “For some reason unknown to womankind, Mister Greysteil of the luscious thick hair and scrumptious green eyes simply does not attract the same level of absorption.”

  Annoyance flashed through Fidelity’s aggravation. John Greysteil had been friends with the two related families, the Scotts and the Alc
ocks, since Fidelity had turned ten. He deserved more from them than a shrug and a flippant comment. But she had to admit, Georgette had scored, as well: Greysteil reduced none of them to a spineless jellyfish, not even when he smiled.

  Perhaps they merely knew him too well. As male animals went, Greysteil was magnificent as a Thoroughbred stallion. But Brightenburg carried an air of mystery and superiority, power and distinction. If Greysteil was a racehorse, Brightenburg was a mustang, unreachable on some thundering Western plain.

  With a herd of lusty females galloping along behind him. Fidelity stifled her snort of laughter. She’d best not share that thought.

  Jessica finally shoved Georgette aside and sat up. Her hairpins could claim no more success at keeping her locks in place than her sister’s; a brown coil fell to her shoulders and tangled with her fichu, which had been tugged halfway from her gown’s neckline. “I challenge any young lady not to notice Mis-ter Brightenburg.”

  “Especially his legs,” Georgette said.

  More giggles. More tugging of the pillow, back and forth between them.

  “You rip that pillow, and you replace it.” Fidelity sighed and grabbed her knitting. She had two stitches to reinstate.

  Jessica released the pillow immediately; she hated sewing. “Fi, you must admit you’ve noticed Mis-ter Brightenburg’s physical attributes yourself.”

  Fidelity stiffened, a flush of heat starting in her face. “Whatever do you mean?”

  The sound Georgette made could only be described as a whoop. The heat in Fidelity’s face intensified.

  “Young lady, that racket better becomes some wild creature—” definitely not a horse “—rather than a civilized gentlewoman.” Granted, they were discussing Georgette. Perhaps she wasn’t as cunning as Jessica; she was certainly as spirited. “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  Surely no one had noticed her undying devotion to Sylvestre Brightenburg. She’d been discretion itself and couldn’t have given herself away.

  But Jessica rolled her eyes. “Everyone knows you’ve set your cap for him, cousin.”

  The blushing heat, already profound, continued to deepen, and panic licked at her self-control. “That is an execrable expression—”

  The girls froze, staring at her.

  Horrified, Fidelity broke off. That vocal sharpness — not acceptable. I’m supposed to be calm, serene, unflappable. Easy to appreciate and love. That temperament’s my greatest asset. She sucked in a deep breath and forced her floundering emotions to heel.

  Georgette hugged the pillow to her chest. Her eyes widened as if she watched some dangerous creature stalking them through the morning room. Or as if one of those galloping mares took a wrong turn toward a cliff.

  Clarissa laid a gentle hand on Fidelity’s arm. “When he enters a room, you watch him.” Her voice was soft. “Never staring, never anything obvious or gauche. But the rest of us could be discussing the most scintillating subject in England and your responses vary from yes to no, with little variation in between.”

  She sounds like she’s persuading that mare off the precipice. Nice try, Clarissa. “Are you saying everyone — everyone — has observed this?” If that were true, calming her would take more than gentle words softly spoken. Fidelity could foresee crashing through a few windows and racing down Piccadilly in a wild panic. Surely her secret was safe—

  But Clarissa’s small sigh blew that thought out of her head. “Next time he enters a room, Fidelity, dear, try watching the rest of the company instead.”

  * * * *

  four days later,

  Saturday, December 11, 1813

  At her next opportunity, Fidelity followed Clarissa’s advice. She left the entertainment five minutes later, mortified to her bones.

  2

  four more days later,

  Wednesday, December 15, 1813

  “What do you mean, you’re leaving town? The holiday season’s almost here.”

  The two horses strode side by side along Rotten Row, cool winter sunshine pouring around them like a flood. Bolder riders trotted and cantered past, but the day’s brisk beauty and her own roiling, shaken emotions kept Fidelity content with a quiet walk along the rail. No matter how unexciting her current pace, her sweet bay mare, Palfrey, didn’t complain. And for that I’ll be grateful. Especially considering Grey’s brute.

  John Greysteil again curbed his prancing black stallion, Cassius, forcing the beast into the same slow, staid walk at her mare’s side. How long he’d manage that impressive feat was questionable; the stallion seemed ready to explode with restrained energy. Greysteil’s hands in their black leather gloves stayed steady and low, his long legs in black breeches and brown-topped boots firm, controlling the stallion with subtlety rather than force. His gaze never left her, mobile brows forming a ruffled bar across his forehead, above his intense green eyes and below the brim of his classical beaver hat. “Well?” he asked.

  He’d said something. Oh…

  “I mean what I say.” She hated the quaver in her voice. But she’d cried herself to sleep every night since that horrible, mortifying evening, even after she’d set her brilliant plan into motion, and her throat felt raw. “Mary is packing, and in a few days two footmen will return to Kent and open the house. Christmas at home will be lovely, and a lovely change.” Father’s house, actually. Not her own, and the sudden, bone-deep yearning for her household, her husband, her children, nearly shook her from the saddle. She swallowed. Not much chance of that now. I’m as good as ruined, after making such a fool of myself for so long. No wonder I’ve never received an offer of matrimony.

  Greysteil’s fingers flexed around the four reins. The stallion jibbed at the bit, tried to throw his head back, ran into the martingale, and pranced again, frustrated. “But next season—”

  “—would be my seventh.” Another quaver. She swallowed and tried again. “It will contain the same parties and dinners and dances as the one before, and the one before that, and the one before that. I’m bored, Mister Greysteil.”

  He shot her a glance and Fidelity swallowed the rest of her prepared excuse. No sense bothering to spew it out; she might pretend to be at peace with her plan, but he knew she lied. He had that look on his face, with his eyebrows starting to arch, his lips set in a thin line, and the first hint of heightened color rising in his stubble-dusted cheeks.

  Hopefully he’s too much of a gentleman to accuse me to my face. But a coil of some unhappy emotion clutched at her chest and squeezed.

  “Something’s happened,” he said, quietly, but not so quietly that she wasn’t supposed to hear it.

  Hoofbeats rolled behind them; he curbed the stallion in advance and held him — in place if not still — as the Duke of Cumberland, the Scoundrel of Mayfair, galloped past on his old bay warhorse. That ill-defined emotion squeezed her harder, but Mayfair’s most elegant, torrid, and perceptive troublemaker didn’t glance her way — a mixed blessing, that. Some days a girl could use a good long stare from a rake.

  And what was that strange, miserable sensation cutting off her breathing? If she’d felt it before, she couldn’t identify it.

  Controlling the stallion kept Greysteil fully occupied until His Grace and his horse were well past. Then he said, “Is this a subtle means of informing me that you shan’t attend the Maynards’ masked ball tonight? Nor the Holly Hall Christmas Eve ball?”

  She lied again, hopefully with more conviction. “Well guessed.” She’d be there, all right, but better for all concerned if Grey didn’t know. At the least, he’d try to stop her; at the worst, she’d lose his regard. Just the thought of alienating her oldest friend set her heart to pounding.

  “That’s hardly fair.” He scowled. “One moment you give me such stupendous news, and the next you withdraw?” His glance ducked aside, then rose back to meet hers with sudden quirky embarrassment. “A man deserves at least a final evening in your company.”

  The tightness in her chest eased, eroded away by the firs
t real pleasure she’d felt since Clarissa’s horrid revelation. Of course she should have known Grey would say something kind and “make it all better,” as her mother used to say when she was a child. His compliments never flattered in the airy manner of those men who considered themselves undiscovered poets — “Oh, your eyes are so beautiful! They shine like the stars!” “And may they forever remain as distant as stars from such hollow sentiments.” — but his compliments never failed to buoy her spirits.

  Her plan, her brilliant, shocking, terrifying plan — would she truly find the nerve to see it through? She had disgraced herself, it was impossible for life to continue as if nothing had happened, and so it seemed appropriate to take that daring, dreadful step before she abandoned London, returned to the country, and lived the remainder of her life as an embittered Brightenburg-less spinster. But no matter how logical it seemed on the surface, her plan’s emotional undercurrents frightened and enthralled her, leaving her trembling whether she fantasized about the best possible result or the worst.

  An event from last season had supplied Fidelity with the idea — the event that had destroyed poor Emily Cross’s reputation and indeed her entire future. Fidelity had witnessed it to the heartbreaking denouement and sometimes she still awoke in the night, humiliating dreams of public disgrace echoing through her. But despite her fears, Fidelity had to admit that, before the two horrific errors which had so totally undone Emily — before its botched execution, Emily’s plan had been sound and well-considered. If done properly, no one would know her, possibly not even her chosen partner for the evening. All she had to do was avoid that foolish girl’s mistakes. And then… She’d at least experience it once.

  Grey still watched her, his head angled toward her, his chin tucked, his brows a solid dark bar above green eyes wide with wonder and what looked to be hurt feelings. She’d taken too long to respond, despite his pleasing compliment. Her conscience prickled. Really, would it matter so much if he knew she was somewhere in the Maynards’ crush? He’d not recognize her, not if she took the precautions she’d planned, and the same discretion that would prevent Georgette and Jessica from understanding her actions would keep him uninformed, as well. If he remained none the wiser…