Keane had walked into Lady Aurora’s ballroom on other occasions. But this time felt different, and not just due to the dance floor teeming with milkmaids and emperors, vestal virgins and goblins.
This time, he had Poppy Summers on his arm.
Every pair of eyes in the room seemed to be on them. Or, more precisely, her.
Ladies whispered behind their fans. Gentlemen cast appreciative glances. Poppy took it all in stride, responding to each curious greeting with a graceful nod or mysterious smile.
“Are you worried someone will recognize you?” she whispered as he escorted her around the perimeter of the ballroom.
“As long as I’m with you, I might as well be invisible,” he joked. But it was true, and his costume was foolproof. Even some of his friends from the club looked past him, which was odd. He idly wondered if they’d missed him since he’d been hiding out in Bellehaven. Life in London certainly seemed to have gone on without him.
He and Poppy strolled past the refreshments table and picked up glasses of fizzy champagne.
“A toast,” he said. “To the goddess of the hunt. May your arrow always find its mark, and may you have all that you desire.”
“To the god of wine,” she replied. “May your cup always be full, and may your heart be even fuller.”
He smiled at her naïveté. She couldn’t know that love, for him, was always just beyond his grasp. The one person he should have been able to rely upon as a lad had scarcely been able to look at him, so Keane had convinced himself that his father’s detachment was for the best. It had made him harder. Stronger. More independent.
But it had also left an ache in his chest—the sort that all the intervening years couldn’t erase. It was a poison that surfaced now and again, an insidious voice that said he didn’t deserve love or happiness. He knew it to be a ridiculous sentiment, and yet, the feeling persisted.
Determined not to dwell on the past, he tipped back his glass while gazing into the bright blue-green of her eyes. “What do you think of your first proper masquerade ball?”
“It’s wonderful—and more than I imagined. More people, more noise, more frenzy.”
“If you’d like some fresh air, we could go outside on the terrace for a while.”
She nodded eagerly. “I’d love to escape the curious stares for a bit.”
They slipped out the French doors at the rear of the ballroom and stepped into the balmy evening. Colorful lanterns hung from tree boughs, and lush scents wafted through the air. He and Poppy wandered down a path bordered by meticulously trimmed hedges and stopped in front of a huge urn overflowing with blooming vines.
She gazed up at the stars, her spiral curls glistening in the moonlight. “I’m glad we came.”
He knew she was thinking that the evening was almost over. Maybe that was why every minute they had left felt precious. “Don’t worry,” he said as they strolled back toward the house. “I’ll return you to Bellehaven well before dawn.”
“I’m not worried, I just—” She stopped short and frowned. “Oh dear. My toga. It’s snagged on a branch.” She leaned over, carefully freed herself, and moved below a lantern to assess the damage. A long loop of thread dangled several inches below her hem.
“I can break that off for you,” he offered.
She shook her head firmly. “Knowing my luck, the whole toga would unravel. It will be safer for me to knot it and snip off the excess. Perhaps I’ll find a pair of sewing scissors in the ladies’ retiring room.”
“I can assure you the men’s retiring room is not nearly as well equipped.”
“I’m not surprised in the least,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Why don’t you go in first?” He gestured toward the French doors. “After you’ve repaired your toga, we can meet in the ballroom, near the potted palms.”
“Yes sir, Your Grace.” She snapped a salute, then blithely glided toward the house.
“Poppy,” he called.
She paused and turned to face him, her expression inquiring.
“Be careful.”
She shot him an amused smile. “Rest easy, Keane. I’m armed with a bow and arrow, after all. Besides, the ladies’ retiring room is not nearly as perilous as the Barking Barnacle.”
He grunted. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Poppy easily navigated her way around the dance floor and down an adjacent corridor to the makeshift ladies’ lounge—a room nearly the size of her family’s whole cottage. Several dressing screens in the rear afforded privacy, while the front of the room boasted a large looking glass and a table full of cosmetics, ribbons, and other frippery.
Only a few guests lingered, including a strikingly beautiful woman who stood barefooted on a stool while another woman—a maid or companion, perhaps—repaired the torn hem of her gown.
And a magnificent gown, it was. Yards of ivory silk embroidered with gold shimmered in the candlelight. A matching gold ribbon was woven into the woman’s elaborately plaited blond hair. Her gilded mask was crusted with gems.
And in one hand, she held a golden apple.
The apple clearly signaled that she was the goddess Aphrodite. But it revealed something more to Poppy. The costume was the one that Louise had fetched from the modiste that morning.
Which meant that the beautiful woman was the marchioness—the one discovered in bed with Keane.
The marchioness’s shrewd gaze flicked to Poppy’s bow. “Artemis,” she drawled, deftly tossing the apple and snatching it out of the air. “I must commend you on your costume. Rather simple and crude, but undeniably effective. It seems everyone is talking about the fresh-faced, red-haired goddess … and placing bets as to your identity.”
“I’m certain Lady Aurora’s guests have more titillating topics to discuss.” Poppy set down her bow, found a sewing basket on the floor, and pulled out a pair of scissors, intent on returning to the ballroom as soon as possible. “And as far as costumes are concerned, mine cannot compare to yours.”
“An admirable attempt to change the subject,” the marchioness conceded. “I don’t blame you for wanting to remain anonymous for as long as you can. A costume affords us women all sorts of freedoms we wouldn’t otherwise have.”
“I suppose that is true.” Poppy carefully smoothed the skirt of her toga, knotted the loose threads, and snipped off the long ends. “Sometimes it’s nice to be someone else.”
“It is indeed. I’ll tell you a secret, Artemis. I once pretended to be my own twin … and succeeded in luring a duke into my bed.”
Poppy’s heartbeat thudded in her ears. “A duke? He must have been quite gullible.”
The marchioness shrugged. “It was an elaborate ruse. He and my sister were once fond of each other. I simply took advantage of his tender feelings.”
Poppy’s blood boiled, and she struggled to keep the anger from oozing out. “Why would you do that?”
From her perch, the marchioness barked a hollow laugh. “You said it yourself, my dear. Sometimes it’s nice to be someone else.”
“I must go.” Poppy scooped up her bow and headed for the door before she could say or do something she’d regret. The marchioness’s callousness took Poppy back to her childhood and the hard lesson she’d learned about members of the nobility. They thought only of their own well-being. Their own comfort and desires. They couldn’t possibly understand the plight of those less fortunate.
“I’ll look forward to making your acquaintance,” the woman called out, “after the unmasking.”
Her words were still echoing in Poppy’s ears when she located Keane in the ballroom, and the prickling sensation at the back of her neck warned it was time to leave. She opened her mouth to suggest that they go, but then he reached for her hand. And a frisson of awareness shot through her limbs.
“Miss Summers,” he whispered in her ear, “will you dance with me?”
He looked so dashing and sounded so solemn that in spite of her misgivings, she heard herself say, “Yes.”
He took her bow and quiver, propped them next to a giant palm, and led her to the edge of the crowded dance floor.
“You should know that I’m not accustomed to waltzing,” she said. “I’m only familiar with the steps because I once practiced with the girls at Bellehaven Academy.”
He placed a reassuring palm on her back, positioned one of her hands on his shoulder, and squeezed the other in his. “We’ll start off slowly,” he promised, gazing intently into her eyes. “You tell me when you’re ready for more.”
His words lingered in the scant space between them, lighting up every nerve ending in her body. They were discussing dancing, and yet, a seductive current flowed below the surface of their conversation.
It beckoned, drawing her deeper.
And for once, she let it sweep her away.
The heat in his eyes was intimate. Intoxicating. The intensity of his gaze made it rather difficult to recall the steps of the waltz. But she mirrored his movements and followed the gentle pressure of his hands. Before she knew it, she was spinning across the ballroom, free as a butterfly.
They swayed in time to the music, and the melody wove a cozy cocoon around them. As the rest of the ballroom blurred, they moved together. Chest to chest, hip to hip they glided over the smooth dance floor, twirling as if it were only the two of them, frolicking on a moonlit beach.
Then the clock began to chime.
The music came to an abrupt halt.
“We’d better go.” There was an urgency to Keane’s voice that raised the hairs on the backs of her arms.
“My bow,” she said, heading in the direction of the potted palms.
“There’s no time.” He tugged on her hand and led her toward the ballroom door. “We need to leave before the unmasking.”
The frenzied crowd had begun counting down. “Nine … eight…”
Keane wound his way through the guests, walking so fast that Poppy had to jog to keep up with him. “Are you all right?” he called over his shoulder.
She nodded. “Hurry!”
“… Six … five … four…”
Poppy ducked her head as they breezed past the marchioness.
“Artemis,” she said slyly, “leaving so soon?”
“Don’t take the bait,” Keane warned, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “We’re almost there.”
“… Two … one!”
As they raced down the grand staircase, Poppy could hear the excited shouts of revelers ripping off their masks and their gasps as mystery guests were revealed. But she and Keane kept moving until they finally burst through the front door of Lady Aurora’s town house and spilled out onto the pavement, their chests heaving.
“The coach is waiting around the corner,” he said, his fingers still laced with hers. “But we can rest here a moment if you’d like.”
“No, let’s go.” She hurried toward the carriage and waved to Diggs in the driver’s seat as she approached. He nonchalantly tipped his cap—as though it were perfectly normal for a couple to run through the streets of London hand in hand while wearing togas.
She and Keane dove inside the cab, pulled the door shut behind them, and leaned against the velvet squabs while they caught their breath. Her heart was still pounding when the wheels started rolling down the cobblestone street.
“You did it.” He shot her a blinding grin. “You attended your first masquerade ball.”
“We did it,” she corrected. “And we managed to escape before anyone guessed your identity.”
He untied his mask, peeled off his beard, pulled the pillow out of his toga, and tossed everything onto the floor of the cab. “I’ve been to at least a dozen masquerades, but this was the most enjoyable—by far.”
“A night I won’t soon forget,” Poppy mused, adding her own mask to the pile.
She faced Keane and found him staring at her strangely.
“Did the mask leave a mark?” she asked, skimming her fingertips beneath her eyes.
“No, no.” He looked away quickly, as though embarrassed.
“What is it, then?”
He shook his head. “I was just thinking that while you looked lovely in your costume, I missed your freckles. I missed your face.”
“Oh.” Her heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings.
Keane cleared his throat, and in a blatant attempt to change the subject said, “Diggs is going to drive straight through to Bellehaven. Feel free to close your eyes if you’d like.”
“I’m far too excited to sleep.”
He chuckled softly and folded his arms across his broad chest, making himself comfortable. “Then maybe I’ll sleep.”
She gazed out the window at the city soaked in moonlight, and as the storefronts flitted by, she recalled her conversation with the marchioness. It left her feeling unsettled—and a tad guilty.
“I think I owe you an apology,” she said to Keane.
He cocked his head and arched a brow at her. “What for?”
“When you first told me you’d been caught in bed with the marquess’s wife … Well, I assumed the worst.”
He barked a laugh. “That I was a philandering rake who is completely without morals? Trust me, you’re not far off the mark.”
“Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” Poppy said. “I know that the marchioness tricked you. That she pretended to be her twin.”
He winced. “Where did you hear about that?”
“The ladies’ retiring room.”
“Naturally,” he said with a sardonic shrug.
“She shouldn’t have deceived you.”
He dragged his fingers through his hair and frowned. “I blame myself for letting her. Better to be a philandering rake than a gullible fool.”
“I’m not so certain about that, and I don’t think you’re a fool.” She hesitated, then asked, “Were you devastated when you learned the truth?”
“Devastated?” he repeated, scoffing. “Shocked is more like it. Her irate husband burst into the room, I scrambled to grab my shirt off the floor, and before I could button my trousers, he chased me out the front door with a fire poker.”
“How awful.”
Keane waved a dismissive hand. “He did me a favor. I would have figured out her ruse eventually, but thanks to her jealous husband, the relationship ended abruptly. Much better than a long and protracted demise.”
“That’s putting a good face on it.” But she wondered if Keane’s flippant façade was a cover. His affair with the marchioness had ended less than a fortnight ago, and Poppy suspected the pain was still fresh. Every bit as real as the cut on his forehead.
His generous mouth curled at one corner. “Would you like to hear something interesting?”
“Always,” she replied.
“I didn’t think about Catherine at all tonight,” he said solemnly. “That is, I saw her, and I’m certain I should have had some sort of visceral response. Perhaps I should have felt anger or bitterness or pain. But I didn’t, because I was too preoccupied. With you.”
A delicious warmth blossomed in her chest. “I’m glad I was able to provide a distraction.”
He angled his body toward hers and frowned slightly. “You are more than a distraction.”
Heat crept up her neck, and she resisted the impulse to look away. “What am I, Keane?”
He gazed at her and rubbed his chin, as though he was seriously pondering the question. “You,” he said at last, “are a beam of sunlight. A breath of air. A force of nature.”
She gathered his words to her chest and tucked them away for safekeeping. Then she reminded herself of the difference in their stations. The impossibility of anything lasting coming out of their arrangement. No matter what, she had to protect her heart. “How much brandy did you imbibe tonight?” she quipped.
The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. But there was an intensity in his expression, too—a heat, a hunger. “I have not had any brandy,” he said smoothly. “And I have not forgotten about our deal.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Poppy Summers, are you ready for your question?”
Right. She must have been quite mad to agree to a daily interrogation, especially since he seemed to have a knack for finding her most vulnerable spots and poking at them. The day had been exhilarating but long, and she wasn’t feeling strong enough to talk about the heartache of losing her mother or the hollowness she still felt inside. She wasn’t feeling courageous enough to discuss the dreams that seemed to be wilting like flowers on a vine.
But a deal was a deal.
“I suppose I’m ready.” She sat up, faced him, and blew out a long breath. “What would you like to know?”
“I’d like to know if I could kiss you.”
Her belly flipped and her heart pounded. “Why?” she asked, incapable of articulating anything vaguely coherent.
“I’ve been wanting to for a while now. It’s hard to think about anything else when I’m with you, and I know it might complicate things, but I suspect it will be worth—”
Before he could finish, Poppy leaned forward … and brushed her lips across his. “Yes,” she whispered. “You can kiss me.”