Blast Cyrus, Darcy’s idiot cousin, five years his elder, who had begged from his sickbed for Darcy to keep a watchful eye on his illegitimate daughter, Philippa.
Darcy was fairly certain Cyrus, heir to the earldom, was ill due to his penchant for dipping his prick into any available or willing woman. Likely, he had bastards all over England, but he’d had affection for Philippa’s mother and had funded the daughter’s finishing after her mother’s passing. A finishing Philippa had little interest in using to her advantage, instead seeking all manner of trouble and forcing Darcy to clean up the mess.
Darcy had called on her first at the school at which his cousin had paid to have her board, but the school claimed that she had run away and, further, they had informed her guardian who had asked no more of them. Darcy then visited apartments his cousin had rented for Philippa’s mother, but she was not there. Now, he waited to enter Lord Whitmore’s ball in formal clothing with a simple black mask over his eyes.
Blast Philippa for dragging Darcy away from his pregnant wife. If Elizabeth had not been in such a state, he might have asked for her help. Elizabeth was far better at navigating these social obstacles than Darcy himself. She also had a way with young ladies. Georgiana adored her, and so did the other young women of the village. The tenants’ children, the servants’ daughters, all of them adored Elizabeth, though none adored her as much as Darcy himself.
Instead, he wasted his time on this foolishness. Illness or no, when Darcy found Philippa, he intended to drag her to her father and let Cyrus, the vapid fool, see to her upbringing.
If familial blood did not run in the young woman's veins, Darcy would have washed his hands of her. But, at fifteen, the girl reminded Darcy too much of his sister as a youth—and again, they shared blood.
Darcy waited, his invitation in hand as, one by one, the guests were admitted into Lord Whitmore's massive ballroom.
Summer laid a humid, pungent shroud over London, though Lord Whitmore was wealthy enough to have his home upwind of it. They had opened windows and balconies to let in the sluggish breeze. A half dozen chandeliers hung from the ceiling, crystal glittering in the candlelight, making it somewhat easier to discern one shadowy, costumed form from another. Darcy counted twelve jesters, and fourteen ladies of Grecian myth, and a healthy selection of dairy maids and priests.
Philippa, young with extravagantly styled dark hair, bright green eyes and a figure far too womanly for her fifteen years, would deck herself in paste jewels and make a show of herself. Darcy, having met her twice, was certain of that.
Not that Philippa was without accomplishment. She played the pianoforte prettily and was a fair artist in watercolors and oils. She conversed easily, and practiced good manners when she chose to, which was not often enough for Darcy's taste.
Worse, Philippa flirted. She had flirted with Darcy before he revealed to her their common lineage and his reason for paying her visit. As well as his control of her funds, which she resented most of all.
Philippa was a menace.
Darcy spotted her at the opposite side of the room, speaking with a gentleman in soldier’s red. Or at least, he hoped the bejeweled gypsy was Philippa. He started down the stairs.
When he was halfway across the room, they called the first dance. A young gentleman led Philippa onto the floor. Darcy stood aside, watching. He would confront her after the dance.
"Darcy? Is that you, old man?" Mr. Michael Edwards, a school chum grinned as he caught Darcy’s gaze. "I cannot believe I have found you here."
He was a jester, his face painted in lieu of a mask. On his arm was an Aphrodite, her face masked except for holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth. She wore her fair hair in elaborately stacked curls with pearls woven through. Darcy suspected it was a wig. The woman’s light blue dress hugged her figure, neckline plunging, the fabric just covering her ample bosom.
Darcy's manhood stirred as he noted her figure. He bowed to her. “My pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Mr. Edwards’ grin widened as he looked from his partner to Darcy. "This lady love will not speak. She is fair company even so."
The woman curtsied, and something in the gesture struck Darcy again as familiar.
Darcy asked, "Have we met?"
The woman cocked her head, waving a gloved hand as though she were flicking his words away.
Darcy's gaze flitted to the dance floor where Philippa brushed her hand across her partner’s shoulder before stepping away.
Edwards said, "I had thought you happily married, Darcy."
"I am," Darcy muttered.
"Your wife would not be pleased to see your gaze stray from her."
"My eyes stray nowhere," Darcy said.
Edwards chuckled. "It is not my place to judge, Darcy. Why not take our Aphrodite to the floor?"
"No," Darcy said. Bad enough this woman tempted him, worse if he was to act upon it.
"It is just a dance," Edwards said. "This lady very much wishes to capture attention, and I believe it will be the better for it."
"I am happily married," Darcy restated, as much for his own benefit as Edwards’. “If she is to dance, she can dance with you.”
"She has, and I would not compromise her virtue by asking her a second time."
Darcy doubted this woman's virtue had further room for compromise, but Edwards added, "This lady is important to me. I wish to see her safe. She wishes to dance, and there are a few here I would not trust … You understand?"
"What is her relation to you?" Darcy asked. If she was a niece or sister, it surprised Darcy Edwards would allow her to display herself in such a matter. Though ladies and gentlemen often let go of their inhibitions at masked events.
"Please, Darcy, you are the only man here I trust to dance with my lady friend."
Mr. Edwards’ eyes twinkled and he grinned. "I am certain you will have a most pleasant time, Darcy."
Edwards was a joker. He always had been. He and Elizabeth had gotten on well, on the occasion Edwards and his sister had traveled north and visited Pemberley, along with a group of other local estates and attractions. Darcy had invited his friend to stay a week. Though Edwards only stayed three days, he and Elizabeth had been as thick as thieves, making each other laugh at the smallest things.
What would Elizabeth think now? Edwards throwing another woman at Darcy.
Whoever this was could not be Edwards’ sister, unless she had lost three inches in height and added two to her bosom. Not that Darcy had paid much mind to Edwards’ sister’s décolletage. He had been far too enamored of his own wife, then five months pregnant with their second child.
Edwards handed the woman over before Darcy could mount another objection. The next dance was called, and to Darcy's dismay, it was the waltz. Over the past five years, the dance and become a staple at private balls, and even the straight-laced Almack’s showed signs of relenting and allowing ladies and gentlemen to perform the dance upon its hallowed floors.
Darcy said, "I do not know—" but before he could broach further arguments, the lady stepped closer, placing a delicate, gloved hand on his shoulder and extending her other arm so he might take her free hand. Darcy placed his hand as lightly as he could upon the curve of her hip and guided her to the floor.
The lady’s scent stirred his manhood, and he cursed the closeness the dance forced upon him.
Where was Philippa? The music began, and they moved seamlessly together, three steps and turn, once and again. He gazed over her shoulder, searching for his cousin’s ward.
She leaned closer, her bosom brushing his chest and, angling the parted lips of her mask towards his ear, whispered, "Who is it that tears your attention from me?" They stepped again, and she shifted her hip to brush his thickening manhood.
Darcy said, "I am married."
"You are not looking for your wife."
Her scent filled his nose, and Darcy swallowed. Blast Philippa! And blast this woman who fit so well with him, tempting him to turn away from the woman he loved.
Darcy repeated, "I am married."
"Many married men take mistresses."
Did this woman wish to be his mistress? This was beyond a simple jest. Once this dance was over, he would take Edwards aside and...
And yet, the woman’s whisper was not one of an attempted seduction. She sounded angry as her body grew tenser with each step.
Darcy asked, "Who are you?"
The woman said nothing.
They turned again, and her elaborate wig shifted, revealing at the nape a dark brown curl.
Lizzy? Darcy's breath caught. No, it could not be. But Edwards would think it a fine jest for Elizabeth to seduce her husband as a stranger at a masquerade ball. Knowing Edwards, he likely thought Darcy, too, was in on the joke.
Darcy asked, "Are you certain we are not acquainted?"
The lady cocked her head. Again, a prevarication. His Elizabeth was not an accomplished liar. One of her many qualities worthy of approbation.
Step. Step. Turn.
But Darcy’s relief that his attraction to this woman was not making him unfaithful was doused by the knowledge Elizabeth thought him unfaithful. Why else this elaborate ruse?
"You do not trust your husband then," Darcy said.
The woman, who Darcy grew more and more certain with each passing moment was his wife, tensed again. "All men crave novelty." She spoke in a more normal cadence, though still muffled by the mask. “What is a wife to believe when her husband leaves three times in as many months with no explanation?”
Darcy pulled her closer, pressing her breasts against him, his hand cupping her rear as he lowered his lips to her ear and teased the lobe with his tongue. He was furious to know she mistrusted him, and he resolved to make her suffer as he had, lusting after something forbidden in a room full of strangers. Darcy said, "Alas, I would never betray my sweet wife with one such as you.” He nibbled at her earlobe, and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath, muffled again by the mask.
"Fitz—!"
The dance ended. Darcy bowed.
There was Philippa, her dark curls braided with paste jewels, her breasts high and neckline plunging to almost reveal her nipples. Her waist was cinched, and her dress a glittering Gypsy frock, scandalously short at just below her knees. She wore bright red gloves and gartered stockings with red, glittering slippers.
An older man in a priest’s frock whispered something in her ear. She smiled. He took her arm. Darcy's temper flared.
"Wait for me," Darcy ordered, putting both of his hands on his wife’s shoulders and guiding her away from the dance floor. Once Philippa was safe, Darcy would confront his wife’s mistrust and strip it from her, layer by layer, until both were satisfied.