Thalia looked herself over in the looking glass for the umpteenth time. Her mauve muslin evening gown was a few years out of fashion, but the strategic placement of some delicate lace and a ribbon beneath the bust had breathed new life into it. The paisley shawl hanging from her arms had been a gift from her father on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday. Unbeknownst to Thalia, it was the last gift she would ever receive from him. He had succumbed to a fever a few short months later, leaving her alone with an aging mother and a young, impressionable sister. With the profits from the bookshop and funds her father had tucked away, they were able to keep a comfortable home in the flat above the storefront.
The sister in question had flung herself across Thalia’s bed, nose buried in a worn copy of The Mirror of Graces. Theodosia peered at Thalia over the pages and smiled. “You look lovely, sister. Though, I do not think it is fashionable for a lady to wear her curling papers in public.”
Thalia rolled her eyes. “I was just about to ask you to help me take them out, Theo. I wanted my curls to be fresh.”
Setting The Mirror of Graces aside, Theodosia stood, pulling her worn dressing gown closed over her night-rail. The etiquette book for young ladies had been her constant companion ever since Theo had been old enough to dream of a world far out of her reach. Thalia had given up trying to talk sense into her, though their mother was never short on practical advice for her youngest daughter.
As she sat on the bed to allow Theo to unravel her hair—smoothed this afternoon with hot tongs—Thalia glimpsed their reflection in the mirror. They were similar in appearance—with the same gleaming dark skin and deep brown eyes as their mother. But Theo had their father’s face—round and pleasant, kissed by mischief. A sweet little divot added charm to Theo’s chin, and her smile was as sweet as the morning sun. By contrast, Thalia’s features were more chiseled, her cheekbones prominent and her cheeks nipping in below them before ending in the point of her chin. Full lips were turned pink by a light application of rouge.
Thalia supposed it wasn’t a bad thing for her sister to be so fanciful. She was the younger sibling, and therefore allowed to dream. Theo wasn’t irresponsible—she worked as a seamstress at a dress shop just down the lane from the bookshop. But while she hemmed gowns and stitched pleats, Theo’s head was in the clouds—where elegant gentleman twirled her about ballrooms, and candlelight turned the whole world into a hazy world of glitz and glamor.
Who was Thalia to tell Theo she couldn’t have the better life she dreamed of? Thalia was the one responsible for seeing to their family’s livelihood. Any man who might wish to marry her—and in all her twenty-three years there had never been a single one—he would have to understand that her mother and sister came along with her. Few men would want two additional mouths to feed, which was why Thalia had given up on her own dreams of marriage. But Theo … perhaps someday she could have all the things that Thalia couldn’t.
“You’re sighing,” Theo murmured, her fingers deft and gentle as she eased the papers from Thalia’s hair. Fat spirals fell down her neck, one tickling the shell of her ear.
“Am I?” Thalia whispered, blinking. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“What are you thinking about? The handsome gentlemen who will ask you to dance tonight?”
“I hardly think anyone will be lining up to dance with me.”
Theo gave one of her curls a light tug. “Don’t be silly. I wish I were going with you. We’d both drive the other women mad with envy, making every eligible man wish to dance with us.”
“You are too young!” called their mother’s voice through the open door.
Thalia smirked as she glanced up to find their mother in her customary place—a chair near the fire with a blanket draped over her lap, needle in hand, and basket of mending at her feet. Theo pulled a face, which Thalia saw in the mirror, sending her into a fit of muffled giggles.
“I saw that!” their mother bellowed, prompting Theo to gasp.
“You did not!” she accused.
“I did,” their mother insisted. “I am your mother, and I say you are too young for a night at Vauxhall.”
“I am eight and ten now,” Theo argued, her voice taking on a whining edge. “The girls of the ton who are my age are being considered for marriage.”
“You are not of the ton,” their mother argued. “You may attend Vauxhall at night when you are one-and-twenty, and not a day before!”
Theo muttered something unintelligible under her breath, and Thalia placed a hand over hers, stilling it. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“Be careful what you wish for, Theo. The world is vast and beautiful, but it can also be dangerous and difficult to navigate. I want you to be happy, but I do not want you hurt.”
Theo sighed. “I’m not a child.”
“I know you aren’t. You’re a young woman now, with so much promise. Mother only wants to protect you.”
“From what? A life that is better than this one?”
“Our lives are far better other women like us,” Thalia snapped. At times she wearied of Theo’s ungratefulness. “Our father was able to apprentice for the previous owner of this book shop, and worked so hard and so diligently that it was left to him. It was better than a monetary inheritance, Theo … it was a way for us to survive without struggle or worry. It was enough to clothe us, feed us, send us both to decent schools. We are learned women with employment and a place to call home. Perhaps the next time you pass a starving beggar on the way to the dress shop each day, you will remember how fortunate we are and count your blessings.”
A tense silence fell between them, during which Theo finished removing the curling papers—though her touch was not as gentle as it had been before. Tossing the last of them at Thalia’s side, she snatched up her book and crossed the room to her own bed.
“There is nothing wrong with aspiring to more,” she muttered. “If you weren’t so satisfied with an ordinary life, perhaps you might understand that.”
Thalia ignored Theo, not wishing to further sully the evening with a row. It had taken her hours to decide upon attending Vauxhall, and she had even become excited at the prospect of encountering Westerfield. Now, her heart sank into her belly as she realized that she ought to take her own advice. If she happened to come face-to-face with the duke tonight, nothing of any consequence would happen. Her life would go on as before, and Thalia had already decided that she was pleased with things as they were.
Ignoring Theo’s pouting, she returned to the mirror and began pinning her hair atop her head. Thalia allowed her coiffure to take shape without much manipulation, arranging the curls in a cluster, then pulling several small spirals free at her temples and brow. A large, thick curl lay against her shoulder, slightly bared by the cut of her bodice.
Her mask was the final touch, a delicate silver filigree half-mask attached to a lorgnette. Thalia had purchased it after closing the shop for the day, spending more than she had on a single item in a long time. If she was to enjoy herself tonight, Thalia supposed she could allow herself the small indulgence. Holding it over her face, she studied her reflection and smiled. There were few occasions for dressing so well, and a part of her felt like a different person entirely.
Theo murmured a half-hearted, “Have a good time,” as Thalia exited into the parlor.
Her mother glanced up from her mending, her gaze both approving and criticizing as she looked Thalia over. Thalia could hear her mother’s thoughts as if they were her own: her bodice was too low, but her hair was well arranged, and while the shawl was a nice touch, the mask had been an unnecessary expense.
In the end, her mother merely gave a short nod and returned her gaze to the mending. “You will be careful.”
It wasn’t a question, Thalia realized. Her family knew her well. Thalia was never anything but careful.
“Of course,” she replied. “I will not tarry late. I simply wish to experience the sights and sounds of the garden in the evening.”
“I do not like you going alone.”
Thalia arranged her reticule to hang from one wrist. “I will be perfectly safe, and as I do not intend to remain late, I am not worried about being alone.”
Her mother looked uncertain but said nothing. Once Thalia had reached her majority, her mother had been content to allow her to make her own decisions. It was Theo who gave cause for worry; never Thalia.
“Will you wait up for me?” Thalia asked, pausing at the door.
Her mother smiled, producing deep lines about her eyes and lips. “There will be a pot of tea, hot and ready. We will drink it while you tell us about your evening.”
Thalia smiled. “Thank you, Mama.”
Her mother waved her off, content to return to her mending.
Thalia’s heart began to pound as she rushed down the back stairs and threw open the door that led out onto the street. The sun hadn’t yet set, but it was slowly descending, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. People came and went on foot and in carriages, many dressed in costume and already masked. A festive mood had filled the air, and Thalia had a spring in her step as she moved down the street, eyes sharp for a hackney coach. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling as it occurred to her that she had never done anything like this in her life.
For as long as she could remember, her life had been ordered by responsibility and obligation to her family. Only between the pages of her novels did she find adventure and passion. Leaving home dressed in her favorite gown, with her hair whimsically arranged, Thalia felt as if she’d stepped out of reality and onto the fictional pages.
Which meant that anything could happen.
Stephen’s cheeks had begun to ache, but he kept the forced, genial smile pasted across his face as he walked alongside the Baroness Atherton. The woman had been introduced to him months ago at a soirée, and seemed to have designs on him as a prospective groom for one of her four daughters. Stephen had always gone out of his way to be polite to everyone who crossed his path—though his mother constantly reminded him that as a duke he was not obligated to pay notice to those beneath him.
However, as a peer of the realm with very few equals, Stephen shunned his mother’s philosophy on the matter. It seemed a very lonely way for one to live. Upon the evening of their acquaintance, Stephen had fetched punch for the baroness, who had nearly swooned in reaction to the gesture. He had then danced with each of the woman’s daughters—whose names he could not recall, and knew only that they each began with the letter ‘A.’
The feathers in the older woman’s turban bobbed as she smiled up at him, a cup of arrack punch clutched in a black-gloved hand. She was dressed as a chess piece—the queen—complete with a turban shaped like a crown and adorned with so many feathers and gems that one couldn’t miss her if they tried. Despite her mask, he had recognized her voice when she’d called out to him moments ago.
Stephen blinked, tearing his gaze away from the dancers and returning his attention to the baroness just in time to catch the tail end of her monologue.
“…and then, she suggested the ghastliest lace in a most unbecoming shade of puce. Puce, Your Grace! Have you ever heard of such a thing? My Amelia has not the complexion to carry off such a drab color. Anyone with sense could have seen that. Why, her presentation at court would have been a disaster had she arrived in such a monstrosity of a gown!”
Stephen, who was not well-versed in the complexities of women’s clothing and the making of them, merely clicked his tongue and shook his head. “A disgrace, to be sure. Everyone knows white is the only acceptable color for a debutante’s presentation. And the number of flounces you mentioned—”
“Eighteen in all, if you can believe it!”
“I cannot,” he replied with a shake of his head. Outwardly, he was the very picture of an attentive gentleman. Inside, he was trying to plot an escape that did not entail hurting the woman’s feelings. She might be a chatty old bird, but she was not without her charm … even if she was scheming to match him with one of her daughters.
Stephen’s mind wandered yet again as Lady Atherton blabbered on, his gaze flitting about the dizzying display of Vauxhall Gardens. He had arrived less than an hour past, and ever since been overwhelmed by acquaintances and strangers alike. The informality of an evening where the classes mixed in one venue had emboldened those who could pretend not to know who he was—freeing them to address him without the benefit of a proper introduction.
Normally, he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to meet new people or converse with them, especially on a night such as this. However, there was a baffling sense of restlessness plaguing him this evening, and Stephen couldn’t puzzle out why. The back of his neck tingled, and he kept glancing about as if looking for something.
Yet, there was nothing to be found that he hadn’t expected. The fairy-like glow of thousands of colored lanterns set the night ablaze, while people in vibrant, outlandish costume enjoyed the entertainments of the evening. The fireworks had not yet begun, but the amusement of the hot-air balloon had enraptured many. Stephen had sent word ahead to smooth the way for his uncle to enjoy an ascent, and was contemplating taking advantage of the privilege for himself later in the evening.
Lively music flowed from the pillared openings of the Gothic Orchestra, and a sea of dancers moved in time with it—much like undulating ocean waves. The various paths leading this way and that offered many options for amusement, but Stephen could not seem to settle on a single one. It was as if he was being torn in many directions at once, unsure of what to do or where to go. His mother and uncle had parted ways with him upon arriving, which left him unable to even rely upon their whims for guidance.
“My darling Agatha did so enjoy her dance with you at the Smythe’s ball earlier in the season,” Lady Atherton went on, drawing Stephen’s fickle attention back to her. “She has not stopped speaking of it, and the two of you did partner so well. Oh, and my dear Anne is quite accomplished on the pianoforte—did I happen to mention that before?”
She had only brought it up seven times, as if the most imperative requirement for a duchess was that she be able to play a decent composition.
“I do not recall,” Stephen lied.
“Perhaps you might call upon us next week so that she can play for you. Oh, and you simply must see Amelia’s brilliant work with watercolors! She’s quite the artist.”
The woman was shameless, but Stephen suspected she knew that. He wanted to laugh at her aggressive attempts at matchmaking and make some witty quip about being overcome by so much feminine accomplishment—but then, his gaze settled on a woman coming down the Grand Walk, and all power of speech fled him.
She was set aglow by the lamps like some heavenly vision—the flames that cut through prisms of colored glass painting her in rainbow hues. Despite that, Stephen could see that she wore a dusky shade of pink. The gown was by no means fashionable, but fit the woman well and complimented the dark, gleaming hue of her skin. The bodice was just low enough to display the soft swell of a small but pert bosom beneath a graceful neck. She held a silver lorgnette mask over her eyes, and one large spiral curl slid along her collarbone as she turned her head this way and that to take in her surroundings.
There was something familiar about her, yet Stephen couldn’t quite place her. She walked with a brisk, determined stride—nothing like the sedate mimic of a gliding motion so many fine ladies aspired to.
Stephen couldn’t understand why she would draw and hold his eye, but he found himself following her progress as she paused to take in a painted screen illuminated by the lamps. The restlessness within him calmed, and he didn’t realize he’d come to a stop until the baroness tightened her hand on his arm.
“Your Grace?”
Stephen blinked, opening his eyes to find the vision still before him. It was unpardonably rude, but he couldn’t seem to turn away from the mysterious lady to give the baroness his attention.
“Yes … fine … very good,” he murmured, slowly disengaging himself from the woman. He patted her hand and murmured something else about paying a call before striding away from her without a look back.
“Looking forward to it, Your Grace!” the baroness called to his retreating back.
Stephen fought the urgency pushing him to rush toward the lady in pink, deciding that it was best to observe her from a distance for a little while. Perhaps she had come to meet a lover, or maybe her husband had slipped away to procure her a drink. Of course, he hoped neither would turn out to be the case.
The lady had moved on from the painting and was simply gazing upward, turning in a slow circle as she took in the lamps hanging from the trees. A wide smile enlivened her face beneath the mask. Stephen knew the look on her face. It was the wonder-filled expression of one who had never taken in the gardens before. He couldn’t help but smile to notice how enchanted she seemed as she spun about, waiting for the next consuming feature to catch her eye.
Stephen took slow steps along the path, watching as she veered toward one of the many pavilions. Stepping up smooth stone steps, she stood among a display of fine paintings in gilt frames. When she turned to view the one closest to her, Stephen caught a glimpse of something behind her mask. Something that reflected light and appeared to rest over the one ear that he could see.
Spectacles.
Furrowing his brow, he approached, lips parting as he realized why this woman had felt so familiar to him. The closer Stephen drew, the more he began to feel like a complete dolt for having not recognized her.
But then, he had never seen her outside of Ramsey’s bookshop, and certainly not dressed like this.
His foot found the bottom step to the pavilion, then the second. By the time he entered the circle of pillars and archways, she had registered his footsteps and whirled to face him.
He had startled her, and in reaction she had dropped the arm holding up her mask. Wide brown eyes met his, and lips turned pink by rogue stretched into a little ‘o’ of surprise.
“Your Grace?” she blurted.
Stephen stepped farther into the pavilion and offered her a bow. “Miss Ramsey. I thought you weren’t planning to attend this evening.”
Fiddling with her lorgnette with both hands, she shrugged one shoulder. “I changed my mind.”
Stephen extended a hand toward her before he could think better of it. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was she. They had never touched save for the moment he had helped her back into her slipper this afternoon.
But then, he’d never seen her wearing pink or standing beneath the pale glow of the moon and the dazzling array of Vauxhall’s lanterns. He’d never seen her without the surroundings of musty books and dusty shelves.
She gave him his hand and he dipped his head over it—though Stephen merely kissed the air above her knuckles. He did not dare press for more. When he glanced up, she was looking at him as if he’d gone completely mad.
“I’m glad you did,” he replied.