And yet, so right. She was a traveler in the desert finally reaching an oasis.
Surprised at her own daring, she slipped her left hand under his cape instead of on top, to rest on his shoulder that was so broad her hand barely curved over it. The black velvet lining caressed the top of her hand when his cape slid to one side as they turned, the scarlet silk top layer whispering as it shifted. The soft black superfine of his jacket and trousers absorbed all the light. If not for his cravat and cape, he could melt into the shadows. Be a figment of her imagination.
He hummed along with the music, barely audible over the instruments, but she felt it.
Something teased at the edge of her memory.
She swept her gaze from their joined hands up his chest, past the ruby stick pin winking in the folds of his snowy white cravat against the black muslin shirt, past his strong jaw, his full lips curved in a hint of a smile, to his eyes.
He stopped humming but kept dancing. Kept that hint of a smile.
On their first meeting she had thought his eyes to be brown. This close she realized they were hazel, with flecks of mossy green and dark amber, like aged brandy. His lashes were darker, longer, and thicker than she recalled, as if he’d enhanced them with cosmetics. Probably just an illusion, the result of his eyes being isolated from the rest of his face by of the scarlet half-mask.
She’d get to see all of his face at midnight, at the unmasking. She’d never been in such a hurry for midnight to arrive.
She realized she’d been staring, and that he was staring right back at her. The bemused look on his face, the sparkle in his eyes, was as if he was silently asking if she liked what she saw.
Yes, indeed.
Did he like what he saw? What little of her was visible. She’d wanted to attend the masquerade despite knowing some people stretched and even broke the rules of decorum. Her first Season had ended so quickly, she’d never had the chance to attend one before. She’d deliberately chosen the domino because it concealed her from head to ankle with the hood up. Though she was of average height there were still plenty of men tall enough to look down her cleavage even with a modest neckline on her gowns, as had already happened numerous times with previous dance partners.
Realizing the tune was more than half over and they’d not exchanged a single syllable, she inhaled and opened her mouth to say something.
He gave a subtle shake of his head.
She closed her mouth.
He pulled her a tiny bit closer on the next turn and kept her there. He already held her closer than any other dance partner ever had. She felt the heat from his body. He wore no cologne; he smelled of fresh air and a hint of something sharper, that reminded her of gunpowder. Perhaps he had visited a shooting range before coming to the ball.
Another couple, staring into each other’s eyes, came dangerously close to colliding with them. Ravencroft easily guided Ashley out of their way without breaking the rhythm of the waltz. His breath stirred the hair at her temple, and she felt the sudden urge to lay her head against his shoulder and wrap her arms around his waist. Have him wrap his arms around her.
How odd.
She wasn’t tired. Was she so starved for male attention, so desirous of physical intimacy, that she’d fling herself at the first man who caught her fancy?
Perhaps she shouldn’t have stayed at the Torquay Academy for Young Ladies so long.
Perhaps she needed to get back to a school for ladies and learn more self-control.
Hmm.
Later she would ponder it. Right now she was enjoying being held in a handsome man’s arms, as they moved in unison to lovely music.
When the song ended, he kept her hand tucked in his and led her toward the edge of the dance floor, unerringly back to where she’d been standing before the music started. As the crowd thinned, he shifted her hand to tuck it in the crook of his arm, just before Lady Mansfield and Georgia became visible. He bowed over her hand, kissed her knuckles—his lips were soft and warm—and departed.
All without uttering a syllable.
She wanted to examine and relive every moment in Ravencroft’s arms, but Henry the Eighth asked her to dance the Roger de Coverley just then. As long as she did not accept any drinks and stayed in the crowded ballroom, she felt safe enough to enjoy herself.
One dance led to another, each with a different partner. Even though every other song was a waltz and she had a partner for each one, none seemed as intimate as the silent dance with Ravencroft. Finally she saw him again when he helped Lord Mansfield bring drinks to her, Georgia, her mother, and Aunt Eunice while the musicians were taking a break.
During the pause in music, several of the conversations audible in the room drifted back to Mrs. Driscoll’s claims about seeing a demon, and the ensuing argument between Amber Barrow-Smith and Sir Peyton. All three of them had left the masquerade, the former two in Lord Waldon’s coach with an escort of three extra footmen and Lord Waldon himself. Armed.
Having delivered the drinks, Ravencroft started walking away again. He was joined by a gent in a solid black domino with a cream silk half-mask.
“Fangs?” asked the voice she recognized as Mr. Westbrook.
The two friends exchanged glances. Ravencroft shrugged.
