Still, part of her was fascinated by this talk of masquerade. “What is different in a masquerade?” she asked.
“It’s ever so exciting.” Clara leaned forward eagerly. “You may dress as anything, or anyone, you like! And all with a mask, so no one will know your name.”
“What did you dress as last year?” Bianca was intrigued and could not deny it.
Serafina laughed. “She dressed as a nun! Can you imagine? It gave Farquhar the start of his life, I don’t wonder!”
Clara only smiled, a touch smugly. “I thought I made a splendid Reverend Mother.”
Bianca wasn’t sure about that; religious figures were not to be mocked, in her upbringing. She turned to Serafina. “And you?”
Her dimples flashed again. “A queen! I looked very striking.”
Serafinawouldbe a queen; she had a way of commanding attention without any effort Bianca could discern. “I haven’t got anything half that elegant,” Bianca said. “I don’t want people to think I’ve gone as a simple country girl, when I’ve only worn my best gown.”
“Oh no!” Both ladies sat up in protest. “We’ll see you properly turned out,” vowed Clara. “Serafina and I should have something that would suit you.”
Bianca doubted that very much. Lady Dalway was petite and slender, and Mrs. Farquhar was as pale and plump as a meringue.
Serafina looked at Bianca with a more critical eye. “We must raid Louisa’s wardrobe,” she announced, referring to Lady Carswell. “She is more of a height with dear Bianca.”
“Oh yes!” Clara clapped her hands. “And I shall send my own Thérèse to arrange your hair. She would be happy to train your maid while she is here,” she added as Bianca’s brows went up.
Bianca wasn’t entirely sure about putting herself into Clara’s maid’s hands—Clara wore rather more powder and rouge than Bianca liked, although she was very fashionable—but it did sound irresistibly intriguing and amusing, and she found that agreeing to consider the masquerade was enough to set Serafina and Clara on the path to full-scale preparations for it.
Max’s initial reluctance took her off guard, but then he kissed her and said they would go. It seemed all was settled, and she began looking forward to the event more than she would have ever admitted aloud.
Until Clara and her French maid, Thérèse, arrived on the day of the masquerade, with a shrouded bundle that produced a breathtaking gown.
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly wear this.” Bianca was aghast.
Clara waved it aside. “You can! You must! Louisa will be so downcast if you do not—she said she cannot wait to see you in it.”
Bianca touched the heavy brocade skirt. It was surely even more expensive than the gowns Max had bought her here in London. It was also startlingly black, relieved only by gold lace around the neckline—the verylowneckline. “It’s so dark.”
Clara blinked. “Oh! Well, that is no matter—bring a petticoat,” she said to Jennie, who was watching, agog with interest. “A bright one, red or yellow.” She opened a pouch and poured out a mountain of jewels. “These will brighten it as well. All paste,” she said airily, as Bianca gaped. “It’s for a night of fun!”
So she allowed herself to be laced into the dress, draped in the paste jewels, and her hair pinned up in a thoroughly unfamiliar way. She barely recognized herself in the looking glass as Thérèse fixed the headdress in place.
“My, my,” murmured Clara in the silence. “I cannot wait for Maxim’s reaction to this.”
“What do you mean?” Bianca asked, still marveling at herself.
Clara’s laugh was warm and low as she came up behind Bianca, and rested her hands on Bianca’s elbows. “He’ll trip over his own tongue,” she whispered. She handed Bianca a white mask, adorned with red spots on the cheeks, a rosy painted pout on the lips, and a tiny heart-shaped beauty mark beside one eye hole. “Do be kind to the poor man tonight!”
That thought made her mouth go dry. She knew she looked... well, striking, even in her own private opinion. Marvelous and mysterious, more elegant than she’d ever thought possible—perhaps even beautiful.
But that didn’t mean Max would notice. He’d been surrounded by beautiful women for years, and even in this magnificent gown, made up like a princess, she was still the same Bianca she’d been yesterday.
Clara departed in a flurry of pink skirts—she had come already attired in a whimsical shepherdess costume—calling that she would see them at the gardens. Thérèse was packing up her things, and giving the fascinated Jennie instructions in a quiet voice.
Touching the headdress once more to settle it in place, Bianca slowly went down the stairs. She wondered if Clara would be right—if Max would be pleased and even impressed by her appearance. He’d looked at her so... sohungrilythe night of the dinner party, when she’d had her hair up and powdered and wore one of her new gowns. And she’d ended up kissing him then.
There was no avoiding the truth, that she liked her husband to look at her with desire. It sent thrills through her when he cupped his hand around her nape. And when he kissed her, she forgot why she should keep him at arm’s length.
Perhaps tonight would tip the precarious balance, one way or the other.
Max dressed simply for the masquerade, wanting to send every possible sign that he was a different man now. A black suit, unrelieved by anything but white lace at the throat. Lawrence had located a simple black cloak and white mask to wear. With any luck, none of his former comrades would even recognize him tonight.
