“Oh, precisely that sort.” She let him hand her up the stairs, then glanced back with a coy little smile. “Tonight, though... I think I like it.” With a swish of her ebony skirts, she turned and headed toward the carriages waiting to ferry passengers the short distance to the pleasure gardens.
If Max had been a religious man, he would have prayed for restraint and patience. He should have done so anyway, mindful of what was at stake.
Instead, he felt the old rogue within him, dormant and docile these last few months, awaken with a growl. And he followed his wife toward the familiar grounds of his former haunt, where he had been the most wicked version of himself, feeling more like the old Max than he should have.
Chapter Twenty-One
Vauxhall was a marvel.
Bianca barely remembered to put on her mask as they strolled through the tall colonnade. A wide avenue lay directly ahead of them, disappearing into the darkening evening. Glass lamps on posts and trees glowed in a variety of colors. To one side was a neatly manicured square with a pavilion at the center and a rotunda at the end, outlined with trees, and to the other a line of dinner boxes tucked under the colonnade, enclosed on three sides but open at the front to the curiosity of passersby.
Max led her down the avenue, pointing out details helpfully, because Bianca couldn’t turn her head fast enough or far enough to take it all in. It was a fairyland, filled with people in all manner of dress, from a tall, portly friar to a figure wearing a wolf’s head and furred cloak, so lean and short Bianca wondered if it were a woman or even a child.
At one of the last supper boxes, right before the avenue grew more rustic and darker, they found the Dalway party. Clara Farquhar was there in her shepherdess costume, while her husband wore the long wig and plumed hat of a cavalier. Lady Dalway was petite and beautiful in an all-white draped gown, saying she was Virtue, and her husband wore a black Spanish suit and pretended to strum a guitar as he sang, very poorly, and said he was Scaramouche.
“Carswell and his wife will be along later,” said Lord Dalway, eyeing Max with barely concealed amusement. “I see we have royalty among us tonight, but who, pray, are you, St. James?”
“Nobody,” said Max with a smile as they took their seats on the bench. “Nobody at all.”
“Oh!” cried Lady Dalway in pique. “How unlike you to spoil our fun!”
“I assure you, if your fun depended upon me, it was utterly doomed to be spoiled,” he replied.
She made a face at him and turned to Bianca. “My dear, you look simply splendid! I knew Louisa would have something to suit you in her wardrobe.”
“It’s magnificent,” agreed Bianca, stroking the damask. It was also quite warm, but she didn’t mention that. Tonight was not a night for practical concerns.
“There’s to be a wonderful singer tonight,” Lady Dalway went on, consulting the musical program. “Such a pity! I daresay no one much will listen to her during a masquerade. I do adore Miss Leary, though. I wonder if she will sing some of Mr. Carter’s songs.”
“Is it to include dancing?” Bianca asked. Clara Farquhar had given her instructions on how to dance in the dress, and she’d paid close attention, not wanting to embarrass herself or damage the gown.
“Not always,” Max told her. He lowered his voice and tipped his head toward her. “But if you wish to dance, I would gladly partner you.”
She flushed. “We cannot dance if no one else is...”
His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he looked at her. “In the wilderness we can do as we please.”
Her mouth went dry. Before she could muster a reply, a whistle sounded, and a servant dashed by, stationing himself at one end of the box. At a second whistle, the man touched a taper to the lamp, igniting the lamp there. But then—as if by magic—the illumination spread, lamp to lamp, until the whole of the garden was nearly as bright as day. Lady Dalway laughed and clapped, like many other people around them, and Bianca joined in.
“How did they do that?” she whispered to Max. It was as if someone had flung aside a heavy curtain, turning night into day in an instant.
“It’s a mystery of Vauxhall,” he replied, and she could only shake her head and marvel.
The Carswells joined them after the dinner had come. Louisa was dressed as a Persian princess, with diaphanous veils draped about her, and Sir Henry wore the outfit of a naval admiral. The evening passed in a blur for Bianca, with shockingly small portions of food—“If they could slice the meat any thinner, it would waft away on the breeze,” commented Mr. Farquhar forlornly—but large quantities of drink, including something called arrack punch, which Louisa Carswell drank with abandon.
In the grove opposite them, the orchestra played. At some point Lady Dalway thought she heard the singer she liked announced, so she got up and made Dalway go with her to hear better. The earl rolled his eyes and mimed being pulled by a halter, causing Sir Henry almost to fall off his bench in a fit of laughter. The Carswells were both greeted warmly by a passing couple, and invited to take a turn about the gardens with them.
A large number of people tried to hail Max as they passed. Several times someone would stop and exclaim. Most were men, but a few were women. They all seemed extraordinarily pleased to find him there, although one fellow shouted that he barely recognized him. To all, Max raised a hand, almost dismissively, and pointedly turned away. The men laughed, the ladies pouted, and one woman who did not look worthy of the nameladystrolled off with a small smile on her face. Bianca glanced at her husband as it happened again and again, but he appeared to find it annoying, if anything.
As the night deepened, Max touched her hand. “Do you fancy a walk?” he murmured.
Bianca caught Clara’s eye, watching them contemplatively. The conversation had grown a trifle rambling and uninhibited as the wine flowed. Besides, she wanted to see more of the gardens. “Yes.”
She took his offered arm without thinking, and they crossed the avenue to the lawn in the grove. Up in the orchestra, the musicians were playing, though without a singer. Max nodded politely but never stopped whenever someone called out to him, keeping up a steady pace.
Finally Bianca, tightly laced and already warm in the heavy gown, stopped walking. Max looked at her in concern. “Can we sit down?” she asked breathlessly.
“Of course.” He flagged down a waiter running past and ordered two glasses of champagne.
