“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 . . . so hungrily the 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.
He heard Clara Farquhar leave. He thought he also heard her laugh as she passed the drawing room door, too, but he didn’t call out and stop her. Nigel Farquhar had warned him she was in high spirits over dressing his wife, and Max knew enough about Clara’s high spirits to be wary.
In the distance, the bell tolled seven. They were to meet the rest of the party in the supper box Dalway had reserved. It was most fashionable to go by yacht, but given the nature of the evening, Max had chosen to take the carriage most of the way. They would take a launch from Westminster to cross the river.
“I’m ready to go,” said Bianca behind him. “What do you think?”
Max looked up—and almost pitched forward onto his face in amazement.
She wore a dress from the time of the Tudors, hanging in heavy folds of gleaming black brocade over a brilliant scarlet petticoat, visible in front. Her waist was impossibly narrow, girdled by a golden chain, and her breasts were barely contained by the rigid bodice. Ropes of pearls hung in crescents down her front, glowing amidst the gold lace that framed her bosom and face.
Dimly he remembered seeing Louisa Carswell in that dress a few years ago. She’d worn a wide red ribbon around her neck and told everyone she was Anne Boleyn, with her head restored for one night. He suspected she’d been just as faithful that night as the ill-fated queen, but Harry Carswell hardly cared. Max had seen him disappearing into the gardens beyond the grove with two young women clad in very little. Prostitutes, he suspected. The Carswells had always been like that.
But Bianca didn’t look like a licentious queen; she looked like a goddess of the night, come to torment him to madness.
At his silence she came a step closer, and took a deep breath. Max’s gaze veered involuntarily to the plump swells of her breasts above the black satin. “Clara said it would be very striking, but I was astonished by how much so,” she said with an awkward little laugh.
His brain was fixated on her breasts. He was sure if she inhaled like that again, her rosy nipples would pop out of the tight bodice. Louisa was slimmer than she, and it showed