wildfire rumor.
“Here, when we dance, we can be as close as possible.”
“And we can even kiss,” she said faintly, staring at a couple locked in a passionate embrace near the doorway leading out to the terrace. Unexpectedly she laughed, tipping her head to the dazzling chandelier which seemed to hold a thousand candles.
The waltz leaped into life from the orchestra’s bows, and he took her in his arms. Scandalously and wonderfully close. They twirled across the floor, and whenever he drew her in, Nicolas flushed her body against his. Maryann almost expired on the spot, until she realized just how free the mask and the wig she wore was. The second time he spun her away and she twirled twice, sliding her feet across the parquet floor in the intricate and sensual moves to come back to him, this time he kissed her mouth. Their dance blossomed into something sultry and decadent and so very naughty. By the time the strains of the waltz died away, Maryann was breathless and laughing.
“I am so pleased you are the only gentleman I’ve danced with in over two years who is not my father or brother.”
“And I am damn glad you waited for me,” he murmured, kissing her mouth in a quick, scandalizing kiss.
The night was perfect. And as Maryann twirled in his arms for their second waltz, an odd surge of fright darted through her heart. What if this should all end? Pushing aside that unexpected burst of raw dread, she lost herself in the moment of being so free from the restraints of society’s expectations, and simply lived. And most glorious of all, Nicolas would soon approach Maryann’s father for her hand, and they would be affianced.
Almost an hour later, Maryann laughingly complained of sore and tired feet. They had danced the waltz and the polka several times, but none of the strict proprieties of distance had been observed. Every move and touch had been designed to heighten the carnal awareness of being in your dance partner’s arms and touching their body.
It had been remarkably intimate, freeing, and so sensual.
“Let me procure you a drink, something cool and refreshing.”
“Am I allowed to explore?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Freely. No one will accost you.”
She glanced around a bit skeptically. “Are you seeing the same room that I am?”
“No one would dare.”
“Because they know I am with you.”
His eyes darkened and her breath hitched at that tender yet starkly possessive look.
“Because they know,” he murmured.
Maryann smiled when he melted away in the crowd, and she slowly walked the expanse of the room, admiring the lavish gowns and masks the ladies wore. They were all bewigged and their identities hidden. It was only the men who were allowed to indulge without any worry to their reputations.
Maryann scoffed, turning to make her way down a well-lit hallway that was conspicuously empty. She paused, intending to return to the ballroom when the distant sound of singing pulled her farther down the hallway. The closer she got to the door at the end, the more the raw beauty of the voice enchanted her.
And it was also so familiar.
Maryann came to a door and gently tested the knob. It opened soundlessly under her palm and she faltered into stunned stillness. It was a large room swathed in more shadows than light, but she saw clearly the lone man sitting in the center of that room in a large armchair. He was indolently reposed, a cheroot in his mouth and a glass in his hand. She could not discern his appearance in full, it was more an impression of power and masculine grace, and that his gaze was unflinchingly pinned on the lady before him on a raised dais.
Ophelia.
Maryann swallowed her gasp. Though her friend wore an elaborate silver-blond wig and a gold filigree mask, she would recognize her anywhere. And that voice, so pure and powerful in its sheer beauty, enveloped the room, creating a pulse of such ache inside Maryann’s heart.
Ophelia’s voice had always enthralled, and once when she had regaled an audience at a musicale some years ago, Maryann had felt such regret that the world might not hear what she had to sing.
But now here she was, a songbird of poignant and rare talent singing in her unique voice to an audience of one, bravely standing before a gentleman who stared at her as if he were a hungry predator. There was something about the situation that was alarming.
And suddenly Maryann knew this man—Devlin