To Love a Tormented Earl - Bridget Barton Page 0,72

would attend the ball?—Emilia nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Gale has been most attentive in that regard.’

‘Well, then, Emmy. Let’s see that you take some tea and a cake.’

Obliging her father, Emilia did as she was told.

There was no escaping it now. How would she ever find her courage?

She must attend the Ceastre ball.

***

‘Have we any powder, Samuel?’ Max asked, indicating the bruise that was now impossible to ignore on his cheek.

‘No, sir,’ Samuel said apologetically. ‘Although I could see if Cook has any suggestions?’

‘Please do,’ Max said.

Samuel gave a quick bow and headed for the bedchamber door.

‘And Samuel?’

The valet stopped to listen.

‘I should prefer something that gives a certain pallor.’

Samuel nodded and went on his way.

Max began to pace.

He was dressed and ready in his black suit. He needed only the carriage he had told Roberts to send to him. It should arrive any minute.

The bruising was unfortunate, but it had given him an idea, as had the doctor, earlier. A certainty that his scheme would be strengthened by these elements caused excitement to grow within him. The game would soon begin, and the anticipation made him giddy.

Jollyboy picked up on Max’s mood and began to dance around him, barking. Max laughed and crouched to the dog’s level, receiving a face full of canine kisses as a reward.

‘That won’t do, old boy,’ Max said, straightening. Once he managed to cover the marks from the attack it would not, in any case.

He looked in the mirror. For the first time in months, he was clean-shaven. It felt very agreeable, and he ran a hand over his jaw. For better or worse, he would no longer hide his true identity after tonight.

Samuel returned after a few more minutes and began applying a paste to Max’s purpling skin. The injuries were sore and Max attempted to restrain himself from wincing.

Max considered inquiring as to the nature of the paste, and then decided he preferred not to know. It smelled like vinegar.

That should please Doctor Sinclair, at least. He wanted me to use vinegar on the split lip, as I recall.

Whatever the other ingredients in the paste might be could not be helped, and he was pleased to see the transformation Samuel succeeded in creating with his features. Not only was the bruising covered, but Max’s skin became deathly pale.

‘Just a moment,’ Max said, and went to the fireplace, which was unlit. He brushed a finger on the bottom, coming up with a black smudge. Taking care not to overdo it, he touched the tender skin under his eyes.

‘I say, sir, you shall look quite unwell,’ Samuel remarked.

‘Capital,’ Max replied with satisfaction.

Would Miss Whitmore recognize him?

The thought gave Max pause.

If she did, she might be quite shocked to see his pallor.

A pang of guilt arrested him. How loathsome it was to have to deceive her once more, if so. Max envisioned a scene: he, standing to one side of Ceastre’s ballroom, surrounded by elegant ladies and well-heeled gentlemen. Emilia Whitmore entered, her near-black eyes scanning the crowd. They found him and widened in dismay.

He waited for her to come nearer, watching as handsome nobles greeted her, asking her to reserve them each a dance. In his mind’s eye, she was as beautiful as a queen, dressed in gold brocade and sparkling jewels, as befit her grace. She nodded to each of them, her long neck like a swan’s, her hair piled on her head and catching the light in its raven- coloured silk.

When she was close enough, he approached her, taking her arm and leading her in a quadrille. Her eyes studied him, her black eyebrows furrowed in concern. When the dance allowed him to whisper in her ear, he said, ‘All is not as it seems, Miss Whitmore.’

She gave him a look of charming confusion, but it was the most he could do. She must puzzle over the enigma—but at least he had tried to tell her the truth.

‘There you are, sir, I think that looks better,’ Samuel interrupted his reverie, having made some finishing touches to blend the dark soot with the pale paste around his eyes. The valet had also removed excess paste, so that it did not appear that Max was wearing any sort of cosmetics at all.

Max examined the result, and found it satisfied him.

‘You’ve a talent for this sort of thing, Samuel,’ he said cheerily.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Samuel replied. He had a puzzled look on his face, but Max did not intend to explain himself. He still