Page 54 of To Dance with a Devil

Matilda looked to Jemima Fernside, who was staring about the lavish ballroom with wide eyes, and smiled. She was so pleased she’d talked the young woman into coming with her. Even better, she’d persuaded Jemima to stay with her for the week, so Matilda had the chance to fatten her up and try to find out about the problem she was hiding.

Jemima had always been a quiet girl, but still funny and vivacious when in company with whom she felt comfortable. They’d barely seen her this year and each time she’d seemed frailer and shabbier, a little more vulnerable.

“I do love your costume,” Matilda said, admiring her outfit. Jemima had come as the sea nymph, Calypso. It was rather a daring gown at first glance, but very cleverly done. It covered everything securely, but the way fabric shells and sea creatures had been arranged over her body made it look appear somewhat more scandalous than it was. It spoke of a woman who had been full of confidence when she’d made it, and Matilda hoped she could help bring that woman back from whatever dark corner she’d been hiding in.

“It’s an old bedsheet,” Jemima confided in a whisper, and for a moment the haunted look that seemed ever in her eyes vanished, replaced by one of pride and something a little mischievous. “And I made all the sea creatures and shells out of bits and pieces of cast off material. I actually made it for a party the year before last but….” The mischievous glint evaporated and she shrugged. “Well, I never got to go, but I’m so glad to finally give it an airing. I feared all that hard work would never see the light of day. Though, I confess, it’s rather more daring than I remembered.”

“Well, I should think you would be glad, proud too, and never mind daring. You’ll no doubt catch some handsome fellow’s eye tonight. Such skill with a needle you have. I am in awe, as I haven’t the least talent in that direction. I would have thought some exclusive modiste had made it.”

Jemima blushed a little, but appeared pleased with the compliment.

“Now, where on earth has Bonnie got to? I can’t wait to see what she’s wearing.” Matilda glanced around and then smiled as she saw Harriet approaching, dressed as a shepherdess. St Clair still looked ridiculously elegant and every inch the nobleman despite being decked out as a common sailor. They made quite a picture.

“Why, Harry, how well you look,” Matilda said, making her do a little twirl.

Harriet gaped at her. “I look well!” she said, shaking her head. “Matilda, that dress is… simply stunning.”

“Thank you,” Matilda replied. She was feeling rather pleased with her outfit, it was true. It had been horribly expensive, especially as it had been made in such a short space of time, but the effect was rather lovely, a gown of shimmering gold and a mask to match, with a headdress about her golden hair like the rays of the sun, which she was supposed to represent. The dress glinted and gleamed under the candlelight and perhaps there were many here who would not speak to her for not being good ton, but they’d not be able to ignore her. That was some consolation.

“It’s not fair,” Harriet said, huffing with frustration. “Everyone else is in disguise but I can’t wear the mask and my glasses. So I have to forgo the mask or risk walking into everyone or dancing with someone I ought not.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” St Clair drawled, sliding an arm about her waist. “You might end up in the arms of some shocking reprobate.”

“Imagine,” Harriet replied, pressing a hand to her breast and adopting a scandalised expression whilst her husband leered at her.

“Come along wench, and dance with me,” the earl commanded, dragging his not unwilling shepherdess along behind him to the dance floor.

A moment later and a Harlequin had swept Jemima off to dance too and Matilda watched, not a little enviously, as the colourful costumes swirled about her.

A strange prickling sensation at the back of her neck made her turn, an awareness that she was being observed skittering down her spine. She almost shrieked and took an involuntary step backwards as she found the Marquess of Montagu standing behind her.

“Oh!” she said crossly. “Why must you creep up on me like that, you wretched man?”

One blonde eyebrow arched beneath a stark white mask. “How did you know it was me?” he drawled whilst Matilda willed her heart to stop jumping about like a crazed rabbit. “As I assume you’d address no one else in such an insolent manner.”

She almost laughed as she looked him over. He was dressed in pristine white from head to toe, and the buttons on his coat glinted with diamonds, as did the pin in his snowy cravat. The harsh colour made his eyes glint ever more silver and his hair gleamed white blonde in the candlelight. No one else could have worn it and seemed so utterly masculine, no one else had the kind of magnetic presence that made people get out of his way and turn their heads to watch, either.

“Lucky guess,” Matilda retorted, repressing the urge to roll her eyes. As if he didn’t know the effect he had on the assembled company. “What are you, anyway?” she asked, trying not to look him up and down but finding the effort of dragging her gaze away from his magnificence too herculean a task. Instead she tried to infuse the question with a mocking tone, which was not altogether successful.

“Why, Miss Hunt, surely that’s obvious? I’m an angel.”

Matilda made a very unladylike snorting sound and covered her mouth with her hand, a little mortified.

“Oh,” she said, her voice not entirely steady. “I do b-beg your pardon but….”

It was no good. She went off into whoops of laughter, quite unable to control herself, and so violently it made everyone in earshot turn and look at them.

Montagu sighed.

“Must you make a spectacle of us?” he asked. “I suppose I had better dance with you until you have gained some semblance of control.”

“What?” Matilda’s laughter came to an abrupt halt. “Oh… No… I….”

Too late. By the time Matilda had gathered her wits she was halfway to the dance floor and could hardly refuse now without causing a scene. “I never said I’d dance with you,” she muttered, exasperated by his high handed manner.

“You never said you wouldn’t, either. You were too busy cackling.”

“I do not cackle!” she shot back and then gasped as his hand settled at her waist, pulling her just a little too close for decency.