Thorncliff Manor, 1820
A gentle breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the smooth
murmur of violins as Richard gazed out over the terrace of Thorncliff Manor.
The grand estate and guesthouse where his parents and siblings had chosen to
spend the summer while their own home was being renovated, sat solidly at his back—a
welcome retreat for those who were wealthy enough to afford it. Standing to one
side, Richard watched the guests, their gemstones scattering the torchlight
while feathers bowed and swayed.
Although they wore masks, he was able to recognize a few of those
present. Certainly, he had seen many of them from his bedroom window since
arriving at Thorncliff a few weeks earlier. But there were those whose
acquaintance he’d never had the pleasure of, like the young ladies who’d made
their debuts since 1815—a year he would not soon forget. In any event, it was a
long time since he’d spoken to any of these people. Some, he reflected, had
been friends once . . . His heart beat slowly, dulled by the
lead that now flowed through his veins.
It was briefly forgotten when a gentle voice spoke at his
shoulder. “Your company is much appreciated this evening, Mr. Heartly.”
Turning his head, Richard glanced down at his hostess, the
incomparable Lady Duncaster. “After all . . .” His words
faltered—no doubt from lack of usage. Inhaling deeply, he took a moment to
compose himself before trying again, more slowly this time. “After all the
effort you have gone to on my behalf, it would have been rude of me to stay
away.” Rigidly, he glanced in her direction, his nails digging against the
palms of his hands as he clenched his fists. There was more to be said.
“I . . .”
“Yes?” she queried.
“Please don’t use my real name, Countess. Tonight I am Signor
Antonio.”
“Of course.” Her eyes gleamed with the mystery of a shared secret.
“As to all the effort you mentioned, your presence here after so many years of
absence has made it all worthwhile.” A wry smile appeared beneath the edge of
her over-embellished mask. “Besides, I have always wondered what it might be
like to restore the masquerade ball to its former glory.”
Dipping his head, Richard acknowledged her comment, the gesture
encouraging her to continue.
“In my youth, my husband and I experienced a traditional one in
Venice—before the Venetian Republic fell. . . . Masquerades have
since become popular in other parts of Europe, though they generally lack the
flamboyance that I initially fell in love with.” She shook her head somewhat
wistfully, then straightened herself and earnestly asked, “What do you think,
Signor? Is it grand enough?”
In Richard’s opinion the extravagance was overwhelming, but since
he knew this was probably the effect Lady Duncaster was aiming for, he said, “I
think you have outdone all other masquerades, my lady. I am certainly
impressed.”
Chuckling, Lady Duncaster slapped his arm playfully with her fan.
“You are quite the charmer. Do you know that?”
“It is accidental, I can assure you,” he told her dryly, belatedly
realizing that he probably should have thanked her for the compliment.
She tsked in response. “I sincerely doubt that.” Taking him by the
arm, she guided him slowly along the periphery of the terrace while the
orchestra on the opposite side struck up a new tune. In no time at all, the
center of the terrace had been occupied by guests who wished to participate in
a country dance, their theatrical garments a testament to originality rather
than taste. “I know your parents, Signor, and I very much doubt that your
mother would have raised a son capable of being anything but a perfect
gentleman.”
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