Charlotte let a tear fall, thankful for the night’s cover. “It was, Papa.”
He smiled and closed his eyes. “I heard Margaret.”
Her mother. “And what is Mama saying to you, my darling Papa?”
“She asked me what delights me.”
Despite herself, Charlotte laughed, if only to stop from crying. Then, her father was laughing too, and it sounded so much like the laughter of her youth when he would chase his children around their gardens.
“And what might you answer Mama?”
He nodded, cocking his head as though entertaining two discourses at once. “I might say, my daughter is the loveliest of girls there ever was!” He clapped, and his mask fell slightly from his face.
She reached over to affix it for him, realizing at once that his suit was grey like a mouse, his mask made of soft felt. “Your daughter loves you very,verymuch, Papa. She wants you to know above all else that it has never and will never be in her heart to disappoint you.”
“Disappoint me?” He beamed. “Disappoint me—she could never!”
“Oh, she could, and it would break her heart to do so.” She leaned back, placing a knuckle before her mouth as though it could stem back the tide of her guilt.
“I only want my Charlotte to be happy, and Eleanor, and Matthew. Happy, healthy babes…” He stroked his temples, his wrinkled fingers working the skin of his forehead.
Perhaps, it was an opening. She needed to try. “If you want Charlotte to be happy, then why will you not listen to her when she tells you for what it is she longs.” He was wordless elsewhere, slowly reeling himself back in with each turn of his fingers. “Why not cast aside your wish for her to marry if you know it would make her unhappy?”
The Duke blinked. Suddenly, his eyes were clouded over with age. “Why must we speak of your marrying, Charlotte? Gamston is eager as ever, and I have given you the Season, have I not?”
He had returned to her—her father, not her Papa.
Charlotte sunk into the silk backing of the box.
“You have, Papa, and I will do with it what I must.”
The luxury of Charlotte’s attire was eclipsed entirely by the self-indulgence of their host that eve. The Duke and his household had gone all out, draping the London Gamston Manor top to bottom with the most impressive fineries. The black and white marble floors gleamed. Each room had been decorated with roses, painted unnatural shades of midnight black and blues. It looked so different from the home she had known growing up; their visits to Gamston’s abode had been frequent.
The Duke met them at the doors, talking with some of the early guests of the evening, the identity of each concealed behind their mask. Gamston was garbed head to toe in warm browns and blacks, his suit fashioned perhaps after a fox or a bear. If not for the cane, he could have been a man thirty years his junior, given how tall he was, how straight-backed, too.
He smiled wide beneath his mask, and he nodded to her and her father as they made their entrance. Thankfully, the introductions were short-lived, as they were quickly escorted into the ballroom by the butler. There was no master of ceremonies to announce them, in keeping with themasquerade, but Charlotte was too flabbergasted to notice regardless.
The ballroom had been transformed, stretching long—solong the guests at the very back turned to squiggly, dark shadows on the horizon. The roses continued into the dance hall, matching the floors and tapestried walls with the rich darkness of their hues.
Her heart skipped in her chest out of wonder, only for a moment.
Before long, she found herself at the mercy of Lord and Lady Singberry’s party, the Earl having caught sight of her father by the “wildness of his mouse whiskers.” With the Singberrys were their two sons, the eldest of whom had tried and failed to trap Charlotte in conversation three times over. She had known the man before her debut when he had been all limbs and ears, and while he had certainly grown into his looks, he was as torpid and apathetic as the other gentlemen of his kind.
The night seemed interminable until finally, mercifully, Lady Singberry gestured over another guest. There was no need for masks between them, as Charlotte deduced at once by his simple, heady presence who the man was.
“You will all remember Mr. Huxley,” she pronounced giddily as Benjamin settled between Charlotte and her tormentor. Her body was set alight for his mere being there, doubly so for how handsomely he was dressed. “Though perhaps I should not have spoiled your game by revealing your nature, sir,” she added, a touch too flirtatiously.
Clearly, Charlotte was not alone in suffering the effect ofHuxley’scharm.
Benjamin smiled, and Charlotte had to hold back a wistful sigh. “Oh, there’s no need for games between us. Your Grace, my lords,” he listed off in greeting, “Lady Charlotte.”
The Duke of Gamston had been right about one thing—menwerethe most natural mummers. There had perhaps been some awkwardness to Benjamin’s portrayal of Huxley at their first soirée, but no more. The lines between his person and his persona had been blended, so much so she might have been mistaken for believing they had never existed—that, in some way, Benjamin hadalwaysbeen Huxley.
“And what is it you’re dressed as, then, sir?” one of the Singberry boys asked, his noise a tad out of joint.
“Is it not clear to all?” He stretched out the arms of his dark, velvet coat, revealing a set of dark feathers at his back.
“A crow!” Lady Singberry exclaimed, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “And such a daring crow at that! How very clever of you, Mr. Huxley.” She shot a look at Charlotte. “Why, the two of you are as two crows in a nest!”