Still, she’d given her word to Mr. Newhouse and to Papa that she would avoid any direct confrontations with His Grace. Which was why she was standing in the middle of the lane as the sun was setting, coming here only when she knew she wouldn’t accidentally meet the duke.

But she hadn’t expected to find this note.

She wasn’t certain there would be another, since she hadn’t answered the last one from two days ago, the only one she hadn’t answered since the letters started coming.

Yet there it was. Not an ordinary note pinned to the tree, either. Composed of thick cardstock, it dangled from the lowest bough by a ribbon, folded carefully, and sealed with wax. As if he were worried that she might never answer unless he made a formal overture.

Fearing he wrote something inside that would reveal his identity before she was ready, she couldn’t stop her hand from shaking as she untied the ribbon, broke the seal, and opened the note. A second card lay nestled inside. Then all of her shook as she scanned over it.

An invitation to the Monmouth masquerade.

She choked back a startled laugh. No, not an invitation to a ball—an unwitting request to infiltrate enemy territory.

Perhaps I surprised you when I suggested that we meet.

Not surprised. Downright stunned!

I simply wanted to meet in person the charming creature who’s been leaving me these notes, to have the chance to speak of all that we’ve shared. I’d hoped you’d wanted that, as well.

She did want that…just not so quickly. If they met in person and it went wrong, there could be no going back to their exchange of letters and the intimacy they’d created with them.

I have an idea, one that protects our secrets. We’ll meet at the masquerade, where we’ll be hidden behind the safety of masks and fancy dress.

Yes, they would have to be. Because she’d be tossed out as soon as she revealed her face.

Please accept this invitation and meet me there. I’ll be at the ball, dressed as a black panther. Should you decide to attend, do not tell me your costume. You will be able to find me and then decide whether you want to approach or leave, keeping your secrets in place…although I’ll be very disappointed if you leave.

A faint smile tugged uncertainly at her lips. She was tempted to meet him. And what a brilliant idea, too. She would be given the opportunity to see him first, then decide if she wanted to press on and speak with him or leave, with him never knowing which lady she was or if she’d even arrived.

So very tempted! Who was this man? Did they know each other beyond the letters? Would they like each other once they came face-to-face and had no more letters to hide behind?

Oh, how could they not?

With a soft laugh, she clutched the invitation to her bosom, then hurried away. After all, the ball was in less than a week, and she had the perfect costume to make.




CHAPTER 3




One Week Later

The Monmouth Masquerade

GOOD GOD, he was nervous! Surrounded by a sea of masked guests inside Bishopswood’s ballroom, John tugged once more at the sleeves of his black kerseymere jacket.

He nearly laughed at himself. When had he ever been nervous about a woman before in his life? In his younger days, he’d bedded more women than he could remember, sharing in all kinds of pleasures with down-to-earth women from the markets, inns, and villages. In more recent years, he’d been too busy with his business to spend much time in pursuit of the women of the gentility that his new money brought him into contact with. Since he’d inherited, though, it was society ladies who vied to capture his attention, those women who were more than eager to raise their skirts for a wealthy duke. But they did it because they wanted favors from him, or for the titillation that came from being bedded by England’s newest duke. He rejected those ladies outright, knowing he’d find no pleasure in them, because they wanted to be with the title and not with the man.

But the woman who pinned those notes to the tree knew nothing about the title or his status as one of England’s most powerful men. He suspected that she wouldn’t care even if she did. At least he hoped she wouldn’t, preferring the true man he was. God knew how much he liked her. She was an intelligent, kind, and philosophical creature who had captured his imagination.

If she were half as beautiful in person as she was in her letters, he feared that she might also capture his heart.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, more so he could continue to take glances toward the top of the stairs over the rim than for the drink itself. His eyes hadn’t strayed far from the landing all night, although how he would know her when she arrived, costumed and hidden behind her mask, he had no idea. He only prayed that he would. And that she would come at all. When he’d returned to the tree to seek her response, the invitation was gone, but she’d left no reply. Nor did she write even once during the past week.

Since then, he’d kicked himself repeatedly that he’d pressed her to meet, fearing he’d gone too far. Would he ever hear from her again?

Quashing his worry, he watched as the parade of new arrivals appeared on the landing and handed their invitations to the Master of Ceremonies, who announced them based upon their costume…Lord Tiger, Lady Peacock, Lord Green, Lady Venus. Tonight was a true masquerade, with all identities hidden until the midnight unmasking. He’d insisted on it. His guests knew that he lurked somewhere within the house and would eventually join the party, but they had no idea that he was already there, hidden among them. For a few precious hours he wanted to be nothing more than one of the crowd, so that he could enjoy the party himself before they set upon him like locusts in their rush to curry his favor. Most of all, he wanted time to enjoy the company of the woman who had written all those letters.

A lady in red appeared at the top of the stairs—

His glass lowered away. No, not her.

He had no idea what his secret authoress would look like or what costume she’d wear. If she’d appear at all. But he knew he’d feel her presence when she arrived, the way old sailors felt oncoming storms.

Like some infatuated nodcock, he’d tried to catch her a few weeks ago. He’d posted a stable boy in the woods, just out of sight of the lane, to watch for whomever was leaving the notes. But the woman never came during the hours that the boy was there, only for the notes to appear as if out of the morning mist or midnight glow. Like magic.

After a few days, John called off the watch. He should have respected her wishes and trusted that she would reveal herself at the right time.

Which he prayed was tonight.

He tossed back the rest of the champagne and set the glass aside. Admittedly, though, he was also glad for the distraction the notes had presented during the past few weeks. Cora Bradley was still giving him fits over the mill, a business so small that it took in hardly any orders at all outside the fall harvest and winter season. One that was rapidly sinking so far into debt that soon he wouldn’t haven’t to worry about removing it himself to construct the lock—the creditors would do it for him, one board at a time.

Were the woman and her father mad? He simply couldn’t fathom them or why they refused to accept the offers he’d made. The only answer he’d gotten from her was a letter four weeks ago from Samuel Newhouse, flatly refusing to sell and stating her position that the new duke couldn’t buy or bully his way into upending their lives, and he hadn’t seen her since the day when she’d declared like a general that she’d never surrender.

Apparently, she’d meant it.

She’d managed to stall work on the lock and back him into a corner where his next move could only be asking for an act of Parliament. A move he certainly didn’t want to take, preferring willing cooperation over legal edicts. But if the lock wasn’t built soon, the canal wouldn’t go through. All of his planning and work would come to naught, and he’d be left with nothing more to do, no work to engage in. It would kill him.

White flashed at the top of the stairs. His gaze darted to the landing—

Her.

A low tingle rose inside him as he watched her give her invitation to the Master of Ceremonies. His breath hitched with nervous anticipation despite a soft chuckle to himself as her name was announced. Lady Swan. A graceful, gliding vision in white silk and feathers, one in perfect opposition to the black clothes of his panther, of her softness and elegance to his hardness.

Her gaze moved over the ballroom below as she slowly descended. Halfway down the stairs, she found him and stopped.

Holding her gaze across the room, he held out his hand toward her in invitation, as if she were only a few feet from him rather than across the grand ballroom. The party faded away around them until it was only the two of them. No one else in the room mattered.

She drew in a nervous breath, her slender shoulders stiff. Then a smile spread beneath her white satin half-mask, and she moved on, gliding down the remaining stairs and into the crowd which parted around her as she came to him.

As she reached him, the musicians struck up the opening notes of a waltz.

Wordlessly, she slipped her trembling hand into his. He raised it to his lips, unable to resist this small kiss, then led her forward to the dance floor, to take her into his arms and twirl her into the waltz.

CORA LAUGHED as happiness bubbled through her, the soft sound rising and falling with the music that swirled around them. He led her through the steps, and they moved together as if they were one, oblivious to the party around them. She knew only the warmth of his brown eyes as he held her captive beneath his gaze from behind his black mask, his attention fixed on her as if she were the only woman in the world.

He gave her fingers a light squeeze of reassurance. The soft gesture raced up her arm and landed in her chest, making her heart race like a drum and her breasts grow heavy.

“Lady Swan,” he murmured with a curl of his sensuous lips. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you,” she answered breathlessly, knowing it wasn’t the waltzing that was stealing her breath away, “my Lord Panther.”

His eyes gleamed. “Sweet heavens, you are beautiful.”

Thank God that she wore a mask, or he would have seen the scarlet flush of her cheeks despite her soft laugh. “But you cannot see my face!”

“I don’t need to.” Another squeeze to her fingers, this time with a shift of his body to draw her slightly closer. “I’ve seen into your soul and know how precious you are.”

She would have stumbled if not for his strong arms that kept her securely in position. “But,” she whispered, unable to find her voice, “you don’t even know my name.”

“Yet I know you nearly as well as I know myself.”

They reached the end of the ballroom and started back in a series of turns that left her light-headed. No—he made her light-headed with his stare, warm and rich like melted chocolate, and his seductive words that twined down her spine.

“Names hold no significance.” He lowered his head to murmur in her ear. “You’ve revealed your heart to me in your letters. I know exactly how beautiful you are, and it has nothing to do with how you look.”