Seductive Deception

Chapter 20

"Lord Whittington, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Lady Henshaw fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. He'd wondered if she may have something in them.

He cleared his throat, readjusted his cravat, and plastered on a smile.

"Lord Whittington," a short man with spectacles, a bushy graying mustache, and a receding hairline bowed in response. He didn't recognize the man.

Pulling all the tricks out of the bag from what Madam Cerise taught him, he politely bowed and kissed the top of her kid-glove-covered hand. "Lady Henshaw, it's a delight."

How could he forget the woman who'd barged into his office with a hand full of weeping flowers and demanded an explanation for why he'd sent them?

Her black gown sparkled against the flickering lights as she straightened to her full height, her fiery red hair spilling out in untamed tendrils, her face half-covered by a simple monochromatic striped mask.

He tried his best to peek over her shoulder without being apparent, but she was as tall as a tree and undoubtedly wanted all his attention.

He tried to track Madam Cerise's movements, but she got lost in the masses, which was starting to resemble a huge chess board, each person a pawn.

The man cleared his throat, and Morgan's eyes shot to his and then to Lady Henshaw's.

"I do beg your pardon, Lady Henshaw. But I must attend to something."

Her face scrunched, and for a moment, he saw a flash of animosity illuminate in her eyes before she took a deep breath and laughed a trivial insincere laugh.

"Must you be off so soon? I have important information to share. But first,"

She held her dance card out to him, and it dangled for a moment between them.

Begrudgingly, Morgan reached for it, sliding a reluctant glance at both Cordelia and the strange little man beside her before he took the pencil and wrote his name in for the first dance.

The sooner he could complete his requirements at this insipid ball, the sooner he could get out of here. Although he'd come on the premise he'd be able to seek some information about Aggie, perhaps someone here heard of the infamous dressmaker, he'd also come because he'd wanted to know if she'd show up, and by she, he meant Madam Cerise, of course.

Lady Henshaw took the dance card back with a satisfied grin as she reached for and patted the man's hand beside her.

Morgan cringed. The whole encounter seemed orchestrated, and he was beginning to take pity on the poor man.

"Forgive me," she said, flustered as she threw a hand to her mouth with forged flair, "I've made a grievous error in omitting an introduction. This is my fiancé."

She made sure to emphasize 'fiance' as if it would mean anything to him. He had to squash his smirk.

"Fiance? Well, I must offer my sincerest congratulations to you both," he said, trying his best to tamper his insincerity. He turned to the man, and doing his best to keep his face wooden, he replied, "you are lucky to have one another."

Recognizing that perhaps he'd been too transparent, he threw on his most genuine smile and shook the man's hand. "I wish you both the best, Mr.?"

"Mr. Edmondson," he completed, his voice deeper and rougher than Morgan expected for such a short man. Well, at least he had that going for him.

"I am certain you both will be very pleased with one another," Morgan said as he tipped his head and turned, hoping to glimpse the white ghost near the doorway. But, alas, she was gone.

Blast it!

***

Morgan did his gentlemanly duties as best he could, spending most of his time inconspicuously searching for Madam Cerise. He danced with Lady Henshaw and Lady Rosamund, even escorting Lady Rosamund to dinner, meeting her friends, singing her praises to any who'd listen, thanking her for her company.

All eyes darted to them when they were on the dance floor—she, a petite, fairy-like gem, and he, a handsome, gentle giant— but both knew it was all a facade.

Lady Rosamund even pulled him aside, pouring her heart out to him about her guilt, about the lack of connection she'd felt between them. Morgan dried her tears, convinced her to carry on with the ball, keep the fabrication alive for the time being that they had at least an inkling of a relationship with one another. But he freed her. And a huge weight lifted from his shoulders as he watched her eyes dart across the floor, same as him, seeking the one she'd truly loved. Her secret locked away with Morgan, for the time being.

And yet, when his eyes trailed over the monochromatic crowd, he didn't see Madam Cerise. Which, admittedly made him both curious and concerned. If she weren't there, she wsn't being touched by other men, she didn't have her hands on their shoulders, they weren't gazing into her eyes as they did a quadrille.

But it opened up the idea for other things, nefarious things.

The thought was fleeting, coming from somewhere he so infrequently visited, that he shook it off. She wouldn't. He thought.

And while she didn't belong to him, he had no rights to her, his stomach twisted and churned at the brief thought.

He didn't want any other man to touch her.

He ought to stop these wild, reckless fantasies. They were causing him to sweat and tense his hands and neck muscles.

He swallowed, the thought running ragged, leaving his throat dry and scratchy.

He felt restless, a caged animal, a surrounded beast, a fox run aground.

Not only did he not care for crowds with their noise and heat, he was also playing a game of hide and seek with an unwitting player. And whether that was the truth or not, he kept the reminder close at hand, repeating it through every step, counting the minutes until he could flee and escape the confines of this torture chamber with its crush of colors, lights, and sounds. Until he could seek her out, find Madam Cerise— who'd become a refuge from the turmoil.

He thought back to the moment he'd heard he was to be made earl, the strange monsoon of emotions that played over him— excitement, concern, anxiety, and guilt for feeling all those things, knowing that fate had dealt him a hand meant for someone else.

He read the letter and was escorted back to Britain, his time in the army concluding at the war's end, and his aunt and cousins greeted him. He remembered the look on her face— how she tried so hard to be brave, and yet he saw the truth. She hadn't slept in days.

She was cordial and encouraging despite her enduring sorrow, the wound of her son and husband's untimely deaths still raw.

His mother hugged him as his father stood back, reserved with a nod and congratulations; their relationship never fully mended over his impropriety with Aggie.

And then he thought of her, wondering where she was and if she had heard about his sudden change of luck, this twist of fate that allowed him to offer himself to her. And yet, he couldn't find her.

Finding instead Madam Cerise, who'd become a sort of sanctuary, a respite from the clawing fangs of all things that vexed him, he didn't know. All he knew was she felt safe. He could talk to her and divulge things to her, as he had with Allegra. He didn't unpack the memory, pushing himself to get through the remainder of his time with Lady Rosamund until he could escape.

And, for some unknown reason, fate smiled on him as Lady Rosamund introduced him to a gentleman named Mr. Brockton, who asked to court her recently. With as much sincerity as he could muster, he gave them their blessing, secretly relieved she'd found someone who may make her happy. As happy as he was at the idea of seeing Madam Cerise.

He brushed the sweat from his palms. Clenched his jaw at the violent pulsing of his heart. And when the time finally came, he praised himself for not falling apart and made his way to the balcony as swiftly as he could—gritting his teeth, so he didn't call out her name into the darkness. He had to find her. He had to tell her he was done with everything fake in his life.