A Suitable Husband

Chapter Five

I should not be doing this.

Marcel flicked a non-existent speck of dust from the pristine folds of his extravagantly lacy cravat and frowned at his reflection in the small mirror that was all his room afforded.

I should definitely not be doing this.

On the other hand, who was to know? He wore a mask and would assume an English accent. If his French intonations seeped through, his costume would provide an excuse—he sounded French, because he was Louise XIV, the great French king. In any case, who would expect to see the duchess's chef dressed as le Roi-Soleil and dancing with her guests?

One guest. Or not a guest. A member of the family, rather.

For just one dance with her, I will risk all.

He doffed his tricorne hat as he bowed, the red-dyed ostrich plumes tossing gently.

Cissie Pearce had found the costume and had encouraged him to dare the masquerade. "What harm can it do? And don't you worry none about the supper, Mark. You have it all ready, and I can watch your people."

Was it a costume? Or something a former duke had worn? A white silk shirt with hugely puffed sleeves gathered to lacy cuffs, gold breeches tied below the knee over red stockings, a richly embroidered knee-length waistcoat, open from the waist, and, over it all, an ornately brocaded robe that just missed sweeping the ground as he stood. The cravat, buckled shoes, and a carved walking stick with a gold tip made up the rest of the costume. The wig had been in a different part of the attic but worked well enough: black, curly, and long enough to drape across his shoulders.

He answered the tap on the door cautiously, removing his hat and opening just wide enough that the visitor would see nothing but his head. It was Cissie, and he opened wider to let her in.

"Well, look at you." Cissie was all admiration, clucking over the fine lace and the perfect fit of the shoes. "Let's see you with your mask on. There. You're that fine, Mark. Now be off with you, and don't worry about a thing. Ain't nobody up here but us, and if you go out down the main stairs, no one will know any different, but you're a guest of the house."

Swept along on her confidence, he found himself approaching the rooms where a bare three hours earlier he had been one of the servants setting up for the duchess's costume party.

The rooms were full of kings and queens, gods and goddesses, Roman soldiers and cavaliers. Ah. There she was. One solitary shepherdess hovering in the supper room, keeping watch over the comings and goings of the servants.

The fates favored him. In the next room, the musicians began to play a waltz. Did he dare dance it as the current mode was in Paris? Yes. Ladies were taking the floor in the arms of their partners. Within minutes, he could be embracing his dear mademoiselle, albeit only on the dance floor. His breath caught at the mere thought.

Mademoiselle Grenford looked up as he approached, tipping her head a little to one side as she waited for him to speak.

"May I have the honor of this dance, fair shepherdess?" he asked.

She furrowed her brows for the briefest of seconds. "I do not dance, sir, but I will find you a partner—"

"Not dance? When your costume is made to swirl on the dance floor, and the music begs—nay, demand—for you to pay homage?" A slip there. He had pronounced homage in the French way.

Her eyes widened, but she said nothing, merely—oh joy—placed her gloved hand in his and allowed herself to be conducted through the doors to join the waltz.

They began slowly, his hands resting tentatively just above her waist, and hers placed lightly on his shoulders. He honored the respectable distance due to a maiden, but as they began to circle one another in the dance, his legs shifted past hers and could not avoid repeated touching.