Miss Weston's Masquerade

She’d only meant to appear for a minute, give him a fright. Now she was trapped, and he hadn’t even looked up from the dice, or noticed it was her.

The woman perching like a bird of paradise on the arm of Nicholas’s chair was running her fingernails absently through the crisp curls at his nape. Cassandra met her eyes and registered with shock that she must be a good ten years older than Nicholas, although her beautifully painted complexion belied it.

‘Nicholas, my darling, she drawled, ‘where did you find such a delicious boy? I declare, he is positively edible. And so young. Oh look, we shock him.’ Her fingers were still on Nicholas’s neck.

Cassandra could feel the blush flood up from her neckcloth as the woman sauntered over and touched one cheek with a long finger. ‘Regardez, mesdames, his cheek is smooth like a peach.’

Nicholas turned, his expression of mild irritation freezing into a mask of disbelief at the sight of Cassandra dressed in the dark suit he’d given her in London.

Juliette, the redhead, laughed. ‘Oh, Mariette. Even for you, he is a little young, don’t you think? And so innocent… how could you think of bespoiling such an angel?’

The tip of Mariette’s tongue touched her upper lip fleetingly. ‘Just watch me.’

‘Leave the lad alone.’ Nicholas spoke quietly but with an underlying edge of menace. ‘It is his first time out of England and I don’t want his head turning, or he’ll never be any use to me.’

Mariette turned from Cassandra with a flounce of bad temper. ‘You are so high minded, milord. All this concern over a lackey.’ She snapped her fingers, ‘Wine, boy.’

Cassandra moved round the table proffering the salver, her head giddy with relief at her close escape. It had never occurred to her that anyone would take her seriously as a boy. Not in that way.

Nicholas leaned over to take his glass without looking at her. She sensed he was too angry to risk a meeting of eyes. She came to the Count last. He lounged back in his chair, a malicious smile playing on his lips at Mariette’s discomfiture. As Cassandra served him, he gave her a conspiratorial wink. Grateful, she smiled warmly at him and his eyes narrowed with sudden speculation.

‘That will be all, Cass,’ Nicholas ordered. ‘Get to your bed.’

Thankfully, Cassandra put down the tray, bowed and left as quickly as she could. The cool of the deserted marble hall was delicious after the overheated atmosphere of the salon. She sank wearily onto the bottom stair, pushed her sticky hair off her temples and drew a long, shuddering breath.

Lord, that had been a narrow escape. At the thought pf the rapacious Mariette Cassandra shuddered and dropped her hot forehead into her hands. Goodness knew what Nicholas would do in the morning. Throw her out onto the streets of Paris, probably. And who could blame him?

‘Oh, no, this is the end, Cassandra moaned. How could she have provoked Nicholas like that?

‘Come, come, ma petite, things cannot be so bad.’

Cassandra started to her feet at the sound of the warm, sympathetic voice, then realised, as she found herself staring into the deep brown eyes of the Count, that he had addressed her in the feminine form.

‘What… Sir..?’ she stammered. ‘I think you must be mistaken. I am…’

‘A young woman and a very pretty one at that.’ His gaze travelled slowly from the top of her cropped head to her small feet in the buckled shoes. His eyes were knowing, yet somehow compassionate. ‘We have a little mystère here, I think. I love a mystery. Life is too predictable.’

Cassandra’s gaze flew to the door, expecting at any moment someone to come in search of him.

‘Do not fear.’ He seemed to understand her apprehension. ‘They know I dislike the dice, they are not easy to manipulate, unlike cards and women. Some women,’ he amended. The laughter lines creased at the corners of his eyes and Cassandra found herself smiling back. The Count seemed to be something of a rogue, but a likeable one for all that. ‘They will think I have gone into the library. We can talk there.’

‘I don’t want to talk.’ Cassandra found herself being propelled firmly into the book-lined room. The doors were closed behind her.

‘But I think you need to talk to someone, ma petite.’

Cassandra’s mind raced. She did need someone to talk to but could she trust this man, about whom she knew nothing, not even his name? No, she dare not tell him anything.

Warm hands cupped her chin and gently tipped it up, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We will have a glass of Madeira, my little one, you are shivering. Then you will tell me what is troubling you, and why a well-bred young lady is involved in some masquerade that necessitates these garments.’

Cassandra found herself sitting meekly, watching his long, beringed fingers flicking dismissively at her plain coat. ‘But I know nothing of you, not even your name.’ Despite herself, she felt her guard slipping in the face of his charm.

‘That is easily remedied. I am Guy de Montpensier, Comte de Courcelles, at your service, Mademoiselle.’ He swept her an elaborate bow before subsiding elegantly into the chair opposite. He raised an interrogative brow then sipped his wine, apparently entirely happy to wait until she was ready to confide in him.

Cassandra knew she should not be in this position, alone in a room at night with a strange man. She watched him from beneath her lashes as he lounged in the wing chair. He was not as tall as Nicholas, nor as muscled. No, the Count was altogether more languid and almost a dandy in his dress.

The big nose dominated his face. He should have been ugly, but for the charm of his wry smile and the warmth in his brown eyes. All of a sudden the urge to tell someone everything was overwhelming.

‘It began when my father announced he was marrying again,’ she said, and soon the whole sorry tale was tumbling out. The Count sat sipping his wine, nodding occasionally when she faltered. ‘…and then he said I looked like a… like a…’ Words failed her at last.