Miss Weston's Masquerade

The diplomat’s obvious irritation at the interruption vanished abruptly as his gaze fell on Lucia. She looked magnificent in her favourite emerald green, her white bosom scarcely contained in a jewelled net bodice, her Titian hair tumbled in artful disarray.

He stared for a moment through his quizzing glass, then it fell from his fingers as he surged forward to bend over Lucia’s proffered hand. ‘Madame! Your most obedient!’ He had no eyes for anyone, let alone Cassandra in her more modest attire and the Russian situation had obviously been instantly forgotten.

‘Sir Humphrey,’ Lucia purred. ‘I have met you at last. I have heard so much about you. Tell me, is it true that only your subtle intervention saved the talks at…’ She had already borne him off towards a curtained alcove and Cassandra never did discover Sir Humphrey’s great contribution to European statesmanship.

She was looking after them with bemused admiration for Lucia’s tactics, when Nicholas’s voice in her ear remarked, ‘Very prettily done. It is always a pleasure to see an expert at work.’

Cassandra started, realising with horror that she was all alone with Nicholas. He was looking at her with blatant admiration in his eyes, a warm smile playing round his lips. For the first time, she was experiencing all his charm, uncomplicated by their difficult, ambiguous relationship.

This was the man against whom prudent London mamas warned their susceptible daughters: not because he was a seducer of innocents, but because he would steal their hearts without for a moment taking them seriously. Many lures had been cast before the eligible Earl of Lydford, but none had hooked him.

Cassandra took a long, unsteady breath and the rose quartz jewel quivered between her breasts, drawing Nicholas’s eyes to the soft swell.

‘Monsieur?’ Cassandra hastily remembered the role she was playing and held out her hand to him. Nicholas took it and turned it so that his warm lips met the inside of her wrist in a lingering caress. Her heart leapt so she thought he must feel it in her pulse, but he drew her hand through his arm and began to stroll towards the terrace.

She forced herself to relax and move sinuously against him as he bowed and nodded to various acquaintances as they progressed through the crowd. A black page paused before them with a tray of wine glasses and Nicholas took two, offering one to Cassandra.

She took a cautious sip and realised it was champagne. The bubbles tickled her nose, but the taste was unthreatening and she drank more deeply.

Nicholas was intent on reaching the less crowded terrace and skilfully evaded all attempts to detain him with conversation. Outside it was much quieter, although couples and small groups strolled and chatted along the wide, balustraded space overhanging the Grand Canal. He found her a bench, its cold marble smothered in heaped cushions, and leaned against the wall at her side.

Cassandra could hear the slap of tiny waves as gondolas disturbed the water below, then quite forgot her surroundings as Nicholas spoke to her.

‘Will you tell me your name, ma belle?’ he asked. ‘I am Nicholas.’

‘Earl of Lydford,’ she finished for him, rolling her r’s.

‘You know? I am flattered.’ He dropped onto the bench beside her, stretching out his long legs, quite at ease.

‘I make it my business to know,’ she said, remembering Lucia’s words. ‘You may call me Antoinette.’

There was a small silence as they sipped their wine, their eyes meeting abo

ve the rim of the glasses. A frown creased Nicholas’s forehead and Cassandra was aware that he was puzzled somehow.

‘Something is wrong, Nicholas?’ She made her voice was husky, low and questioning.

He shrugged. ‘I thought you reminded me of someone, but no, it is a passing fancy. I cannot even recall who it might be.’

‘I, Antoinette, have never met you, Nicholas.’ Cassandra let her hand rest lightly on his sleeve. ‘I would have remembered you,’ she murmured to cover her alarm. There must be something about the way she moved, the way she held herself, that could not be disguised, and she was still not ready to commit herself to this masquerade.

Very well, then, she would use Lucia’s arts to divert his thoughts. He had known her in many rôles in their weeks together: tomboy, nurse, demure young lady, but never seductress. This was frightening, but excitement was racing in her veins.

She let her hand drift down his arm until her fingertips brushed his knuckles, then flexed her fingers, grazing the smooth flesh with her nails. She felt his instant reaction, and suddenly she was aware of her effect on him. This was what Lucia had meant when she spoke of the power her sisters wielded over men.

His free hand came over hers, trapping it. Again, he turned it, but this time, instead of carrying it to his lips, he rubbed one fingertip over the sensitive palm, the swell at the base of her thumb. A wave of tingling heat passed over Cassandra’s body, absurdly out of proportion to the lightness of his touch.

She met his eyes, allowing her painted lips to part invitingly. She could feel the snake on her breast rise and fall with her tremulous breathing.

‘You are refreshingly different, ma belle,’ he murmured against her hair.

Cassandra felt herself swaying instinctively against him, driven by her love, her need, for him. His warm lips grazed tantalisingly down the curve of her jaw to the soft hollow of her throat.

She had to touch him. She was beyond thinking how a courtesan should behave, beyond teasing and flirting. Cassandra put up her hand, caressing the nape of his neck, and instantly her memory supplied the recollection of his bare back under her palms in Nice.

Spreading her fingers in his hair, her thumb rubbing the strong tendon of his neck, she was hardly aware of the balustrade behind her shoulders, the yielding cushions beneath her.

Footsteps rang on the marble and, with a murmur that sounded like a mixture of relief at being stopped before things could go too far and regret, Nicholas sat up. He ran one hand through his hair and tugged at his cravat.