Miss Weston's Masquerade

‘Damn these masks,’ he growled, fumbling in her hair for the strings. ‘Intriguing they may be, but they’re damnably inconvenient.’

In a moment they would be face to face, not Nicholas and Antoinette, but Nicholas and Cassandra. Suddenly she knew she, Cassandra, could never do the things that Antoinette would do. To make love to him in disguise would be pointless, empty, wanton. To make love to him as herself, she realised, was impossible.

It would betray her own honour and, in doing so, tarnish everything she felt for Nicholas. He would hate the deception, the lies that had brought him here. The realisation doused her passion more effectively than a douche of cold water. With a sinuous twist, she slipped from beneath his hand and off the bed.

‘When I return, Nicholas,’ she whispered huskily, ‘then you may take everything, beginning with the mask. But I must fetch wine and fruit for later and make certain we are not disturbed.’

‘I’ll wait then, ma belle – but impatiently.’ He swung his long legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the cushions. The smile he sent her was melting with desire as she escaped, pulling the heavy door closed behind her.

She leaned her shoulders against the panels, achingly aware of Nicholas on the other side, fighting to control the urge to run back into his arms, whatever her conscience told her.

Lucia’s sharp hiss brought her to her senses. ‘Why have you left him?’ She was standing at the foot of the stairs as Cassandra ran down. ‘What is wrong? Why are you not in your Niccolo’s arms?’ Her sharp eyes scanned Cassandra’s flushed face.

‘I cannot do it, it would be wrong. Oh, but Lucia, I love him so.’ Her voice broke on a sob.

‘Make haste then.’ Lucia drew her into the chamber where her maid was waiting. The two of them began unlacing the gown, removing the wig and freeing Cassandra’s own hair.

‘Wear this.’ Lucia bundled her into a plain wrapper and began scrubbing at her face with a thick cream. ‘Here, take the rest of the pot and this linen to apply it, check carefully in a good light that there is no paint left around your eyes and hairline. Now go!’

Propelled into the chilly dawn light of the courtyard, Cassandra stopped, looking round wildly. How was she to get into her own palazzo? Then she saw the door standing ajar, Lucia’s influence no doubt. She ran up the steps, then paused, one hand on the heavy iron ring, and looked back. Behind the lighted window, Nicholas’s shadow crossed and re-crossed the room. He was becoming impatient.

Fear lent wings to her feet as she sped towards her chamber. Candles burned on the dressing table in front of the mirror and she stooped to scrutinise her face as she scrubbed the linen over the last remnants of kohl under her lashes. Dragging of the wrapper, she bundled it into the clothes press and kicked the slippers out of sight.

The water in the pitcher on the washstand was cold but Cassandra splashed it over her neck and breast to wash away the lingering scent of sandalwood, replacing it with a splash of her usual innocuous rosewater.

The jewel still hung around her neck. Her fingers were fumbling with the unfamiliar clasp when the front door crashed shut with the force of a thunderclap echoing around the marble halls.

Cassandra whisked into bed, dragging the covers up to her chin, then lay back on the pillows fighting to steady her breathing. Nicholas wouldn’t come to her room, why should he? It was only her guilty conscience that prompted the fear.

As she closed her eyes, she heard him enter his chamber, shutting the door with slightly less vehemence this time, no doubt to avoid waking her. She could chart his progress around the room by his footsteps and the so

und of drawers being opened and closed, his shoes being kicked across the floor with a muttered imprecation. Then there was silence.

She had just started to relax when the connecting door eased open. She caught her breath, then forced herself to breathe deeply and slowly. Between slitted lids, she watched Nicholas in his brocade robe standing on the threshold regarding her. She turned slightly on the pillows to watch him more easily and muttered as though restless in her sleep.

How long he stood there she had no idea, although it seemed long minutes rather than seconds, but he made no move to come further into the room or to speak to her.

In the end, it was her own guilty conscience that made her feign waking. ‘Nicholas?’ She injected as much sleepy puzzlement as she could into her voice. ‘What’s wrong? What time is it?’

He hesitated, one hand on the edge of the door. ‘Nothing, nothing’s the matter. Don’t worry. I’m sorry I woke you.’ But he did not go back through the open door, instead he moved slowly to sit on the end of her bed, his eyes steady on her face.

After a moment, he said, ‘You look tired, Cassie.’

‘I am. I haven’t slept much.’ She looked at him, seeing how the excitements and disappointments of the night had left him drained. ‘Are you all right? You look ill.’

‘I will survive.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Like you, I have had no sleep.’ He fell silent again.

‘Why are you here, Nicholas?’

‘I felt the need to see you, but I didn’t intend to disturb you. Cassie, I’m sorry… I felt, I feel… I should never have shouted at you, never have struck you. I had neglected you, no wonder you felt rebellious.’

‘Nicholas, there is no need for this.’ If he felt guilty, Cassandra felt a thousand times worse. His anger had turned to remorse, but she could feel no satisfaction at his apology. She put out a tentative hand and he took it gently.

‘Coming to Venice was a mistake, I should never have brought you here. It was selfish of me.’ He was patting her hand in a way totally removed from the caresses of an hour ago. ‘Sleep now, we will make more plans tomorrow.’

When he had gone, she let out her breath in a huge sigh of relief. She did not deserve to have escaped the night’s wild masquerade without discovery, she knew that. But she knew also that her heart would never escape the pain of unrequited love. Her fingers touched the jewelled snake and she sat up and unclasped it. The clasp unlatched easily now there was no need for haste.

The gold pooled into a supple coil in her palm and she stirred the jewel with her finger, evoking the touch of Nicholas’s finger on her skin. No, she had not escaped unscathed: she was no longer the innocent girl who had set out on this mad masquerade six weeks before. Love hurt.