Dangerous Masquerade (Regency Masquerade)

Devon paused and walked over to the sideboard. Holding up a decanter, he looked at Luc, who nodded. Bringing back the bottle, he refilled their glasses with claret, placed it on a table by their chairs, then continued. “You know what villages are like. Gossip is like air to them. I’ve never heard anything bad said about her. I believe she is highly regarded. Are you certain? Perhaps she had good reason for what she did.”

Luc thought about it. He had done little but think about it since yesterday. His jaw clenched. Yesterday. He saw again the tableau in the library. The expression on Ria’s face when Agatha let slip the comment about the mask. He had known immediately who she was. How could he not?

He couldn’t recall ever feeling such stone-cold rage. Almost twenty-four hours later, the rage was still with him. A deep-seated, glacial, white and blue flame.

But for a faint moment it was pierced by a shard of hope. He was such a fool. “What possible reason could there be?”

Devon shrugged, opened his lips as though to say something then shrugged again.

“Exactly,” said Luc with a humorless laugh. What possible reason could she have? No, she was a doxy.

He stared at the wine in his glass. “I never really knew Ria. The person I loved didn’t exist. It was all an act.”

He drained his glass then refilled it and tried to ignore the hollow feeling those words had generated. “I saw what Beatrice did to my father. Her affaires tore him apart and made him a laughing stock. I’m not going through that—I refuse to recreate my parents’ marriage.”

But what choice did he have? He’d asked her to marry him, and he could not end their engagement. Honor, society, his forefathers—all forbade it. He gasped as a stab of agony pierced his chest.

At that moment, Devon’s butler appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. St. James wishes to see you, Lord Arden.”

Before Luc could find the breath to indicate he wasn’t at home, the marquess spoke. “Show Mrs. St. James in.”

At Luc’s glare, his friend looked innocent. “It won’t hurt to see her and listen to what she has to say.”

Ria was surprised when the butler returned and asked her to follow him. She’d fully expected to be told Luc wasn’t at home to visitors.

Telling herself this was a good sign, she followed the servant along a wood-paneled corridor lined with portraits and walked into what appeared to be a library.

Although the Marquess of Lyons stood as Ria entered the room, Luc did not. He continued to lounge in his chair, his face stony, a glass of red wine in his hand.

With a frown at his friend, the marquess gestured to the other chair by the fire. “Would you like to sit down, Mrs. St. James?” Then, with a stern glance at his friend, he left the room.

As she went to sit, Luc brusquely said, “Don’t bother. You won’t be staying long.”

“Luc, please…” Ria’s voice broke off as he looked at her for the first time.

His face hard, he said, “Lord Arden to you.”

At his words, the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, present since their last meeting, spread. Frozen fingers inched their way over her, bringing with them numbness.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Clearing her voice, she tried again. “Lord Arden, I request that you allow me a moment to discuss what happened with you.”

With cold eyes Luc gazed at her, then rose and walked toward the door. “I’m not interested, madam, in whatever you have to say.”

Seeing he was about to leave, Ria hurriedly pulled from her reticule a package. “My lord, I have here some documents. I would be obliged if you would look at them. When you have, perhaps we can talk.”

She placed them on the study table, then—head held high—walked past him out of the room.

Her butler entered the library, walked over to Ria, and presented to her a familiar package on a silver tray. She took the packet.

“Thank you, Flowerday.”

Recognizing the wrapping, she waited until he left the room. With t

rembling hands, she undid the bundle, fumbling with the string. The documents she had left for Luc to read tumbled out along with a brief note. Scrawled in thick black letters were the words, “Still not interested.”

Ria cupped her hand over her mouth to muffle her cry. Behind her, she heard Monty saying in a reassuring tone, “My dear, I don’t believe he actually read them.”

She briefly closed her eyes on the tears threatening to fall, then looked at Monty. “He opened it.”