And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Lady Hamilton’s event that evening was a ball masque. Having realized that fact and recognized it as a godsend, James arrived at Hamilton House in good time to stand idling just inside the ballroom, indistinguishable from countless other gentlemen in domino and mask, waiting to pounce the instant Henrietta arrived.

When she did, shrouded in a hooded domino with a pale blue mask fixed across her face, he nevertheless recognized her instantly and swooped immediately she parted from their host and hostess and turned to survey the ballroom—already a sea of hoods, masks, and black cloaks.

He’d previously thought ball masques boring, their current resurgence in popularity distinctly ho-hum, but tonight . . . tonight, he hoped this ball masque would facilitate his salvation.

Halting beside Henrietta, grasping her elbow through her domino, he dipped his head to murmur, “Good evening.”

She looked at his masked face, looked into his eyes, and smiled; relief tinted the gesture, which seemed almost absentminded. “I’d forgotten it was to be a ball masque until it was time to dress. I wondered how I was going to find you in all this.” She waved at the anonymous crowd.

“Indeed—and speaking of that, I’ve had a revelatio

n.” He drew her aside, out of the press of incoming guests. Steering her toward the wall, he elaborated, “A ball masque is completely useless in terms of further assessing others—even if we think we know who someone is, we won’t be certain, not until the unmasking at midnight. The odds that we might merely waste our time are high. Hence, for tonight, I propose that we set aside all thoughts of broadening my horizons and extending my short list, or even further discussing Miss Fotherby, and instead simply allow ourselves to enjoy the evening and the pleasure of each other’s company.” Halting by the wall, where the crush was less evident, he smoothly faced her and arched a brow, visible above his minimal mask. “What say you?”

She stared up at him, slowly blinked, then her gaze refocused and raced over his face. She hesitated, then glanced out at the crowd, surveying the shifting, anonymous throng before, finally turning back to him, she said, “I think . . . that’s an excellent suggestion.”

Henrietta wasn’t sure what had most prompted that answer—her own inclination or the echoes of Lady Osbaldestone’s and Helena’s voices still ringing in her head—but the instant the words left her lips, she felt certainty and assurance well. She’d felt the lack of both in recent days, so she welcomed and embraced them, and beamed at James. “All right. So tonight it’s just us, and all for fun.” She spread her hands. “Where do we start?”

The answer was an exploration of her ladyship’s rooms and the various entertainments offered therein. Neither felt drawn to the card tables set up in a minor salon, but they filled glasses at a fountain overflowing with champagne, and sampled the strawberries footmen were ferrying through the guests on silver salvers. The dance floor, occupying the half of the large ballroom before the raised dais on which a small orchestra labored, captured them. And held them.

“I’d forgotten that at a masked ball one can dance however many waltzes as one wishes with a single partner.” Henrietta laughed as James responded by whirling her even faster through a turn.

“And,” he replied, his eyes finding hers as they slowed and joined the stream of other couples more sedately revolving up the room, “at a masked ball, you can laugh and express delight without restraint.” His eyes held hers for a moment more, then he murmured, “I love hearing you laugh.”

He twirled her again. Henrietta was grateful for the momentary distraction; she’d suddenly lost her breath, lost her voice . . . lost touch with rational thought. He loved hearing her laugh . . . what did that mean?

She returned her attention to him, and fell into his eyes. And realized that her focus on him, and his on her, had deepened, had gained new depth.

And that mutual connection had gained even greater power to hold them both, to draw them in, heightening their awareness, each of the other, immersing them together in those moments of shared experience.

Weaving ribbons of mutual delight into a net that ensnared them.

They danced until they could dance no more, then wandered again, catching their breaths in the large conservatory into which countless couples had drifted to stroll in the moonlight streaming through the glass panes. Conversations there were muted, private exchanges that no one else needed to hear. Windows were open, so the air was fresher, and carried the scents of green growing things tinged with the exotic fragrances of night-blooming flowers.

To Henrietta, the night had taken on a magical quality. She’d lost track of time; since agreeing to James’s proposal of how to spend the evening, she’d thought of nothing beyond the next moment, the next experience, the next aspect of their mutual enjoyment.

She’d allowed herself to be swept away—something she couldn’t recall ever doing before. It was most unlike her, the practical and pragmatic one, to embrace a come-what-may philosophy and willingly plunge off the structured path. Tonight, she didn’t have an agenda; she had no goal, no aim in mind. She wasn’t pushing and shoving anything . . . but, she realized, she was learning.

Learning what she might desire in an arena she hadn’t, until very recently, allowed herself to explore.

She felt the warm weight of the necklace circling her throat, the touch of the crystal pendant above her breasts. Strolling beside James in the moonlight, her hand on his arm, his hand lying warm over hers, she thought about that, and about what more she needed to learn.

James paused. She glanced at his face. He’d tipped his head and was peering past a collection of palms. Then he straightened. His teeth flashed in a smile. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“What?”

He glanced around; she did, too, but there were no other couples near. Then he lowered his arm, caught her hand in his, and drew her around the palms—and through the door that had been concealed behind the large, strappy leaves.

The room beyond proved to be her ladyship’s orangery. A narrow stone-walled chamber, it ran across one end of the terrace bordering the ballroom. Glass-paned doors could be opened onto the terrace but were presently shut. Two rows of potted orange trees marched neatly down the room, scenting the air. The only source of light was the moonlight slanting through the glass doors; the shafts struck the pale stone flags, resulting in a soft, diffuse illumination—enough to see by, but not enough for them to be seen by the few couples strolling on the terrace.

Releasing her, James shut the door.

Henrietta went forward, down the aisle between the rows of sculpted trees; glancing at the wall opposite the terrace, she spied a small sofa set against the wall beneath a rectangular window. Stepping out of the aisle, she walked to the sofa; curious, she peered out of the window, then sighed. “Oh—this is beautiful.”

The window overlooked an ornamental lake. Sinking onto the chaise, she looked the other way—she could see all the way along the terrace—then she glanced at James as he prowled up to join her. “This sofa is perfectly set.” She gestured with one hand to the rectangular window. “The view is simply lovely.”

James looked down at her and smiled. “Indeed.” After an instant of appreciating her upturned face, masked though it was, he turned and sat beside her.

Looking out along the terrace, she sighed. “It’s been an unexpectedly delightful evening—thank you.”