Glancing about nervously, Margaret saw Piers Saxby and Lewis Upchurch talking with Miss Lyons. Margaret had been surprised to hear Saxby had broken things off with the beautiful brunette. He and Lewis were once again costumed as pirates, while most of the other guests had settled for dominos, or simple masks with traditional evening clothes.
Margaret fidgeted. How long dared she stand there, lurking?
Finally, she had her chance. Caroline walked across the room to speak to a girl near her own age, perhaps a school friend. When the music started and that girl’s partner came to claim her, Caroline was left alone. Margaret walked quickly over to her, doing her best to keep her face averted and her back to the side of the room where Sterling stood. She did not wish him to recognize her. Not yet, at any rate.
“Hello, my dear,” she began in an affected voice, should anyone be listening. “Will you not join me in the ladies’ dressing room? I have not seen you in an age!”
Caroline’s mouth dropped open. “Margaret?”
“Not here, my dear,” she said breezily, taking her arm. “Let us speak in private.”
She managed to lead her sister toward one of the doors before Caroline pulled her to a stop and faced her. “Margaret! I knew it. I knew you could not be dead.”
“Hush, Caroline.” Margaret looked about, but no one seemed to be paying them any heed. “I cannot stay long. I only wanted you to know I was well and to warn you. I—”
“But Mother and Sterling are here!” Caroline began pulling her arm, in the direction they had come. “We must tell them. How relieved they shall be.”
Margaret resisted, grasping her sister by both arms. Everything within Margaret warned her that if Sterling got her alone, it would all be over. He and Marcus would take her arms in a steely grip and escort her from the house before she knew what had happened. “You may tell them later. Caroline, listen to me. You must be on your guard with Marcus Benton.”
Her sister’s face clouded. “We were only dancing. I thought you didn’t like him, so I didn’t see the harm in—”
“I know he seems charming, Caroline,” Margaret interrupted. “I thought so too at first, but he pressured me to marry him in a most ungentlemanlike manner. For the inheritance. That is why I left.”
Caroline shook her head. “But I have no inheritance.”
Margaret closed her eyes and asked for patience. “Money isn’t the only thing men want.” Suddenly she sensed someone watching her from the side of the room.
She glanced over and saw Nathaniel Upchurch staring at her from behind his mask, looking as though he had seen a ghost. Did he see a woman he once knew? Or was he stunned for another reason—did he see “Nora” masquerading as a lady in a blond wig?
Were his eyes playing tricks on him—was this a figment of his imagination? For there stood Margaret Macy in all her fair glory. A mass of white-gold hair crowning her head, curls on delicate bare shoulders. Her gown shimmered white and seemed somehow familiar. The small mask she wore did little to disguise the blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the arch of golden brows, the sensible nose, the wide, shapely mouth he had memorized and dreamt about.
How could he be certain? She was wearing a mask, after all. Was it wishful thinking on his part? He knew himself fallible in recognizing women who’d changed their hair color. But, no. It was her. He knew it.
A rush of emotions swamped him. Curiosity. Concern. Why was she revealing herself here and now, when the men she had ostensibly been hiding from were in attendance that very moment? Did she not know? Should he warn her?
Nathaniel watched surreptitiously as Margaret spoke earnestly with a younger girl—her sister, he believed. When she turned and would have hailed the Bentons, Margaret gripped her arms and stayed the gesture. Clearly Margaret wanted to talk to her sister alone, likely to assure her she was all right.
Margaret glanced over her shoulder, and Nathaniel followed the direction of her gaze. Sterling Benton suddenly straightened, eyes alert. Nathaniel straightened as well.
He could stand back and watch or he could do something to help her. He did not know exactly what she was after or what she was up against, but he knew she was eager to avoid Sterling Benton. The look of fear on her face made his decision for him.
Pulling off his mask, Nathaniel strode over to her, reaching Margaret just ahead of Sterling. Margaret whirled, prepared to take flight, but Nathaniel blocked her way.
Jaw clenched, he offered his arm. “My waltz, I believe.”
She stared up at him, mouth slack. He was oddly tempted to strum his thumb over her protruding lower lip.
Instead Nathaniel took her hand, tucked it beneath his arm, and all but pulled her onto the dance floor. Behind him he heard the low rumble of Benton’s voice, peppering the sister with terse questions.
What am I doing? Nathaniel berated himself. How did asking Margaret Macy to dance jibe with his determination to avoid her? How would feeling the warmth of her hand spread up his arm and into his chest help him forget her?
He bowed to her, and she, belatedly, curtsied. For a moment he feared the tall wig would topple from her head.
“Mr. Upchurch?” she whispered, breathless before the dance had even begun.
“Yes, Miss . . . ?” He lifted his brows expectedly.
She frowned. “Miss Macy. Margaret Macy.”
He lifted his chin. “Ah. I thought so, but I was not certain I was supposed to recognize you.”
Her brow furrowed.
“With your mask, I mean.”
“Oh!” She blushed and reached up to touch her mask, as though she had forgotten she wore one.
The music passed the introductory notes and swelled into tempo. Nathaniel grew increasingly disquieted by the direct stare of her blue eyes. He looked instead down at her waist, more disquieting yet, and placed his hands there. Oh, not helping at all.
She reached up and placed her hands on his forearms.
Quite the opposite. One tug and she would be in his arms, snug against him. He grimaced, attempting to banish the thought.
Her eyes widened. “Did I step on your foot? I am sorry if I did.”
“Not at all.”
She lifted her chin. “You needn’t dance with me if you don’t wish to.”
He glanced over and glimpsed the Benton party gaping at them. Lewis and Saxby as well. “I thought you might appreciate the . . . diversion.”
He tightened his grip on her waist and whirled her around, too preoccupied to recall the various positions of the German and French waltz. She seemed preoccupied as well, craning her neck to look over his shoulder, keeping an eye on the Bentons as she spun past.
“All of London speaks of you. Of your disappearance,” he said, as they repeated the basic step and turns.
“Do they?”
“Is that why you came? To prove you are alive and well?”
A worry line appeared between her brows above the mask. “In part, yes.”
“Then why not remove your mask and show the world who you really are?”
“It is a masquerade, Mr. Upchurch.”
“Ah. I see. And you are the queen of disguises.”
She darted a look up at him, unsure of his meaning.
Lewis appeared beside them, roguish grin on his handsome face. “Miss Macy, as I live and breathe! How I have longed to see you again. Do say you’ll dance with me. Nate won’t mind if I cut in. Will you, ol’ boy?”
Nathaniel felt the old stab of jealousy. He glanced from his brother’s face—perfectly confident she would agree—to Margaret’s.
She looked at Lewis squarely and said, “Actually, I would prefer to dance with your brother.”
Lewis’s mouth parted in disbelief.
Heart lifting, Nathaniel whirled Margaret away from his stunned brother. It was likely the first time a woman had turned him down for anything.
His fleeting feeling of victory faded, for Margaret suddenly looked quite distressed.
“Mr. Upchurch,” she fumbled. “I . . . I must take my leave directly. But before I go, allow me to say how sorry I am for the callous way I treated you in the past. I regret it most keenly.”
His heart squeezed even as he felt his brows rise. “Do you?”
She swallowed. “I was wrong about you. I was wrong about a great many things.”
He stared at her. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Sterling Benton striding purposely around the perimeter of the room in their direction. Their time was nearly up.
“I fear Mr. Benton may try to cut in next,” he said. Lewis had likely put the idea into his head.
She paled.
Nathaniel looked toward the main doors, where Hudson hovered. When their eyes met he lifted his chin. His steward instantly straightened to attention. Nathaniel nodded toward Benton with a pointed look, then lifted one finger at half mast and tapped his lips—a signal devised after working many auctions together, buying supplies and selling sugar.
Hudson followed his gaze and nodded.
As the music ended, Nathaniel whirled Margaret toward the second pair of doors and bowed over her hand. “I think, Miss Macy, you had better go the way you came and quickly.”
“Oh . . .” she murmured, breathless. “Thank you.” She held his gaze a moment longer, the emphasis on the you plucking a taut chord in his chest, pleasure and pain. It seemed clear she was thanking him for more than the dance.
She turned and hurried from the room.