Unforgivable(25)
“Not very respectable,” Lottie agreed. “Which is why I’m so sure your husband will be there. I always see him at Nev’s affairs. I always give him a look, like this.” She demonstrated an expression of scornful disdain.
Rose laughed, but she knew why Lottie gave him that look, and her laugh was hollow. “Because he always has a floozy on his arm, I suppose? He’ll probably have his latest one with him tonight.”
“If you’re talking about Signora Meadows, their affair is at an end,” Lottie said with a placid smile. “And if he is seeking her replacement, as he undoubtedly will be, he is going to find her: you. What could be more fitting?”
“Me?”
“Why not? That’s what you want, isn’t it? A real marriage?”
“I won’t be able to attract him like that—”
“Of course you will. I have a few hours before I have to leave. First we’ll dress you, and then I’ll give you a flirting lesson. What’s the worst that can happen, cara? Anything’s better than just turning up at Stanhope House with a list of demands in your hand. That will get things off on entirely the wrong foot.”
Rose thought of all the letters she’d sent Gilbert telling him about Weartham and her life there, the annual invitations to join her for Christmas. He’d never taken her up on any of them, demonstrating a single-minded determination to have nothing to do with her.
He was well known for having a weakness for pretty women, a fact that was tirelessly lampooned in the scandal sheets Harriet loved so much.
Well, Rose was now a pretty woman. The least she could do was turn that to her advantage.
Lottie turned away and went into the dressing room. A minute later, she was back with a dark green domino over her arm and a mask dangling from her fingers. Rose took the mask from her, turning the lovely thing over in her hands. It was made of feathers, emerald green and peacock blue, and strung with green velvet ribbons.
“How beautiful,” she breathed.
“Try it on,” Lottie smiled.
She did.
The mask followed the line of her brows and dipped down to her cheeks, leaving her nose uncovered. Behind the mask, her eyes glittered mysteriously.
She imagined seeing Gilbert like this. Not having to worry about his reaction—not straightaway, anyway. She could perhaps even try a little flirtation on him, try to ease things between them before confronting him. If they could just have a little time together being lighthearted, maybe he would see that a reconciliation mightn’t be at all bad when she took the mask off. She imagined herself dancing with him, laughing with him. Smiling as she took the mask off.
She untied the ribbons and drew the mask away from her face, unveiling herself. The woman in the mirror looked hopeful, a little wary. It was an expression Rose didn’t like the thought of Gilbert seeing.
She tried a smile out, made it warm and promising. Easy in front of the mirror. But in front of Gilbert?
“Well, cara? What do you think?”
Rose took a deep breath. “I’ll go.”
She would have an hour or two to win him over before she unmasked herself.
It had to be worth a try.
Chapter Seven
Gil rather liked masked balls. He enjoyed assuming a shadowy identity and finding some mysterious lovely to flirt with. And the annual masked ball held by Sir Neville Grayson was unbeatable entertainment. Grayson always had the most beautiful courtesans and actresses, the most wicked rakes and scoundrels, the most faithless husbands and wives. And having amicably parted with this latest paramour, Gil was in the mood for flirtation. He strolled through Sir Neville’s elegant home, greeting acquaintances, the ones he recognised anyway, and eyeing ladies through his black velvet loo mask.
As this was not a particularly respectable affair, the ballroom was not as bright as one might usually expect, other than where the musicians played. Farther down, the candles were sparser, the relative dimness concealing the identities—and activities—of the numerous men and women thronging the place.
Gil wandered through the crowd, allowing his gaze to drift over the sea of people, waiting for someone to catch his eye. Ironic, then, that he was spied first. He felt her gaze, like a physical weight. The feel of it made him turn around, his spine prickling with awareness. And there she sat, staring at him, all her attention upon him. She sat half hidden, alone in a poorly lit corner of the ballroom.
Her gown was blue—green?—hard to tell in this light—and on her face, she wore a feathered mask. It left her small, straight nose and lovely, rather serious mouth uncovered. Her hair was dark and simply dressed at the nape of her neck. It gleamed in the candlelight.