Carla Neggers - That Night on Thistle Lane

“Nice dancing with you, Princess,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

“That was wonderful. Thank you. You’re quite a dancer.”

He laughed. “I watch a lot of movies. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“That’s kind of you to say. What should I call you? D’Artagnan? Are you a king’s musketeer?”

“That works for me.”

Phoebe sipped her champagne, wondering if their dancing had loosened a strawberry curl or two from under her wig. Would her musketeer care that she didn’t really have raven-black hair?

What does it matter? None of this is real.

She shut her eyes a moment, bringing herself back to reality. This was her secret night out on the town. She would be Phoebe O’Dunn again before dawn. Probably before the stroke of midnight.

“What brought you here tonight?” her swashbuckler asked.

Phoebe quickly reminded herself she was playing a part. Flirtatious, confident, rich. An Edwardian princess could afford to pay her own way to a charity masquerade ball and wouldn’t feel bad if she hadn’t. “It’s a great cause,” she said, settling on a vague answer.

“That it is.”

“And you? What brings you here?”

He shrugged. “I owed a friend a favor.” His so-blue eyes narrowed on her as he drank some of his champagne. “And it’s a good cause.”

The music started again, a slow, romantic song. He took her champagne glass from her and set it and his glass on a small table, then drew her into his arms and back onto the dance floor.

Phoebe laughed, feeling light-headed and free. She didn’t want the night to end and yet she knew it would. Her swordfighter would go back to being whatever he was—a pediatrician, a hospital administrator, a lawyer, a Boston businessman, a professor at one of the local colleges. She would go back to Knights Bridge. They lived in the real world. He wasn’t a musketeer and she wasn’t a princess.

Just for tonight...

His hand eased lower, subtly, over the curve of her hip. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

Phoebe did as he asked as he held her even closer. She had one arm around his middle and one on his shoulder, could feel the warmth of his skin through the black fabric of his costume. He wasn’t a man she’d conjured up on a lazy, hot, quiet afternoon at the library. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

As they danced, she heard only the music, felt as if they were floating together, as one. When the music finally stopped, he kept her close as she caught her breath and opened her eyes. “That was amazing,” she said with a smile.

His lips brushed hers. “You’re amazing, Princess.”

Phoebe started to tell him that she was no princess, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want the fantasy to end. For a while longer she wanted to be a princess. She lowered her hand from his shoulder and opened her palm on his chest. Who was he, really? Did she even want to know?

Then she saw Dylan, dressed as a cross between Zorro and the Scarlet Pimpernel, standing with Olivia in her Audrey Hepburn dress. They gave no indication they recognized her or even were moving toward her. Phoebe glanced around for Maggie but didn’t see her.

Her swashbuckler released her and stood back a few inches, the muscles in his jaw visibly tensed as his eyes narrowed on something—or someone—behind Phoebe. “Excuse me, I have something I need to do,” he said, shifting back to her. He was enigmatic, decisive. “Will you wait for me?”

“I will. Yes, of course.”

“Do you have friends with you?”

“I’ll be fine. Please, do what you have to do.”

He touched a fingertip to her lips, then was gone in an instant. Phoebe watched him as he headed quickly through the crowd, his black cape flowing, his movements smooth and controlled.

She hoped he would come back but wasn’t at all sure what she would do if he did.

She dipped out of Dylan and Olivia’s line of sight and stopped at an hors d’oeuvres table. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her sister at the far end of the table in her gorgeous Grace Kelly gown. As a professional caterer, Maggie always liked to check out the food offerings at an event. Before Phoebe could decide what to do, her sister abruptly abandoned the hors d’oeuvres and whirled back toward Olivia and Dylan. At first Phoebe had no idea why. Then she saw a man dressed as a rogue of a pirate and she knew.

Brandon.

Phoebe immediately recognized her brother-in-law—Maggie’s soon-to-be-ex-husband—as he stopped at a tray piled high with miniature brownies. She tried not to react to his unexpected presence or call attention to herself in any way, but she was too late. His eyes met hers and then he grinned that grin that Phoebe had first seen in nursery school and her sister had fallen for at fifteen.

She groaned inwardly. It just figured Brandon Sloan would turn up as a pirate, and that he would have no trouble recognizing her in her Edwardian costume.

Phoebe didn’t dare bolt. That would only draw more attention to her. Instead, pretending to be casual, she helped herself to a bit of apple and cheese and moved down the table to him.

“Oh, this is too good,” Brandon said. “Phoebe O’Dunn in sequins and a feathered hat.”

“Maggie and Olivia don’t know I’m here,” Phoebe said through her clenched teeth.

“Dylan?”

“No.”

Brandon polished off a tiny brownie in one bite. “I didn’t think you were the type to sneak into a charity ball. I’m proud of you, Phoebe.”

“Do not make fun of me, Brandon.”

His dark eyes softened behind his mask. “Okay, I won’t. You’re shaking. Is everything all right? I saw you dancing—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right. We won’t talk about it. Why are you here on the sly?”

“Just because.”

“You’ve been doing too many kids’ story hours. You sound like Aidan and Tyler.”

Phoebe ignored his teasing her and peered into the crowd. She didn’t see her swashbuckler. Everything she hadn’t noticed while she was dancing she noticed now. A cluster of people here. Another one there. A woman shrieking with laughter. A man spilling a drink down his front.

Clinking glasses.

Waiters with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

Reading materials and displays about the neonatal ICU.

What was I thinking, coming here tonight?

How had she let herself get caught up in dancing with a perfect stranger?

They were both playing a role.

“Phoebe?” Brandon took her by the elbow. “You look wobbly. Do you need to get out of here?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I have my car.”

He grinned. “You drove? Good for you.”

She glared at him. “Brandon—”

“I’m not patronizing you. I meant it. Driving in Boston is no picnic even for someone used to it. Do you have your cell phone on you? Call me if you need help. Got that? Maggie would kill me if I knew you were sneaking out of here alone and didn’t look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after. Really. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Phoebe started to leave, but stopped and turned back to him. “Brandon, if you see the man I danced with...” Was she completely mad? “Never mind.”

She spun into the crowd before he could respond. As she came to the large exit doors, she scanned a knot of people gathered there but didn’t see her swashbuckler. When she reached the relative quiet of the ballroom lobby, she hesitated instead of plunging straight onto the escalators. Maybe she should go back to the ballroom and find him. Olivia and Maggie would understand that the only way she could have come tonight was exactly the way she had—on her own, without telling anyone.