Anabelle Bryant - His Forbidden Debutante

When it became painfully clear Fate would not present Lord W in a serendipitous coincidence and that she would have to summon a clerk by ringing the bell on the counter, Livie backed towards the door, all at once aware of how silly she must appear. Better she left undetected than be caught stuttering at the counter with no real reason to be inside, victim to a damning rumour.

She closed the door with a click and nearly tripped over the same plump, ginger-coloured cat who’d now dropped itself to the floorboards directly outside the haberdashery’s entrance. The creature deemed her worthy of an insolent yowl, although the tabby didn’t move and Livie muttered a complaint, as if the cat would learn a lesson from her sage advice. Shaking her head with exasperation she turned towards her waiting carriage, a little smile twisting her lips. Good heavens, at times she was just as flighty and ridiculous as Whimsy believed her to be. She’d best get home and prepare her costume. It was her first ever masquerade and the possibilities were limitless.

Chapter Six

I’ve never attended a societal event in the city. Have you? I assume they are very crowded and one must dress in one’s finest attire, assert the very best behaviour and remember which spoon to use for the soup. How complicated and utterly fascinating by half. Sometimes I imagine meeting you at a grand gathering. We would share clever conversation and the last dance of the evening. The final waltz is believed to hold unfailing charm for the participants.

Penwick adjusted his ornate mask, the slow roll of carriage wheels an indication his driver inched towards the Dabney estate. Coaches, horses and servants clogged the hawthorn-lined gravel drive, the sides flanked by acreage which stretched farther than he could see from the square window, no matter he’d opened the glass and slanted his head to gain a better vantage point. Instead, brisk night air invaded the interior to remind the season began in earnest. Gone were the extended country parties at quiet pastoral estates where society exercised a more relaxed schedule. Tonight’s affair signalled a frenetic series of events from opera house showings to private family functions, gallery openings and overcrowded ballroom assembles.

The Dabneys represented old money and the elaborate affair they hosted this evening would set a precedent for the ton’s social calendar. He laced his fingers and adjusted his gloves. Strickler had arranged his costume for the masquerade and, with a modification in tolerance, Penwick agreed. He seemed forever cloaked in some type of disguise or another, his true self having fallen into a deep slumber, or worse, become permanently dormant during the time he’d assumed the earldom and rearranged his life. Perhaps Strickler sensed this disquiet. The servant had arranged a lion creation and matching gloves to accompany his gold-threaded waistcoat and jacket. Facing the crowd masked as the king of the jungle suited Penwick.

At last the clink of the handle and clap of wooden steps being extended signalled he’d arrived. He adjusted his gloves, tugging at the hems a final time, and descended from the carriage into a sea of Aesop’s fabled animals. Ahead of him a dove conversed with an ant, alongside the walkway two eagles laughed at a story told by a frog, and near the door a quartet of guests clustered, two owls, a cat and a fox, the backlight of several paper lanterns illuminating the group in a soft, golden glow, as if prominently featured and offset from the others.

The crowd moved with vigorous anticipation towards the huge cherry-wood doors manned on both sides by livery dressed in assigned uniforms, although a plain black mask had been added to complement their navy blue and burgundy attire. At the foot of one of the servants sat a plump ginger cat. It flicked its long tail when each guest passed, as if keeping tally.

Penwick knew Lord Dabney from their association at Boodle’s, though this was the first time he’d visited the estate. The milieu simmered with an ambient hum of conversation and anticipation. The first event of the season produced a flurry, or so Strickler had advised, as the crowded festivities were new, an instant immersion into the vigorous demands of socialising.

With effort, he advanced to the entry and through the foyer, decorated in voluminous drapery of shimmering silver silk, where he again waited, this time a few strides behind the chattering quartet of three ladies and one gentleman he’d noted earlier. Something about the fox sparked a note of familiarity, whether the elegant tilt of her chin or poised steps, as graceful as if she glided across the marble tiles. If he gained a better view, perhaps the illogical perception would make sense. He studied the fox through his mask, all at once content to be hidden by disguise and offered the freedom of curious voyeurism without societal censure.

She wore a golden brocade pelisse trimmed in sable or mink, an expensive fine fur. The same edged a glittering mask of amber silk perched on her delicate nose. Tiny pointed ears were woven into her flowing tresses, every shade of late autumn, and he was reminded of the paperbark maple tree that grew outside his bedroom window at his childhood home. The boughs would turn the warmest shades of brown near the season’s end, and fascinated by the myriad leaves of russet and brown, he’d stare out the window and daydream. This particular memory never failed to comfort and remind of simpler times.

His eyes searched her figure from head to toe and back again.

Realisation came as a direct hit.

Here stood the lady he’d danced with at Monsieur Bournon’s hall, the woman who’d somehow spoken to his soul though she remained silent in his arms. A woman composed of tempting sensual suggestion; strictly forbidden to a man eleven days from the altar.

He pivoted, sharp and abrupt, to collide with an elderly man dressed as a stork. Mumbling his apology, he strode towards the nearest set of French doors, away from the continuous flow of partygoers who sought the opening strains of the orchestra’s melody as if entranced. Yet it was he who needed the slap of fresh air provided on the terrace. He inhaled and exhaled twice to cleanse away stray thoughts.

Nature had other plans for the evening and the sky opened with a drenching rain soon after. He’d sought refuge from the front hall, but now forced inside, he escaped the weather but not the rapid fire of suggestions that ricocheted within his brain. Summoning the demeanour of his title and grateful for his disguise, he rejoined the herd as it meandered towards the reverie, and while he forbade himself from seeking the beguiling ears of a heart-stopping beauty, he couldn’t resist sweeping the room with his gaze as soon as he entered the ballroom.

‘The lion is staring at you as if he’s stalking prey on the savannah.’

‘Esme.’ Lavinia adopted her most prudent tone. ‘What a ridiculous suggestion.’ A little thrill shimmied throughout with her friend’s assertion. She bowed her head and peeped the tip of her slipper from beneath her hem to admire the glistening shoe clips like a well-kept secret.

‘I’ve kept a close eye on his behaviour since I stole you away from Whimsy’s strict chaperone. Thank heavens the Dabneys had the sense to invite such a crush. With Dashwood’s dislike of dancing, and our goal of the opposite, we’ve found sanctuary here the ballroom.’ Esme swivelled a demure glance, executing a survey of the surroundings in a manner suggesting she remained oblivious to all, though she examined every detail with a sagacious eye. ‘How curious. He watches you, but does not wish to be known.’

‘You sound like a description from a gothic novel promising suspense, duplicity and intrigue.’ Laughter bubbled inside her. ‘Perhaps he watches you, Esme. I know of no other woman who could dress as a Juniper tree and appear as delicate and refined. Whoever decided to weave those little pearled buds through your hair evinced genius.’