Page 5 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
She blinked, accustoming herself to the brilliant scene. A sea of white-powdered heads inclined toward where she had paused beneath the archway. Even the profusion of spangled masks could not disguise the malicious speculation in the eyes that had turned her way. Above the scrape of violins, Phaedra heard the whispers. “Phaedra Grantham. I thought she was still in Bath. Imagine! Attending a masked ball unescorted! Who would bring her, my dear? Her husband?” Titters of laughter, then indignation. “Shocking, I call it. Not so much as black ribbon on her petticoats, and the poor man not dead a year.”
Phaedra moved her hand upward to adjust her own mask. Of course, she need not wonder how her identity had been so easily guessed. Self-consciously, she touched one of the shining red curls that gleamed against the gold-figured silk domino shewore over her gown. As always, she wore her locks unpowdered, in defiance of fashion or perhaps only in defiance of her grandfather, who claimed he detested red hair.
As she met the room full of hostile stares, she felt as though time had reversed itself. Suddenly she was seventeen again, stepping into this same ballroom for the very first time, only not alone. Then her husband had stood by her side, and the strange faces had surged nearer for a closer inspection of Lord Ewan Grantham’s bride. She remembered clinging to Ewan’s elbow and being ruthlessly shaken off. Trembling, she had forced a smile to her lips, wanting so badly to make a good impression; wanting to make Ewan proud of her. But her husband’s well-modulated voice had cut through whatever self-possession she had maintained. “Ah, Lady Porterfield, this is my bride, Phaedra, fresh from the wilds of Donegal. You must excuse her appearance. I had not thought it necessary to tell her hoops were always worn for evening functions. One would have imagined that even in Ireland—Ah, well. Phaedra, make your curtsy.”
She felt his hand in the small of her back, shoving her off-balance. “And don’t mumble, dearest. Her ladyship will think you unacquainted with English, and I assure you no one here speaks Gaelic any more than they do Hindi.” Ewan had joined in the laughter at his own wit. Her eyes brimming with tears, Phaedra had stared at her handsome husband as if seeing him for the first time. Cruel, petty, mean-spirited, he would never love her. She had realized, more painfully still, that she did not love him; she had realized this in a room full of heartless, uncaring strangers. The knowledge left her soul stripped bare. She felt set adrift, alone.
Alone ... even as she was tonight. Phaedra shook out her skirts, dispelling the hurtful images of the past. She was no longer seventeen, but six and twenty, no longer a bride, but a widow. Ewan was dead. These people, his shallow friends, nolonger had the power to wound her, nor could they force her to observe the hypocrisy of a mourning she did not feel. Lifting her chin, she placed one silk-shod foot after the other, stepping with measured tread into the ballroom, her fingers tightening around the ivory handle of her fan.
Phaedra had not gone far when she was accosted by a set of wide hoops swirling under the rustle of a blue silk domino. The lady’s rows of white-dusted curls were adorned with ostrich feathers, the outline of her mask emphasizing the pert tilt of her chin and the black silk patch expertly placed at the corner of her pouting red lips.
“My dearest Phaedra,” the young woman trilled. “So unexpected a pleasure.”
“Good evening, Muriel,” Phaedra said.
The woman started, disconcerted to have her disguise so easily penetrated. But Miss Muriel Porterfield’s high-pitched voice was easily as distinctive as Phaedra’s red hair.
“I simply never dreamed to find you returned to London, let alone as a guest at my ball. And so charmingly late, as usual.”
Phaedra gave her a brittle smile. “You are looking well, Muriel. But if you will excuse me, I believe I must offer my respects to your esteemed mother.”
She gestured toward where a formidable dame stood, her hollow cheeks puffed out with cork plumpers. She held court amidst a circle of clucking dowagers, all of them unmasked, all of them haughtily aloof from the ball’s proceedings.
Muriel caught Phaedra firmly by the elbow, steering her in the opposite direction. “Most unwise. Dearest Mama is already in a high tweak. She disapproves of masked balls. It took endless coaxing to persuade her to allow me to have this one. And now your arrival!”
Muriel rolled her eyes. “Frankly, she is less than enchanted. So old-fashioned, you know, in her notions of propriety,especially with regard to widows-being such a notable one herself. She still wears weepers upon her sleeves, and Papa has been dead an age.”
Phaedra attempted to disengage her arm. “I did not come here to be intimidated and skulk around as if?—”
“But she is, at this very moment, attempting to decide if she should have you discreetly evicted. Far better to avoid Mama until she has time to reflect upon the rashness of such a decision.” Muriel smiled demurely. “I have always found it so.”
Phaedra hesitated, risking one more look at Lady Porterfield. Both plump cheeks shook with outrage. Phaedra opted for the better part of valor. It was no part of her plan to find herself escorted to the door before she had achieved her purpose in coming here this evening. She hoped that would not take long. The heat was oppressive. Already she could feel beads of moisture gathering upon her brow beneath the mask.
“Very well,” she conceded, allowing Muriel to lead her through the press of guests.
“Is it not the most infamous crush?” Muriel sighed. “My ball shall be acclaimed a roaring success, though I was most distressed earlier. Parliament sat so late, we were dreadfully thin of masculine company. All the men are such selfish beasts these days. They talk of nothing but the American war and that scurrilous rogue writing those horrid pamphlets. I wish they might hang this tiresome Robin Goodfellow and be done with it.”
“They would have to discover who he is first.” Phaedra’s lips tilted into a smile that she quickly suppressed. It would not do to look as though she knew more than she ought.
But Muriel was too taken up with enumerating the triumphs of her ball to take notice of much else. “Three young women have swooned from the heat already. We’ve done far better than Lady Hartford’s rout. She can boast but two casualties.”
“You may have a fourth victim upon your hands if I do not soon get a breath of air.” Phaedra fanned herself more vigorously, an unpleasant thrumming starting inside her head in tempo with the scrape of the bows against the violin strings. The sensation grew worse as the crowd surged backward to make room for the dancers in the center of the marbled floor. But Muriel found them a spot near one of the massive white pillars that supported the cherub-bedecked ceiling of the ballroom, and sent one of the liveried footmen to procure Phaedra a glass of lemonade.
Phaedra sipped at the tepid liquid, studying the brilliant blur of dancers as they promenaded before her. All the men looked so much alike in their white-powdered wigs, their features obscured by the strips of velvet tied about their eyes. Why of all things did this affair tonight have to be a masquerade? It made the task of locating one particular man nearly hopeless. She had not even any notion what the Marquis de Varnais looked like. Doubtless the fellow would be possessed of a long thin nose, perfectly sized to be poked into other people’s affairs. Her temper threatened to get the better of her all over again when she thought of her grandfather’s last letter.
You can cease importuning me, my girl, Sawyer Weylin had written. I absolutely refuse to send my carriage to fetch you as long as my new friend, the Marquis de Varnais, advises against it. Armande believes that Bath is the perfect place for widows.
If the marquis fancied that, Phaedra thought, clenching her jaw, then it was obvious he had never been there. Bath was no longer fit for anyone but invalids and gout-ridden old men. How could her grandfather listen to such tripe? Beneath her anger lurked her fear that Sawyer Weylin meant to abandon her before she found some other means of independence. Her grandfather had made clear his displeasure that she had not borne a child toEwan. But that would have been a miraculous feat, considering how rarely her husband had ever touched her.
Phaedra suppressed that old bitterness, concentrating upon her anger with this Armande person. When she found him, she would give him a blistering set-down he was unlikely to forget. The Marquis de Varnais would think twice before ever attempting to interfere in the life of Lady Phaedra Grantham again.
Intent upon scanning the crowded room, Phaedra paid but halfhearted attention to the steady stream of gossip Muriel poured into her ears.
“Lady Lizzie Devon is rumored to be already with child. You can be certain all the old tabbies will be counting the months backward when that babe is born. And did you hear about poor Tony Aackerly? He was caught stealing a gold watch from a jewelry shop, and was flung into Newgate like a common thief. Only fancy! That some shabby shopkeeper could have a gentleman treated thus?—”
“Never mind all that,” Phaedra cut her off. Although she was loath to do so, she saw that she would have no choice but to enlist Muriel’s aid. “Answer me one question. I am looking for a man. I heard that he was to be present at your ball tonight.”
“Dear me.” Muriel simpered. “For one so recently widowed, you seem in a powerful hurry. Though perhaps marriage is not what you have in mind?”
