Page 6 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
“What a shocking suggestion from a young unmarried female!” Phaedra said. “But I shall resist the temptation to carry tales to your mama if you point out for me Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais.”
“Aha!” Muriel’s eyes danced. “You always were a sly one. Not nicknamed the Lady Vixen for nothing! I might have known that even buried in a dreary place like Bath, you would manage to hear about our mysterious marquis.”
“Mysterious?” Phaedra frowned. “Why mysterious?”
“My dear, he simply seemed to spring up in our midst out of nowhere. No one had ever heard of the man before.”
Phaedra found this intriguing. “But surely the French ambassador would know all the noblemen from his own country.”
“It scarce matters. Lord Varnais is absolutely the sensation of the season. Now if you will excuse me. Mama is scowling at me. I really must pay more heed to the invited guests.”
“But I want you to introduce me to the marquis.”
Muriel’s bow-shaped lips puckered into an expression of smug satisfaction. “He is not here yet. Like you, le cher marquis adores making a grand entrance.” Lifting her skirts, she prepared to glide away.
“But how shall I recognize him?” Phaedra asked.
“When Armande de LeCroix puts in his appearance, even if he is masked, you will know him.”
Phaedra reluctantly let Muriel go. The young woman’s casually dropped remarks had changed Phaedra’s entire estimation of the man she had come to confront.
Mysterious … never heard of before? But her grandfather trusted few men and liked even fewer, reserving a special antipathy for foreigners. His sudden friendship with this marquis seemed all the more puzzling. The rogue must be possessed of a great deal of charm; she could scarcely contain her impatience to meet him. But, tired from a day’s hard journeying, she was in no humor to wait much longer. Thanks to her grandfather’s refusal to send his carriage, Phaedra had been obliged to travel upon the common stage, squashed between a fat farmer’s wife and a shopkeeper smelling of fish. Her widow’s jointure was small, and the cost of her fare had made a considerable dent in her meager savings. This fact only added to the grudge she harbored against the unknown marquis.
Her irritation increased with her growing discomfort in the stuffy ballroom. Despite the fact it was too early for the unmasking, she removed the velvet, which had begun to chafe the sensitive skin beneath her eyes, and stuffed the mask in her knotted purse.
Refusing several invitations to dance, Phaedra kept her eyes fixed on the doorway. She studied the few late arrivals, one portly gentleman whose garters peeked out beneath his breeches, the other a gangly youth who’d affected the style of the Macaronis, his hair a mountain of powdered frizz.
Damn Muriel. Why must she play at these games? Phaedra would never be able to guess which man might be the marquis. Thrusting aside another hopeful dance partner, she moved forward, determined to end this nonsense by making blunt inquiry.
The next instant she froze where she stood. Another man strode in behind the other two. Sweeping off a great cloak of black silk lined with scarlet, he flung it to a footman, the candlelight playing over a broad pair of shoulders covered by a cream-colored satin coat in the first mode of elegance. His white-powdered hair was pulled back in severe style, tied in a queue at the nape of his neck. He wore no domino, his only effort at disguise the silver mask concealing the upper portion of his face. Why then, Phaedra wondered, did he possess such an aura of intrigue?
Perhaps it was the way he moved. He stepped forward into the room, conveying an impression of aloofness, of isolation even in the midst of the crowd.
Phaedra jumped as the bone sticks of a fan rapped her on the shoulder. She tore her gaze from the man to confront Muriel’s glinting eyes. “Well, my dear, may I not present you to the marquis? It is a meeting I would not miss for worlds, I assure you.”
Phaedra nodded, her heart giving a sudden thud. She followed Muriel, hardly watching where she was going, her eyes drawn to the man who was as yet oblivious to her existence.
He must be handsome, she decided from what she could see of his features, but in a cold sort of way. His lips were frozen in an expression of hauteur; his jawline was perfectly chiseled, as though carved from granite.
“My dear Marquis,” Muriel said, propelling Phaedra forward. “You have arrived at last.”
“Bon soir, mademoiselle.” As he turned from greeting Muriel to encompass Phaedra in his bow, she saw the eyes that glittered behind his mask, narrow slivers of ice-blue. Try as she would to suppress it, a shiver swept through her.
“My lord, you must allow me to present a dear friend of mine,” Muriel began, but the marquis interrupted her.
“Introductions at a masked ball, mademoiselle?” he mocked. “You will destroy all the evening’s mystery.”
Muriel giggled. “Alas, sir, I fear my friend is far too eager for your acquaintance to await the unmasking. Lady Grantham, may I present Armande de LeCroix, the Marquis de Varnais. My lord, the Lady Phaedra Grantham. “
“Enchante, madam.” His voice was low and seductive, steel sheathed in velvet.
Phaedra saw no sign that he even recognized her name. Yet he must, since he had obviously felt it his duty to keep her in exile from London.
“I trust my name is not unknown to you, monsieur.” What had come over her? Her speech held none of the haughtiness she had rehearsed during the coach ride from Bath.
Brushing aside the lace at his wrist, the marquis produced an enameled snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, flicking it open with a careless gesture. Phaedra watched him, her eyes rivetedon every graceful movement. As he raised a pinch to one finely chiseled nostril, his mouth tipped into a slight frown.
“Grantham? Now, where have I heard ... Ah, yes.” He snapped the snuffbox closed, his eyes returning to Phaedra. He studied her with cold assessment. “You are Ewan Grantham’s—er, how do you English put it-Lord Ewan Grantham’s relict?”
