Page 42 of How to Love a Duke in Ten Days
When Redmayne had entered the grand ballroom, she’d understood a little better why he’d select a masquerade for his first reintroduction to society. His black satyr maskcovered all but his mouth and the very point of his beard, hiding all but the scar on his lip. It seemed he’d decided to embrace his new tenure as the Terror of Torcliff.
She couldn’t help but admire his courage.
Her fingers tightened on the door latch, remembering.
Until tonight, she’d thought him comprised of all weathered angles and animalistic sinew. But tonight he wore more black than was fashionable and the effect had been stunning. All that unbridled power, now contained in a suit coat, threatened to burst forth at any moment. She’d been astonished to discover the thought compelled her more than it had repelled her.
Eschewing the convenience of gaslights, he’d had hundreds of candles lit for the occasion, casting a medieval glow over the revelers. They blazed in the chandeliers, and flickered from priceless crystal and silver candelabra on tables laden with delicacies and delectables. Clever little cups at the base of the candles caught any drips of hot wax.
A fortune in candles. Because a fortune he possessed.
He’d drifted through the twirling eddies of waltzing couples with feline grace, like a dark ghost who expected no one to notice him.
Or perhaps a lion who’d known the crowds of lesser creatures would part for him.
And they did. They all did. How could they not? He stood head and shoulders above most, his titanic size surpassed only by his enigmatic potency. The guests not only parted for him, they danced around him as though he were an ancient pagan god in demand of worship.
It made a great deal more sense that some of the more superstitious ancients believed certain men could be made into gods. Or that they’d been sired by one.
Conversely, she supposed, perhaps it made sense that the modern mind, influenced by penny dreadfuls, made ashapeshifting devil of him, instead. England had long since agreed upon one God, but in this unhallowed world, there were still demons aplenty. And since he had such mysterious wounds, and the build of a beast, it wasn’t much of a leap for minds prone to such whimsical imaginings.
The candlelight had glinted off the dark layers of his hair, still too long and unruly to be strictly proper.
Alexandra had done her best to disappear behind a potted tree in the corner of the ballroom. Not a wallflower. Wallflowers sat where they hoped to be observed, aching to be danced with. To be romanced.
She’d fashioned herself a moth in a field of butterflies, and the effect seemed to be working.
A few times, she fancied she’d caught the gleam of a blue gaze in her direction from the slits in his hellish mask.
She knew better than to fancy that Redmayne had searched for her, but she’d caught her breath all the same.
Alexandra didn’t like him in a mask. It covered his exotic cheekbones, and the hint of the playful dimple beneath his close-cropped beard.
Behind his sinister disguise, no one could read the boyish sparkle in his gaze. They might not notice the suggestive dissonance of his full mouth against such a marble-hard jaw.
Then they’d misjudge him even more fiercely thus, wouldn’t they?
For in his dark attire and macabre mask, one could truly imagine he was the Terror of Torcliff, stalking the shadows for his next victim. Something helpless, something delicate and decadent. Like the virgins he claimed to dine upon.
She’d heard the assembly whisper about him, as he’d stood at the balustrade with Lord Ramsay. A terriblyhostile-looking man as dissimilar in looks to Redmayne as he was in reputation.
Their jaws had a similar set, she supposed. Their mouths the same lush cruelty.
And their eyes, she’d noted. A wintry blue. The color of the sky after an angry storm.
“Look at this.” Francesca’s murmur rose in volume, breaking her reverie. “I’ve found where the Cavendish and Ramsay lines intersect.”
“What does it say?” Alexandra whispered, opening the door a little wider to overhear.
“Drat.” The book slammed shut, and Alexandra could picture the irritation tightening Francesca’s mouth. “Sir Cassius Ramsay is something like eleventh in line to the earldom. He’d have to murder half thehaute tonto bloody get his hands on the Mont Claire title.”
“His mother…” Cecelia tsked. “What an awful woman. Her diaries seem to be mostly lurid and disgusting accounts of her vast affairs. She delighted in cuckholding her husband. I should not like to read further, but here, the year your family was killed, she mentions nothing of the massacre. In fact, she’s lamenting that her sons are on the Continent, which places them solidly out of the country and—”
“Wait a minute.” Francesca’s voice became agitated. “I’ve seen this name before. During my previous investigation.”
“Which name?” Cecelia’s skirts rustled closer to Francesca’s voice.
“Kenway. Lord Kenway. He’s only second in the line of succession after me—”
