Page 1 of A Devil in Silk
Chapter One
The Masquerade Ball
Home of the Earl and Countess of Berridge
The mask made her feel brave. Forged of red velvet and gold leaf, it hid the scar that slashed through her brow and veiled the blind eye that had once gleamed bright blue. No one would stare. No one would flinch. Confidence was a costume, stitched into the seams of her gown. Beneath it lingered the girl whose world had splintered with the crack of a whip.
Tonight, Clara wasn’t the woman marked by her father’s rage. She was not a victim. She was a mystery. A scarlet-lipped shadow who might pass as perfection.
She had come alone, slipping into the ballroom with the last of the guests as the orchestra played, her facade as finely crafted as the mask she wore. Only her brother, sister-in-law, and a few trusted friends knew her true identity. To the rest, she was a stranger—The Crimson Contessa—draped in Venetian silk the colour of blood and flame. Gold embroidery laced the bodice likedelicate filigree, catching the candlelight with every purposeful step.
It was more than a costume. It was a transformation. For a few precious hours, she could be someone else. Every admiring glance tonight belonged to the woman she pretended to be, not the scarred recluse.
A smile curled her lips.
No one pitied her here. For the first time in her life, she felt free.
No one knew this was the first step in an adventure of a lifetime. Despite compiling a list of ten tasks she wished to complete before retiring to the country, she had two goals tonight.
To waltz with a man who wasn’t paid to tutor her. That said, why stop at one dance or one man? Judging by the numerous gentlemen gazing her way, filling her card wouldn’t be difficult.
Doing so would help her achieve her second goal. To rattle the ever-composed Lord Rutland, her brother’s insufferable friend. He was far too confident, far too accustomed to making her feel small. And, as the viscount was to announce his betrothal in a fortnight, the ball was her only chance to put the rakish lord in his place.
Finding him would pose no challenge. The dimple in his chin had a careless elegance, as if in a moment of mischief, God had sculpted the perfect jaw to torment hapless women. Heaven knows how many impossible promises had fallen from that bold mouth.
She scanned the sea of masked figures, searching for the lord amongst the couples dancing, oddly relieved he wasn’t there. In truth, she didn’t care who he danced with, but ladies flocked to him like birds to a sunlit statue, unaware marble could be so cold.
He wasn’t speaking to her darling sister-in-law, Elsa, or the countess dressed as a princess of Troy. Clara longed to join their conversation and discuss the guests’ costumes, but the moment she did, Lord Rutland would know precisely who she was.
A man approached, cutting through the crowd in a striking Tudor ensemble, complete with a fur-lined cloak and bronze mask. Brown hair framed a strong jaw, though his blue eyes lacked the sparkle of a certain viscount’s.
“King Henry, at your service,” he said, offering a bow.
Clara studied him, trying to summon the strength to act coy. “Which Henry?” she asked, though it was obvious based on his red velvet doublet.
“The Eighth,” he replied with a mischievous grin.
“I do hope you’re not looking for a wife, Your Majesty. I’m rather fond of my head, and I hear your dreadful gout means you’re not one for dancing.”
The man tilted his head back and laughed so loudly that people around them stared. “Gout is an excuse to avoid endless waltzing. One must conserve one’s energy for more important matters, like charming beautiful ladies.”
Oh dear! His efforts were all show and no subtlety. Unlike this gentleman, Lord Rutland had natural charisma. Compliments fell from his lips like grace from a fallen angel, unexpected, a little wicked, and all the more convincing for it.
“How do you know I’m beautiful?” she asked with playful defiance. But even as she spoke, something twisted inside her. Her scar made her feel anything but. Still, she held his gaze with her good eye, willing herself to stay composed.
“A woman with your magnetic presence must be beautiful.”
Unease stirred. Coming here was a mistake. A lady wanted to be adored when she removed her disguise, not pitied. She should have stayed at home. It was ridiculous to think she could fool anyone.
“Would you care for champagne?” King Henry said.
Eager to end this conversation without being rude, she nodded. “Yes, please.” Henry could always drink it himself if he failed to find her.
Once alone, she gathered her wits and took a deep breath, but another prospective suitor appeared, offering his hand with a polite smile and no introduction.
“Would you care to dance the cotillion?” he asked, his voice smooth, his hair golden, his simple black domino marking him as a man with nothing to prove.
She hesitated for a moment before allowing him to lead her onto the floor. As the dancers arranged themselves into neat lines, she moved through the opening figures with cautious concentration, each step a memory slowly recalled.
