Lord of the Masquerade, page 17
She smiled, her eyes stinging. “I know.”
He blinked in surprise. “You… knew?”
“You showed me,” she said. “Not your interference with my cousin. I mean you and me, right here on this bed. You didn’t say the words, but you didn’t have to. You told me with your body. You would never have given up control to anyone you didn’t love and trust.”
“Let me prove how much every night and every tomorrow.” He pressed her fingers to his lips without taking his eyes from hers. “Make me the happiest of men. Marry me. Or at least stay, for as long as you like, and I will do my best to make that be forever.”
She gazed down into his hazel eyes.
He was right. She didn’t have to prove herself. There was nothing left to prove. Unity had already proven herself over and over, time and again. She was fine. She was complete. She was capable. She was enough, with or without him.
The choice was hers.
She cleared her throat. “Are you certain you wouldn’t mind if I... oh, say for example... launched competing masquerades?”
He grinned at her. “As long as you don’t mind competing against yourself.”
She frowned. “What?”
“I don’t want to possess you,” he said again. “I want the Duke and Duchess of Lambley to be a team. You should do as you please with your money. It’s yours. What I want to do with my life is share every part of it with you. This is your home. These are your parties, too.”
She eyed him skeptically. “I can change the order of the fruit trays?”
He blanched, but nodded. “I want you to choose me. I want you to keep choosing me, every day. Just as I will keep choosing you, over and over again.”
She knelt before him and pressed his hands to her rapidly beating heart. “I’ve been choosing you, day after day. I chose you when you joined me in the market. I chose you when you made ridiculous rules about kissing. I chose you when you fed me grapes I’d never heard of. I chose you when I walked into this room.”
His breath shook. “Are you saying...”
“I’m saying I do choose you. I’ll keep choosing you. I love you, you high-handed, arrogant sobersides. Yes. I’ll marry you.”
“But you were teasing about altering my perfect fruit trays?” he whispered.
She burst out laughing and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You realize half of society will not condone our union.”
He scooped her up. “You do realize I don’t give a fig about their opinions.”
“You were scandalous long before I met you,” she agreed, trailing a finger along his naked shoulder. “So what is it you do care about?”
He tumbled her onto the bed and climbed between her legs, his eyes glinting wickedly. “Let me show you, duchess.”
And so he did.
Epilogue
Unity stood next to a conveniently located table of hopelessly mismatched hors d’œuvres and watched as costumed guests streamed through the open doors of her masquerade club.
She could not keep her grin from taking over her face.
This was the twenty-eighth time she’d stood near the entrance to glimpse the first arrivals, and each crowd was larger than the one before.
“You did it,” her husband whispered into her ear.
Her chest filled with pride and happiness.
This was once Roger’s club, though it never should have belonged to him. As an adolescent, when Unity first started making decisions for the club, it had ceased to feel like Roger’s even back then. It was her efforts that had made it successful, and it was her efforts again that had completely reimagined it into the vibrant, inclusive, non-scandalous masquerade club it was today.
Hers. Her heart fluttered every time she thought the word.
The previous staff had stayed on. The longest employees remembered her and had always thought of Unity as the one in charge during those years. They had no complaint about working for a woman again, and were proud to be part of something new they could all build together.
Unity had rewarded them all with a bonus after opening night, and the way things were going, would soon be able to increase their monthly wages even more.
“I still think you could find a small room to dedicate to carnal activities,” her husband murmured. “We could christen it ourselves. I’ve prepared a notebook with helpful sketches of how you and I could entwine our bodies—”
She elbowed him in the ribs, but could not stop her lips from twitching. “Show me your ideas tonight in our bedchamber.”
His gaze heated. “I will do my utmost to convince you of their efficacy.”
They had married in the church her grandfather had built. The beautiful ceremony was attended by Sampson, Unity’s theatre friends, several of Julian’s society and not-so-society friends, and anyone with ties to Unity’s parents or grandparents. She had felt her ancestors’ presence.
Unity had dedicated a large part of her trust to continuing her grandfather’s legacy: helping those in their community who had no hope of obtaining help elsewhere. The interest on her loans was shockingly low, as was the barrier to approval. One need only ask and have a worthy cause, and relief would be provided that same day.
One such recipient rushed up to Unity now, unrecognizable in a court jester costume, complete with bells on his upturned toes.
“Thank you again, Your Grace. I’ll never forget your kindness.”
He was borne off by the crowd before she could do more than smile in return.
Her face was unhidden. Like her husband beside her, she had forborne wearing a mask at a party she was hosting.
Although nothing objectionable took place between the walls of her new assembly rooms, the Duke and Duchess of Lambley would forever remain unapologetically scandalous. They were proud of their union, proud of each other’s very different masquerades, and too busy enjoying their lives with each other to care which patroness they’d given a fit of the vapors this week.
She linked her arm through Julian’s. The cheerful pomona green of his waistcoat matched the expensive silk of Unity’s flowing, lavish ball gown. Hers, not borrowed from the theatre. She and Julian had several pairs of subtly coordinating evening attire they wore to their masquerades.
There was no need to dress as a swan or goddess or medieval princess in a tall conical hennin. Unity bubbled over with happiness exactly as she was. In this life. With this man at her side.
Impulsively, she leaned up on her toes to kiss him.
The gold in his eyes sparkled. “Good heavens, Your Grace. Is this that kind of club? People are going to think we’re madly in love.”
She grinned back at him. “I don’t mind if the whole world knows it.”
He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “I am so proud of you. I never doubted for even a moment.”
“Neither did I,” she retorted saucily.
With her first weeks’ profit, she had reimbursed him for the cost of investigating Roger—and the threat of social and financial ruin which had spurred him to quickly repay the stolen funds.
It might have been her money all along, but she wouldn’t have known about it without Julian’s arrogant presumption.
“Even your bad ideas are good ones,” she said in mock disgust. “Thank you for highhandedly sending your man of business to meddle into my business.”
“But that was your fault, too,” Julian protested, wide-eyed with innocence. “Normally a proper gentleman such as myself would never have done anything so rude and rash, but you had clearly marked that date as Spontaneity Day on my calendar, and I was all out of options.”
She snorted. “Watch yourself. I’ll show you something spontaneous later...”
“Is it... letting me rearrange your appallingly unaesthetic sandwich trays?” he whispered. “It is so cruel of you to make me stand here in sight of all those haphazard, asymmetrical—”
She pulled him away. “Come, let us whisk your tender sensibilities far away from such an upsetting sight.”
“Finally.” He drew her into his embrace and waltzed her onto the dance floor. “I wondered when I would ever have you back in my arms.”
“Now.” She smiled up at him. “And for the rest of our lives.”
The Duke and Duchess of Lambley didn’t speak for the next several minutes.
They were too engaged in a scandalously romantic kiss.
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Sneak Peek
The Duke Heist
Miss Chloe Wynchester folded her hands in her lap and did her best not to glare a hole right through the handsome, haughty Duke of Faircliffe. His frigid blue gaze had looked right at her—and slid away just as quickly, having glimpsed nothing to attract his interest.
How many times had she and Faircliffe been in the same room? Eight? Ten? Every disdainful glance in her direction as indifferent as the last. She lifted her chin. Her father had taught her that to the right person, she would be visible and memorable. Faircliffe was clearly the wrong person.
Not that she wanted him to notice her, Chloe reminded herself. The continued success of “Jane Brown” hinged on her uncanny ability to be wholly unremarkable under any circumstances. She gripped the soft muslin of her skirt and took in all the other ladies in the parlor.
Mrs. York clapped her hands together. “And now… a celebratory tea!”
The duke’s face displayed a comical look of alarm. “I don’t think—”
“You must join us!” Mrs. York’s hands flapped like frightened birds. “The girls were about to have oatcakes and cucumber sandwiches before you arrived.”
“We were about to discuss epistolary structure in eighteenth-century French novels,” Philippa murmured.
“I never meant to interrupt,” Faircliffe said with haste. “I mustn’t stay, and in fact—”
“Nonsense! Come, come, all of you.” Mrs. York waved her arms about the room, driving her guests into the dining room like a shepherd herding sheep.
Chloe and Faircliffe were both caught in the flow.
Once they reached the door, however, Chloe stepped to one side. She could not take a seat at the table, or she would be stuck there for the next hour.
While everyone else was occupied, this was her chance to liberate the painting. But first, she needed an excuse to disappear. An adorable, furry reason.
She released Tiglet from the large wicker basket. The calico kitten darted between boots and beneath petticoats with a formidable rawr.
Mrs. York gave a dramatic shriek in response.
Tiglet scaled several curtains in search of an open window before darting out of the dining room and flying off down the corridor as though his tail were afire.
Chloe gasped, as if shocked that her homing kitten was attempting to dash home. “How embarrassing! I’ll run and find the naughty little scamp at once. Go on ahead. Please don’t wait for me.”
With her basket hanging from her arm, she ducked into the parlor and closed the door behind her. She hurried to lift the painting from the wall and carried it behind a chinoiserie folding screen in the corner. Up came the frame’s grips, off came the backing, out came Bean’s painting. She rolled it carefully and tucked it into the basket before stretching the forgery she’d brought over the wooden frame.
