Lord of the Masquerade, page 5
Nothing like him.
Intriguing.
He had not sought an outside opinion, but he could not find one further afield from peers and peeresses than the red-lipped woman standing in the middle of his parlor.
“What if I told you this was my last year for masquerades?” he said. “Perhaps I am no longer interested in such indecorous amusements because I am on the hunt for a wife.”
She shrugged. “What if I told you that you might find your future wife under this very roof, smitten thanks to the improvements we’re about to undertake?”
“I would laugh at your naivety,” he said, and did just that. “The kind of lady I’m looking for would never attend such saturnalia.”
“I laugh at your naivety,” she said, and made an equal show of doing so. “I thought you said these were ton parties. Perhaps only a handful of guests have bowed before the Queen, but why would you assume that one’s comportment whilst anonymous is the same as when promenading with your precious peers? Whatever kind of woman you want your wife to be, she can be that and attend a masquerade at the same time.”
No. She would not be innocent and pure after attending one of Julian’s masquerades. But did he want innocent and pure? Or did he want a wife he might have something in common with? A marriage in which both parties could tolerate each other’s company?
The option had not occurred to him.
He’d had an intended once. Long ago. He hadn’t picked her. Their fathers had declared the match. Julian had been eight years old. Too young to understand about marriage, but old enough to know he didn’t want that girl with the runny nose and the tendency to knock over all of his belongings.
One day, instead of going on a picnic with the two families, Julian had thrown an unholy fit instead. Father had locked him in his bedchamber and told Julian he was to be deprived of all future entertainments until he got control of himself.
Sudden rainfall and the unexpected collapse of an old bridge prevented the others from ever coming home. Eight-year-old Julian’s wish to make his own decisions was granted at the cost of his family.
He got control of himself.
Eventually.
And then never, ever relinquished that control again.
He would wrest control of this situation, too. He could grant Miss Thorne an invitation. What harm would it do? He could rescind her welcome at any time. If he did not like what she had to say, he did not have to listen. He was the one with the power. Just as he liked it.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “Ten o’clock. My night butler will be expecting you.”
“Tomorrow and every Saturday,” she countered. “I am talented, but not a miracle worker. I will need time to familiarize myself with every detail before I can be expected to—”
“Tomorrow night. Ten o’clock,” he enunciated. “Your continued presence will be determined on a minute-by-minute basis. Our agreement ends the day I’m betrothed or the moment you disappoint me, whichever comes first.”
She stared at him.
Speechless? Miss Thorne? He was glad to see something could achieve it. “I suppose you expect to be paid for your so-called ‘expertise’ overseeing a party you’ve never attended?”
“First night free,” she said quickly, having found her voice again. “To prove to you I possess the skills I claim to have. After that, I think a weekly rate of...”
She named a number that was laughably small for him, but he supposed comparable to what an accomplished courtesan might gather in monthly presents from her patrons. Miss Thorne intended to take advantage of his wealth, but not extort it. Asking just enough for it to be a windfall for her, whilst being negligible to him.
She was clever. He would give her that. And presumptuous, which was a less positive trait. Whether she would prove herself any good to him remained to be seen.
“Not a minute past ten o’clock or your name will be crossed from the list.” He turned on his heel. “Barnaby will show you out.”
“Barna—who?”
The pink-cheeked butler swept into the room from his position just outside the open doorway. “If you’ll come with me, madam?”
“But I still—”
Julian could barely hear them. He was striding too quickly to the room adjacent to his study, where his man of business sat at a large desk.
“Mr. Voss,” the duke said briskly. “There’s been a change in plans.”
“Change?” Voss stared at him. “You?”
“It’s the same plan,” Julian admitted. “Marriage by thirty-five. I’ve decided to implement my bride hunt concurrently with the most outrageous masquerades of my tenure.”
“Concurrently, Your Grace?” his man of business stammered.
Julian nodded at the basin of invitations upon Voss’s desk. “As you politely decline, if the recipient is at all connected to the beau monde, feel free to casually divulge that His Grace is finally on the hunt for a bride.”
“If I do that,” Voss said carefully, “they will all descend upon you like locusts.”
“No.” Julian smiled. “Only the ones who don’t mind a little debauchery.”
Chapter 6
The next evening, as Julian strode through his wide, empty ballroom, the air felt charged with electricity, like a summer night just before a storm.
Everything was in place, exactly as he liked it. Exactly as he’d planned it. The first guests would arrive within the hour. Ten o’clock sharp. Already a queue of carriages was forming. They knew the rules. No one allowed in before ten; no one allowed to remain past dawn.
Which meant, the only way to maximize one’s limited time at the masquerade was to be one of the first through the door.
He made his way there now. The night butler installed himself at nine thirty. Julian pulled open the door to the receiving chamber and paused halfway across the threshold.
Fairfax was not alone.
Miss Unity Thorne was chatting with him in the vestibule. She wore a glittering emerald mask with tall, golden feathers, but there was no disguising her beauty. That warm honey voice, that soft caramel skin, that sole beauty mark near those berry-red lips...
“You’re early.”
He couldn’t see her arch a brow, but he could hear it in her voice. “You said not to be late.”
Fairfax’s mask did not cover his lips, which were smirking in obvious amusement.
“Where is your mask?” Miss Thorne asked Julian.
“I don’t wear one.”
“He wouldn’t want to be mistaken for anything other than king of the castle,” Fairfax said helpfully.
Julian glowered at him.
Miss Thorne eyed him appreciatively. “I doubt anyone could mistake our duke for anything other than who and what he is.”
Somehow, this managed to sound like both a compliment and a condemnation.
“No more bothering the night butler.” Julian turned back toward the empty ballroom. “Follow me.”
He did not wait to see if she would. He knew the answer. People always followed him. Tease as she liked, Miss Thorne wanted to be granted entrée more than Julian needed to give it. Per the terms he had laid out, he could terminate this arrangement at any moment.
Indeed, perhaps he ought to. She was not just a distraction to the entirely too-amused-for-his-own-good night butler. Miss Thorne was also a distraction to Julian himself.
Not that his habitual pre-party inspection required deep concentration. They had been doing things the same way for years. By now, his servants could prepare the refreshments and arrange the furniture blindfolded. His balls were scandalous, but dependable.
He paused at the first refreshment table and turned to explain its location and replenishment schedule.
Miss Thorne was not at his side.
She had stopped in her tracks a few feet in from the door and was staring about the ballroom with her mouth hanging open in astonishment. She’d even removed her mask, in order to better goggle at the sparkling crystal chandeliers, the gleaming marble floor, the gold-plated everything.
Julian shifted his weight and tried to see the room through her wondering eyes. He could not. This had always been his home. One of his many homes. He was wealthy even by the standards of the ton, but he was hardly the only peer whose residence was awash in crystal and marble and gold.
He could not recall the last time he had gawked at anything. As for his guests... Julian knew his ballroom was impressive. He cultivated it to be, just as he arranged everything about the party quarters to be luxurious and hedonistic.
His guests came for that experience, but did not want to be reminded of the particulars. They knew the chandeliers sparkled, but they did not need to know they were equipped with all-fresh candles one hour prior to the doors opening, so that the flames would glow all night without needing to be changed or relit.
They knew the desserts and canapés were delicious and never more than a few steps away, but they did not need to know how the proper placement had been determined for each table, the best angles, the most enticing combinations, the ideal moment to refresh each platter, itself assigned a specific chef who specialized in that specific dish or arrangement.
The dais, with its orchestra. Musicians of the highest quality, two per position, so that they could be switched out as needed for respites and other concerns without ever suffering the slightest break in the music.
They were set up now, waiting for Julian’s cue, which would come at ten minutes to ten as it always did, thus providing his approaching guests with the promise of a magical night even before they stepped foot on the dance floor.
But he wasn’t certain he had ever seen one of them stop and stare in wonder like Miss Thorne was doing now.
He suddenly yearned to know more about her. Courtesan, she’d said, but not available for him. Why? Was she already some other man’s mistress? It was easy enough to believe. One could hardly look at her without wanting her.
Julian was no stranger to dalliances. Those were not distractions, but carefully planned encounters. Partners chosen by him, during ball hours only, the last hour before dawn. When the masquerade ended, everyone would leave—guests, temporary lover, and all. While the sun was still rising, the servants put the house in order and life returned to exactly how it had been before the ball began, just like Julian liked it.
Miss Thorne did not seem to be nearly so ordered an individual. She fairly crackled with impulsiveness, her unguarded expressions right there for the gazing upon. It was not his fault that he could not stop staring.
What sort of life did this black-haired beauty lead? Sheltered enough to be in awe of a ballroom, yet worldly enough to possess multiple sweeping, dramatic gowns fit for the opera. This one was rich sapphire and dotted with “diamonds” that were almost certainly paste, none of which detracted from her beauty.
He longed to feel those soft curves for himself. Beneath his palms, against his hard body. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at tall silver trays piled with aphrodisiacs. With surprise and wonder and delight and pleasure.
None of which he would be sharing with Miss Thorne. To admit his visceral reaction would make himself vulnerable, a state that Julian did not permit in his life.
Miss Thorne caught him looking at her and flushed, her cheeks going dark. It made for a very fetching sight. She tugged a small journal from her reticule and hastened to his side.
“A thousand apologies.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “What were you saying, Your Grace?”
This time, when he launched into his explanation behind the process leading to this or that element, she listened with rapt attention, looking up from her madly scribbled notes only long enough to gaze intently at whatever detail he was pointing out.
It was almost as if she were dazzled by him, he realized. Julian was this ballroom. He was every surface and every tray and every drop of champagne. Everything she could see or touch or taste was there because of a decision he’d made. These were his thoughts and plans and wishes come to life.
“This is fascinating,” she said as she scribbled. “Have you thought about offering heartier fare, like potato stew?”
Serve...vegetables? He stared at her, aghast.
“No, I have not thought about that horror, nor shall I. The very idea proves that you—”
“What about chairs?” she asked. “Should there be more of them? Perhaps over here?”
“No,” he said coldly. “The reason we have this precise number of chairs, located in their current position, is—”
To Miss Thorne’s credit, she nodded eagerly and took copious notes on everything Julian explained.
To Miss Thorne’s demerit, she questioned everything. She could not simply accept that a thing was done a certain way because it was the best way for that thing to be done. She had to poke at it from all angles and ask if he hadn’t considered any number of options that he either had considered and discarded after careful investigation and trial, or that clearly weren’t worth considering in the first place.
“And the musicians,” she said. “Why have—”
Why was her favorite question. Fortunately, Julian was more than equal to the task. He liked having concrete answers. There was not a why she could ask that he couldn’t parry with an in-depth, well-reasoned explanation. From colors to arrangements and styles to scarcity, everything had a reason for being exactly where and how it was, or he would not have permitted its presence in his home to begin with.
“Do you have an answer for everything?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered simply.
She arched her brows. “And must you control everything? Down to the ripeness of the strawberries?”
“Why not?”
The ability hadn’t come easy. When the rain had taken out that rotted bridge and killed everyone in the passing carriages, Julian had not been in control of anything at all. Not himself, not his grief, and not his suddenly upended life.
His uncle became guardian and left the ducal affairs in shambles. Whatever he did all day in his study had more to do with the cheap gin on the sideboard than the correspondence left in towering piles upon the floor. Uncle had loved Julian, had loved his dead brother, but had left that legacy in a shambles.
Julian vowed never to rely on those who “loved” him ever again.
Just because someone meant well did not mean it was good to have them in one’s life.
After learning the extent of his uncle’s mismanagement, Julian never returned to university. He was needed here. His school was the dukedom. He learned everything there was to know about every property, every tenant, every blade of grass. And he made it all blossom. There was always a right way, which Julian made his mission to find and implement at any cost.
His estate was wealthier than ever. The envy of all. A product of cold calculation and deliberate action.
So, yes. There was a reason for this precise ripeness of strawberries. Any riper, and they risked going soft in the warm air. Any less, and the tartness could overpower the sweetness or undercut the taste altogether.
There was a right way. Julian’s way. He left nothing to chance.
That was where he had gone wrong the day he lost his family. He had failed to predict the damage to the bridge in order to prevent disaster. On the other side of the coin, eight-year-old Julian’s stubborn insistence on being in charge of himself was what had ended up saving his life.
Control was a safety net against an unpredictable world.
Sometimes, the only dependable means of survival.
“But what about...” Miss Thorne took on a faraway expression, then motioned for a dubious footman to join them. “Could I just see how this trio of chairs would look closer to the dais?”
The footman froze. The lad did not need to look at Julian to know the answer to the question. The footman sent Miss Thorne a wide-eyed, quelling gaze and shook his head urgently before scurrying to retake his position by the champagne fountain.
Miss Thorne stared after him. “What a strange young man.”
And with that, she tucked her journal back into her reticule and leaned over to pick up the closest armchair herself.
An army of footmen materialized at her sides, blocking the path and coaxing her arms away from the freshly polished mahogany of the chair.
“What...” Miss Thorne sent a shocked look over her shoulder. “I cannot arrange things to see how they might look?”
“No changes,” Julian said sharply.
“How can anyone improve anything without making changes?” she burst out.
“No unnecessary changes,” he clarified.
“How will I know if they’re unnecessary unless I try them?” she demanded. “I wasn’t going to move the chairs permanently unless it was an important change. But without seeing the difference—”
“This is the best location for these chairs.”
Miss Thorne made a noise in her throat as though debating tossing one of the perfectly placed chairs at his head. “Have you personally tested every possible angle and chair arrangement permutation in this ballroom?”
Julian raised his brows at his footmen.
“Yes, ma’am,” they explained earnestly. “Season Two was exhaustively dedicated to seating arrangements.”
“Type of chairs, quantity of chairs—”
“Chaises, sofas, stools, divans—”
“Type of material, density of cushions—”
“Arms or no arms—”
“Proper height, proper depth—”
“I see,” Miss Thorne said faintly, and left the armchair alone. She pulled out her journal and jotted a note.
Julian doubted she did see.
In the thirteen years his well-meaning uncle had held the purse strings, he’d undone everything Julian’s parents and forebears had accomplished. Not out of evilness but incompetency.
Julian had learned the more he cared about someone, the more ability they had to disappoint. And if one wanted a thing done right...well, he had mastered the art of taking the reins himself.
