A Duchess a Day Read online

  “How have you seen this?” asked Helena, dragging herself up from the window.

  “You’re not the only clever Lark sister.”

  “Quite so,” Helena chuckled. She beamed at her sister. “I’m so glad you came to my room.”

  Camille nodded. “It occurred to me that I had a choice to make. Before we’d left Somerset, I thought I could either go along with Mama and Papa as Joan did, or I could do what my head and my heart has been telling me for some time. I’m of the same mind as you, Lena. I want to be like you. I want to make my own choices and live as I want to live. I want to fall in love with my own version of a handsome groom.”

  Helena made a choking sound. “Well, perhaps let us take this new independence one step at the time. I’m not—”

  “Do not,” sighed Camille, “spare me the subterfuge. Have you made arrangements for Shaw to be with you at the ball?”

  Helena was uncertain of how to answer this—and not only because it meant taking Camille into her confidence. She and Declan had gone back and forth about it. Declan felt Helena should allow Lusk to escort her in the ducal carriage. In his view, this was the most prudent, least suspicious way to arrive. Helena had recoiled at the notion and they’d quarreled about it on the walk home from the museum. In the end, Declan promised that he would find his own way inside the ball. He would be near her but not immediately beside her. That she would be safe. He was a mercenary, after all.

  Helena looked at her sister now. “Probably,” she said.

  “Good for you,” said Camille.

  Helena collapsed on the bed, staring at the molded ceiling. “It’s a masquerade. Everyone will be caught up in the pageantry and half of the guests will be obscured by masks. It will be a blur of crystals and plumage and women standing too close to candelabras while their headdresses catch flame. He could don any number of costumes and not be detected. Or, what’s more likely, he may infiltrate the ranks of the hosts’ footmen.”

  “Oh, Lena. Forget your love for him. Obviously, he loves you.”

  “You are too young to speak of love,” Helena said flippantly, dropping an arm over her eyes.

  These were just words to say, of course. Perhaps Camille knew more of love than any of them. Their parents hadn’t properly modeled love, not the love she wanted.

  Camille had no reply, and Helena regretted being dismissive. She tried again. “Shaw has some concerns about our differences in rank. Apparently.”

  “I cannot say I am surprised,” Camille said. “I would be concerned if he did not.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I’d regard him as a fortune hunter for one,” said Camille. “If he did not bring up rank, it might mean he intends to slide himself into the prosperity of Papa’s earldom. You know, sort of, Oh? Were you a fabulously wealthy earl’s daughter? Will marriage into your family position me for a life of luxury? I hadn’t noticed. When he resists, he’s acknowledging that being a lady is a significant part of your identity.”

  “He has no intention of sliding,” Helena said. “I assure you. He doesn’t like aristocrats.”

  “And also, it would be selfish and unfeeling of him not to question what your life will be like if you marry outside the peerage. He is, after all, a stable groom.”

  “He is more than a groom actually.”

  “Do tell.”

  Helena shook her head. “Never you mind. What matters is the house left to me by Gran. And the orchard. They matter very much. I can provide for us both, no matter if he’s a servant or the man in the moon.”

  “I’m not saying it’s impossible,” said Camille. “I’m simply glad he’s being honest. And asking you to consider the ramifications.”

  Considering ramifications seemed like the only thing Declan wanted to do. They’d discussed it before they’d entered the museum. On the walk home. He’d sent a note by stable boy.

  And Helena had thought about it, dismissing his reservations now as she had then.

  “I’ve nothing more to say about the topic of Declan Shaw,” Helena told her sister, “except that, yes, we have specific things we want to accomplish, and I hope he will be nearby tonight. I’ve no other allies, and he will fortify me—if he does not actively help me. Which he may do. God only knows what will happen.” She picked up the butterfly mask and held it to her face.

  “I’ve thought you’d done a very noble job, all on your own. These last five years.”

  “I cannot run away forever,” said Helena. “And anyway, I need his help. But moreover, I simply want him.”

  She didn’t say the rest, but she thought, I want to be with him more than any other combination of ways I can be. I want him more than I want to be alone. More than I want my family. More than I want to be in the forest.

  She wanted him.

  She loved him.

  She could acknowledge that now. And Camille could guess it—clearly. Which was something she probably needed to address.

  “Please don’t tell anyone, Cam,” said Helena, dropping the mask.

  “I won’t. You have my word.” Camille smiled sadly at her sister. “I’m sorry Papa is selling you to gain shares in the duke’s limestone mine.”

  “Yes,” sighed Helena. “So am I. But it’s not official until I walk down the aisle. So. There is still time.” She stepped to her sister. “And I appear to be acquiring unlikely allies right and left. Thank you for listening to me. For warning me.”

  “Thank you for being true to yourself. All along.”

  She was just about to embrace her when Meg bustled into the room with an armful of fresh flowers. “We’re in luck,” chirped the maid. “There were anemones. Oh, but I’ve learned some other news. The duke’s valet was polishing his boots belowstairs. He told me Lusk is going to the ball dressed as a man-shaped slab of Somerset limestone.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Declan infiltrated the masquerade ball as the Huntsman.

  It had been his father’s idea. With Helena occupied throughout the day, he’d asked Girdleston for a day off and gone to his father’s shop in Savile Row.

  After an avalanche of questions from his sisters about Somerset, and Castle Wood, and if the village had assemblies of handsome men, the three of them worked together to construct a costume.

  His “Huntsman” identity wasn’t known outside of military and security circles, but his father knew his reputation—fierce, skilled, dangerous—and he chose black leather and buckskin. His sisters added touches that invoked legendary heroes like Robin Hood and King Arthur. The resulting costume amounted to a hooded vest in thin black leather, no shirt (everyone but Declan was in agreement about this), broad belt and dagger, black buckskins, and layered strips of leather bindings wrapped around wrists, biceps, and thighs. If he fell into the Thames, the weight of wet leather would pull him under.

  But he wasn’t bound for the Thames, he was bound for the bloody Winter Solstice Masquerade, and God help him, he was desperate to get inside. He wanted to see Helena safe and protected and . . . and—

  And he simply wanted her. The devil himself could not have kept him out.

  As ridiculous as the costume felt, the throng outside the ball parted ways when he arrived. Women tittered in delight and men could not hide their deference when they looked him up and down. Something about the black leather and bare muscled biceps, the deep hood and thin black mask, lent an air of scintillating menace to his otherwise uncredentialed presence. No one questioned him; in fact, he was regarded a bit like the only interesting guest invited to Sunday dinner.

  He’d called in a favor to an old army comrade and finagled an invitation. His friend, a retired officer, had also given him a fake name and foreign title to feed to the herald on the ballroom stairs. No one had questioned a thing.

  An hour after the first guests arrived, Declan stood in the ballroom doorway. The cavernous room, a two-level space with ballroom below and balconies above, was illuminated by thousands of glittering candles. Orchestral music soared ov
er a raucous crowd that dripped in jewels and floated in silk.

  He saw a woman dressed as a provocative milkmaid pulling a dazed calf on a ribboned lead. Another woman had secured a festooned birdcage to the top of her head and live birds thrashed about inside. Several men wore elaborate hat-mask combinations that transformed their faces into a velvet panther or a feathered falcon. Countless guests wore assembled togas, some of them dampened to cling to their bodies. Most guests wore masks, some beaded and feathered on long sticks; others, like Declan’s, were strips of silk tied with holes for eyes.

  Because of his work, this was not Declan’s first ball, or even his first masquerade. But he’d never been to an event where decadence and indulgence were so clearly the order of the night. He saw diamonds affixed to cheeks and swirling in the bottom of champagne glasses. He saw expensive French wine sloshed on the floor. Each cluster of guests seemed to throb with their own brand of sensuality, their anatomy, both male and female, girded, groomed, or gauzed to invite the eye. Furniture was strewn with languid couples. Terrace doors were thrown open to the night, despite the chill, and guests disappeared into the dark garden.

  Declan stalked the rooms, forcing himself to walk at an amble. He’d been unable to locate Helena. Every time he rounded a corner and did not see her, his heart rate increased. He could feel his face hardening into what his sisters referred to as his “death stare.” He was sweating, which was remarkable, because he hadn’t been allowed to wear a shirt. But he must not panic. She was here. She would hate everything about this, of course. She would be searching for him, anxious that they had not connected. But he would find her. She’d managed perfectly well before he’d—

  He clipped down steps, and then there she was.

  She stood next to a young woman dressed as Cleopatra. Helena looked more beautiful than ever he had seen her. She wore no mask. Her hair fell long and loose down her back, dotted with bright, dewy blossoms. Her dress was the color of early spring at dusk, when the acrid green of new growth turned blue-green. While other gowns in the room poufed and flounced, Helena’s skimmed her slender body, sleek and spare. The neckline was daringly low, showing off an expanse of creamy skin and the contour of her breasts. A waterfall of teal and turquoise silk fell from her shoulders and hips. She looked like a forest nymph—no. She looked like the ruler of the nymphs.

  He glanced around, checking the reaction of other guests. Women slowed and cast her with appraising once-overs. She slid the heavy mane of her hair from shoulder to back, and men stared openly at her exposed décolletage and startlingly beautiful face.

  Declan’s own mouth went dry, watching. He wanted her. Now. Later tonight. Tomorrow. Forever. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her away.

  He wanted—

  Helena looked up and their eyes locked. She went very still. She blinked. She cocked her head. She mouthed his name.

  Declan.

  Not a question. She knew.

  He began to walk; he didn’t look away.

  Helena took a deep breath and excused herself from Cleopatra.

  A large easel had been arranged in a corner to display the painting of a dog. Helena stepped up, examining the art, and Declan stepped behind it.

  “You’ve come,” she said to the dog.

  “Yes,” he said. He kept well behind the easel, his face averted from the ballroom. He felt like he hadn’t seen her in a year. He felt as if they’d never parted. He felt as if his whole purpose in the world was to find her at this party and carry her away.

  “You look . . . remarkable,” she said flatly, speaking to the dog. “You were always handsome, but I was not prepared for how you would look outside of the—” She glanced at him, hungry eyes raking him from hood to boot. Declan’s body tightened.

  She finished, “—how you would look outside.”

  “Ah,” he said, not prepared for her praise.

  “Clearly the yellow livery is more like a costume, and this black leather is your usual attire?” She couldn’t help laughing. “Please tell me this is your usual attire.”

  “Ah,” he repeated dumbly, looking down.

  “Can I . . . touch you?”

  He opened his mouth to make another wordless sound, but she added, “Surely here, among this . . .” she looked around, “. . . frivolity and excess and the obscured vision of so many masks, no one would—”

  She stopped and swallowed hard. “My God, I have to touch you.”

  Declan’s reason and caution shattered. His hand lashed out, snatched her by the wrist, and pulled them from the painting.

  Without thinking, he led her around the dancing, past two anterooms, stopping at the last room in the row. It was set up for an impromptu musicale, with pianoforte, harp, and several lutes. Chairs formed a half circle around the instruments. The room was empty except for a man gently plucking strings on the harp.

  “Get out,” Declan said.

  “I b-beg your—” the man stammered.

  “Get out,” Declan repeated, and the man fled.

  When they were alone, Declan swiftly, silently, pulled the double doors shut and locked them.

  When he turned to face Helena, she leapt into his arms.

  He caught her up, his chest exploding with the luminating delight of holding her. She was like coming home and stumbling upon the best, most unexpected paradise ever, all in the same embrace.

  He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar, sweet apple smell. He squeezed her until she cried out, a shrill, breathy giggle.

  He spun. Pressing her back against the closed doors. “Can you touch me?” he growled, repeating her words.

  She laughed. “It was my only thought.” She gave him the tiniest, softest kiss. She reached up and slid his flimsy mask away. He blinked, looking at her with no obstruction.

  “You are magnificent,” she whispered. “I . . . I can’t believe you’re mine.” She made a noise of distress and bit her bottom lip. “That is, I can’t believe you are my groom.”

  With every word, his heart expanded, and that said nothing of his body. He was as hard as stone. He spun again, turning her in one deft movement, collapsing his own back against the door and pulling her against him. Helena made a noise of surprise and delight. They never broke the kiss.

  While he devoured her mouth, his hands massaged their way down her body. Her gown was fitted and restrictive; he tried to grab her hip through the silk, but the fabric had no give. He fumbled, tracing the outline of her hip, and then he dipped low, catching the hem and sliding up the skirt. When he rose, he grazed his hands over long, silk-stocking-covered legs until he bunched the skirt at her thighs. Now he could scoop beneath the fabric and grab her bottom. He pressed her against him and Helena groaned.

  He pulled away, panting. “You are magnificent. Why do you ever tie your hair back?”

  “So I don’t look like a child,” she laughed, cocking one knee on his hip.

  He grabbed the underside of her thigh and hitched her closer. “You look nothing like a child,” he said. “You look like a seductress. You look like you belong in the forest, ruling over flora and fauna and wood and stream. You look like you belong so very far from this place.”

  She kissed him, dragging her fingers through his hair. “It’s terrible,” she agreed. “I hate it.”

  “I worried for you,” he said, between kisses. “I was so bloody worried.” He released her leg and gathered her to him, his hands on her back. He reclined her in his arms, holding her out so he could look at her. She smiled gently, one hand on his face. Her long, black hair fell almost to the floor. He leaned to kiss her exposed throat, the tops of her breasts, her ear, her lips.

  “I cannot say I’m enjoying the ball,” she said softly, “although it’s certainly improved since you arrived.”

  He growled again and yanked her up, reclaiming her mouth. “You slay me.”

  “If you feel slayed, I think the yellow velvet is to blame. This black leather, I must say, takes your already s
ignificant stature and makes it all the more imposing. You look masterful. I love it.”

  Another kiss.

  “Declan?” she said.

  His brain barely functioned, but something about the sound of his name made his skin go hot. He kissed her again, the kiss so deep they almost tipped sideways.

  “Declan?” she repeated.

  His heart thundered in his ears. Another kiss. His tongue. Her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips again. His hands returned to the silk stockings beneath her dress. Her perfectly formed bottom filled his hands.

  “I love you,” she whispered. She twined her hands around his neck. “It’s terribly inconvenient, I know, but it could not not be said. We’ve risked everything for these five minutes. Let us make it worth more than stolen kisses.”

  “Helena,” he moaned. Her words were a swirl in his head. His brain was caught somewhere between lust and terror, but he was cogent enough to not say more than her name. Her name could not hurt him. Or her. Or this moment.

  “It’s true,” she said, pressing on. “It’s not fair or useful, but I do.” She laid her head against his chest. He felt the soft, warm skin of her cheek on his bare shoulder. Her hair fell over his arm. He grabbed a loose handful, filling his fingers with the flower-strewn locks. He held on to her as if he would sink into the ground if he let go. They embraced like the world was falling apart.

  “We cannot stay here,” she finally said. She looked up. Her green eyes were very bright.

  “Yes,” he whispered. He kissed her again.

  “Anyone could have seen us come in,” she said.

  “No one saw,” he said, but he’d no guarantee of this. He’d all but dragged her here. He’d considered nothing but his need to have her in his arms.

  “We cannot indulge in recklessness now,” she said.

  He laughed. “I’ve never been so reckless in my life until I met you.”