Julien gazed silently after her before turning to his butler. “Thank you, George. Please inform Davie that we will be down presently.”
He picked up his black-satin domino from the back of a chair and nonchalantly flung it over his shoulders. He fingered the soft black velvet mask before he slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. He thought grimly that he was indeed living in a fool’s paradise, and it was crumbling bit by bit around him. He’d believed the stay in London would help her, and it had seemed to help, but now . . . He shook his head. When he walked past his butler into the entryway, his face was impassive.
Kate met him presently, an even more striking picture now, enveloped in her long dark-blue-satin domino. She had fastened on her blue-brocade mask, and not one auburn strand was visible through the white powder in her hair. If he had not known she was his wife, Julien wouldn’t have recognized her.
Their ride to the Haverstoke mansion occupied the better part of an hour, and after many minutes of strained silence, Julien endeavored to ease the tension between them by describing the various members of the ton she would meet. He maintained a steady stream of anecdotes, which was interrupted only at rare moments by questions from Kate. She became animated only at the mention of Percy’s name.
“I believe Percy plans to appear as a medieval lord of the manor, complete to battle-ax, so he told me.”
“I do but pray that he won’t drop it on his foot.”
“Rather on his foot than on yours when you dance with him.” Julien grinned into the dim light.
“And will Hugh be present?”
“Certainly. Like me, Hugh will relax his taste only to the point of domino and mask.”
Kate didn’t comment, for the swaying of the carriage was making her stomach churn uncomfortably. She leaned her head back against the white-satin squabs and closed her eyes.
The Haverstoke mansion was a two-storied pale-red-brick structure dating from the Restoration, set back from the main road by a rather rutted graveled drive. Lights blazing from every window and countless carriages lining the drive gave ample evidence of the success of the ridotto. As Bladen opened the carriage door for his master to alight, his eyes veered to the lighted servants’ hall, where he was certain he and Davie would enjoy frothy mugs of ale and the smiles and teasing of some of the maids.
Lady Haverstoke had rigged out her entire staff in the formal livery of the last century, a startling yellow and white, and had insisted, much to their consternation, that each wear a wig of sugarloaf shape. Thus it was that her hawk-nosed butler was busy grumbling to himself and twitching at his wig when the earl and countess of March were ushered into the main hall. Elkins, his second in command, looked like an exotic yellow bird, a canary, the butler decided with a curl of his thin lips, for a canary sounded both exotic and yellow. And the way he was fluttering about, ingratiating himself among the guests— his strutting manner was simply not to be borne. The butler grimly resolved to put the little creeper in his place the moment the guests departed. He was obliged to cloak his violent intentions as the earl and countess approached. The butler’s bow to the earl was of the perfect depth, though his knees trembled in complaint as he straightened more slowly than he had descended.
“If your lordship and ladyship will please to accompany me.” The earl nodded briefly, and the butler smiled smugly as he conducted them up the winding stairway to the large ballroom on the second floor. Elkins, with his thin, high-pitched voice, would never be able to perform this duty with such a deep rich baritone.
He managed to gaze surreptitiously at the new countess of March and was disappointed that he couldn’t make out her features through her mask and her powdered hair, as white as his sugarloaf wig.
“The earl and countess of March!” came his booming voice. He hoped that not too many more guests would arrive, for the assembled company was so boisterously loud that he was growing quite hoarse in trying to be heard over the laughing chatter and that wild German music— the waltz, it was called, Elkins had condescendingly informed him.
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