Rescued By The Earl's Vows. Ann Lethbridge
the Petershams’ town house. There was no point in wearing a disguising costume if one was going to waltz up to the front door in a lozenged coach. He adjusted the folds of his black cloak and pulled up the cowl. Costume balls were generally not his idea of a good time, but dressing as Death had appealed to his macabre sense of humour. After all, he’d been responsible for more than his fair share. It would also prevent anyone from guessing his identity and allow him to move around without exciting any interest. A useful advantage for tonight’s endeavour.
He handed over his invitation to the footman at the door and strode up the stairs to the first-floor ballroom behind a couple in the guises of Pan and a shepherdess. The man’s large backside stretched his tights to the limit in a most unsettling way and the lady kept dropping her lamb, requiring her escort to bend over to retrieve it. Jaimie averted his gaze. Finally, they made it to the top and Jaimie eased his way through the crowd of masked and colourfully clothed guests, many of whom were sweating profusely in their heavy costumes and the sweltering room.
Those costumes ranged from angels to gladiators and most took one look at him and either moved aside or peered into the cowl, trying to make out his features only to discover it useless because of his mask.
He scanned the room for his objective. Artemis, according to Growler’s information.
An interesting choice. A goddess who protected young women. Artemis was also known as Diana the huntress to the Romans. Should he read anything into her choice?
It had taken Growler and his team little effort to learn about Jaimie’s morning visitor. An unremarkable daughter of a deceased earl who had been placed under the protection of the new title holder. She was now in her second Season on the marriage mart. The question of whom she might be seeking remained unknown. Not his concern. Something else entirely had brought him here this evening.
And...there she was: Artemis, standing among a group of costumed ladies and gentlemen, watching the dancing. The lushness of her figure took his breath away. The expression on her round pretty face was one of complete innocence, despite the wanton tumble of chestnut locks falling down her back to her waist. If her costume had not been described to him in intricate detail, he would never have recognised her as the dumpy female who had stood toe to toe with Growler’s menacing presence earlier in the day.
This morning, he had thought her short and a little squat in her enveloping black carriage dress. The funereal clothing she’d worn had hidden every one of her charms. Apart from her voice. And her scent. Tonight, the artfully draped, white Greek robe arranged to leave one creamy dimpled shoulder bare also revealed a gloriously curvaceous figure in perfect proportion for her diminutive size. The bow and quiver slung diagonally across her body divided her breasts in a most mouthwatering fashion.
While her mask obscured the top half of her face, her lips were lush and full, and beneath them her chin came to an obstinate jut. At his approach, her gaze wandered over him for a brief second and came back, her eyes widening, not in recognition but in shock.
He sprang the trap.
‘I didn’t think you would recognise me, my lady.’ He kept his voice to a low whisper.
‘I do not,’ she said, turning that delicious shoulder to exactly the right angle for discouragement. ‘Have we been introduced?’
‘Sadly, no.’ At their meeting she had known his name, but he had not known hers. Now he took delight at putting her at the same disadvantage. She glanced at him again, clearly trying to see into the shadows of his hood.
‘Would you care to dance, my lady?’
Beside her, Lady Rowan eyed him up and down. ‘Lady Rowan,’ he murmured. ‘How regal you look tonight as Queen Elizabeth. Might you give your permission? I promise I will bring the Lady Theresa back to you safe and sound.’
The older woman relaxed at his polite tone and clear knowledge of who they were. ‘Certainly, sir. One set only, mind, Theresa.’
A tiny pursing of the Lady Theresa’s lips was the only sign of irritation at the admonition. He admired her forbearance. It must be galling for such an independent lady to be treated like a child.
‘Who are you?’ she asked with laughter in her voice as he led her into a set. ‘I didn’t think I knew you at all, but the way you bamboozled my cousin...’ She shook her head. ‘You must be an acquaintance to know she loves that costume.’
‘I admit I have seen it before.’
They moved up the set and the figures of the dance did not allow for conversation until they were standing out, waiting to join the neighbouring couples when the round of steps were complete.
‘I give up,’ she said. ‘You are going to have to tell me your name.’
‘The Grim Reaper.’
She raised her brows. ‘Very well, keep your identity hidden. It matters not to me.’
There was more than a little defiance in the declaration. For a moment, Jaimie considered revealing his identity. But that did not suit him at all. Not yet, at least. Having seen her, he now wanted to discover the reason this young lady had risked her reputation so precipitously by seeking him out. Perhaps her heart had been stolen away and it was the thief she was seeking?
Something he would not encourage.
‘Is not the whole idea of a masked ball to be someone else for an hour or two?’ he murmured in teasing tones.
‘Death?’ She made a scoffing sound. ‘Is that not a strange choice? Most men like to play some sort of heroic figure. You prefer to remind us of something unpleasant, yet something we must all face at some future time. I wonder what that says about you as a person?’
Her light clear voice held amusement and her brown eyes twinkled gold. She released his hand and moved into the next figure of the dance.
What did his choice of costume say about him? He pushed the thought aside. It was a disguise, that was all. A way of remaining anonymous. Of ensuring no tongues would start wagging about his first appearance at a ball in years, or his invitation to her to dance.
He found himself wishing it was a waltz he’d secured rather than a country dance. Only because it would have afforded more opportunity for conversation, not because he wanted that lovely, lithe, deliciously curved body floating along beside his and responding to his touch.
‘Am I to understand you dislike masquerades?’ he asked as he walked her down the set. ‘That you find them beneath you, perhaps?’
The fulminating look she gave him took him by surprise. ‘Masquerades are very well in their way. It is—’
‘It is?’
Another glance came his way. This one puzzled. Then she smiled and he felt as if something had struck him behind the ribs. ‘I think if one could attend under the right circumstances, it might be fun. If one could really do as one wished for once.’ She glanced over to where her cousin stood chatting and fanning her face. ‘One cannot have everything one wishes, can one?’
‘One cannot,’ he agreed.
Instinct told him that, despite her calm demeanour, there was an underlying worry behind the light words. The anxiety he’d sensed in his office seemed to have increased.
He’d deliberately led her into a set with an uneven number of couples and when once more they were standing out, he bowed. ‘It is uncommonly hot in here, my lady, may I offer you some refreshment before I return you to Queen Elizabeth’s side?’
‘As long as you don’t suggest we go bag a rabbit or two in the garden, I would like that.’
He laughed. Couldn’t help it. ‘Really? That was the best one of your swains could do?’
‘I should have known better than to have explained my costume to him or to have expected him to behave like anything but a fool.’
Startled by her vehemence, he led her out of the set.
‘A