Free The Runaway Countess by Leigh LaValle Page A

dry, the maid led her to the dressing table and bade her sit.
    Mazie gazed at the woman reflected in the gilt mirror—sleek, shiny dark hair, skin pink with health, dressed in a lustrous and expensive silk wrapper.
    Lady Margaret.
    The girl she had left long ago, the story she had erased, had returned to haunt her.
    Her belly twisted. All those years of sacrifice and struggle, of living without comfort or security and she found herself back where she had started.
    No, Mazie sat up straighter. No, she would not go back. She had gotten free.
    Free of the painful memories. Free of the endless ache. Free of the cold indifference, the loneliness and sense that nothing could ever be good again.
    Her life had become colorful again, joyful even. She would not go back. Could not.
    She sat frozen for an exceeding amount of time while Alice tamed her hair into a ridiculous array of curls and ribbons. A pinch tightened in her chest with each twist and pin.
    It was just a name. Just a story of a girl who had lost her parents. She was still Mazie. She could play at being Lady Margaret as long as it took to ensure Roane’s safety, but that did not change the truth in her heart.
    She was still free.
    She had to be.
     
    A half hour later, finally trussed and stuffed for dinner with His Lordship, Mazie walked from her room into the empty hallway. No footman stood guard. No hulking shadow would follow her tonight. She straightened her spine and tried to embody the grace her mother had taught her.
    The long hallway led to a balcony overlooking the main foyer, which was also empty. She had seen the entrance hall only the night she was arrested and had noticed little. Tonight, she admired the monumental stone staircase. Curved in a graceful half circle, it was at least eight feet wide and boasted four elaborately plastered shell niches displaying marble statues.
    She stepped down onto the checkered floor, patterned in white marble and black slate, leaned her head back and glanced up at the two-story-high domed ceiling. Soft early evening light poured through the soaring windows and kept the hall from feeling intimidating.
    It was a grand house. Rodsley Manor, where she had grown up, was no meager estate, but neither did it compare to Giltbrook Hall. She would guess the hall, with its large mullioned windows and plaster moldings, was built in the Elizabethan era. But there were touches of remodel here and there. Certainly some countess would have put her mark on the house in the last two hundred years.
    The front hall led to a long corridor of open rooms, the first being a gallery of sorts, and the second a drawing room of deep red velvet. Across the room, Trent and Lady Catherine stood by a window overlooking the lake. Their heads bent together, they spoke in low tones.
    How polite it all looked. What nonsense. She stepped over the threshold. “Good evening, Lord Radford, Lady Catherine.”
    Brother and sister turned and, her heart frozen in amused anticipation, Mazie dropped into a deep curtsey. She had practiced this maneuver countless times with her maman but had not executed it in many years. It felt surprisingly familiar, the bending of her knee and humble bow of her head. She held the pose a beat longer than necessary and slowly straightened.
    Nobody spoke.
    Trent stared at her, a glass raised halfway to his lips. He was the picture of surprise, his eyes wide, his lips parted. She had to fight back her smile. He wasn’t thinking of the Midnight Rider now.
    “Lady Margaret, you look lovely.” Lady Catherine came forward with hands extended. “I am speechless.”
    Mazie held her head in the awkward position her maman had insisted made her long neck appear most elegant. “All compliments must be directed toward this exquisite gown you have lent me. Thank you for your kindness.” Made of two-toned satin the color of pale pink hydrangea blossoms, the fabric fell in cascades that shifted from pink to cream with the light. A delicious