Free The Wedding Chase by Rebecca Kelley Page A

over.
    She fastened the mask securely, planning not to remove it, even for supper, and strutted out the door.
    The orchestra readied to play the opening minuet as she hesitated at the threshold of the enormous Ionic-columned ballroom. Heavy, leafy garlands and huge sprays of spring blossoms assaulted her eyes and nose. She stood her ground as the footman announced, “Madame Pompadour.”
    More attention focused on her entry than she would have desired, but her courage did not falter as she skimmed down the staircase. When she reached the bottom a soldier and a pirate vied for the pleasure of her company for the dance.
    “You are both so dashing, how can I choose? I must however admit a tendre for pirates.” Did she say that? Smiling, she emphasized the low timbre of her voice. “You, Sir Buccaneer, may have the first dance, the major may attend me on the second.”
    As the tall pirate whisked her onto the floor, she found herself searching for another more familiar tall man. Would she recognize him in costume? Zel smiled at her partner. What did it matter? She was determined to have a wonderful time with or without
his
presence. Turning her attention on the pirate, she resolved to charm him completely.
    Zel danced with the pirate, then the major, smiling flirtatiously, gay and confident, as if she were indeed the courtesan to a king. Although she had sipped only one glass of champagne, she felt intoxicated. Dizzy and giddy with the combination of music, lights, and ardent male attention.
    As she twirled to a reel with a viking, she glimpsed a somber puritan, his long, broad-shouldered body propped against a column. His eyes were obscured by a black mask, but she knew they followed her, shimmering, luminous as molten silver.
    When the dance ended, her partner escorted her back to her growing court. The puritan stood slightly apart from the others. A roundish man in a monk’s robe stepped toward her.
    “Sorry, Friar, the lady has already been claimed.” The puritan stepped forward and held out his arm. “Madame?” When she moved too slowly, he grasped her arm, leading her out on the floor to the strains of the evening’s first waltz.
    His gloveless hand clasped hers, his other rested at her waist, as he launched into the elegant steps. She felt weightless, floating on a cloud of sound and movement, aware only of the pressure of his hands, the warmth of his body, and the scent of woods and horses.
    Zel knew they danced dangerously close, but she did not care. She wanted to press her body against his and forget anyone was in the ballroom but the two of them. The music ended, and too soon she returned to her chair beside the eager monk.
    The puritan raised her fingers to his lips, his breath warming the silk of her gloves. “The supper dance is mine.”
    Her next partners blurred in a colorful montage of costumes, flattery, and smiles. She played her part well, never forgetting she was Madame Pompadour, employing the wiles of a courtesan, playing the coquette, whispering, laughing, making clever conversation. Tonight was as distant from reality as a dream. Tomorrow she would be ordinary Zel Fleetwood again.
    She should be thinking of her brother and the husband who would and could pay his debts. Zel loved Robin dearly but this time belonged to her, her fairy tale, her ball with the prince. But tomorrow there would be no happily-ever-after. Her charming, reckless prince was not the marrying kind. And even if he were, she wanted an older, milder husband, one she could control.
    “Jeanne-Antoinette, my dance.” Her puritan-prince’s deep voice vibrated through her body as she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her to the floor.
    Zel was grateful for the country dance, fearing her senses could not withstand the full-force assault of another waltz. When the dance ended, they joined the crowd promenading to the supper room. He ushered her to a corner table, then juggled plates loaded with lobster patties,