Free Carola Dunn by Christmas in the Country Page A

Avon by then everyone would be all agog for explanations. He said nothing to the purpose, and they were never alone together. The only assurance she had that he had neither forgotten nor neglected his promise was his response to a pleading look: a murmured “Have faith!”
     Since the phrase was accompanied by a teasing smile, she was far from reassured.
     Twelfth Night at Felversham was a democratic occasion in the ancient tradition. Under a king and queen chosen by lot, high and low, young and old mingled in disguise to dance and feast in the ball room, the portrait gallery, and various nearby apartments.
     Decorum was preserved by the knowledge that the Duke’s democratic principles were not so enlightened that he would hesitate to dismiss any dependent who stepped across the line. Masks were no excuse for licence.
     Though Cecily was not in costume, her Mama had permitted her to have tiny star-shaped spangles sewn all over her gown, which was the intense blue of the evening sky when stars first appear. It was the colour of her eyes, visible through the black silk mask concealing the upper part of her face. Most of her hair was hidden by the hood of her watered silk domino. As she moved the changeable silk revealed the shades of sunset: pink, peach, and flame.
     “The Queen of the Night,” said a highwayman, materializing beside her as she entered the ball room.
     “She was a villain,” Cecily protested, laughing, as she recognized Lord Avon.
     “What better match for a villainous Gentleman of the Road?” His eyes gleamed mockingly through the holes in his mask. “Meet me by the First Duke at the stroke of midnight, fair Queen. I shall wave my Magic Flute and turn into a Fairy Godmother. Or perhaps a pumpkin or a pirate, who can guess?”
     The crowd swirled around them and he was gone.
     As partner succeeded partner, known and unknown, Cecily watched for him, but there were several highwaymen present and the one who danced with her was someone else. What was he going to do? Surely he did not expect to force her parents’ and Iain’s hands with a public announcement that she and Iain were engaged to marry?
     They would deny it. Nothing but public humiliation lay that way.
     Iain stood up with her, sober in a plain black domino. Cecily was too agitated to enjoy the dance, and his hazel eyes were anguished. Clearly he expected to hear this night that she was betrothed to his cousin. When the music ended, he pressed her hand and whispered, “Courage!” before relinquishing her to a waiting Harlequin—whom she promptly abandoned.
     “Do you know the time?” she asked him.
     “Nearly midnight.”
     “I am sorry, I must...I am engaged for the next set.” She slipped away through the throng.
     The Highwayman awaited her by the First Duke’s portrait. He took her hand. “Come, down the backstairs. Quiet, and hurry.”
     “What...? Where...?”
     “The child—the gamekeeper’s brat—has hurt himself and is crying for you.” Lord Avon’s eyes glinted with deviltry behind his mask.
     Cecily refused to believe Ben had come to grief just at the time when the marquis had arranged to meet her. She recalled her father’s mention of Lord Avon’s youthful peccadilloes, and tales she had heard of the riot and rumpus kicked up by young blades with nothing better to do. What was he up to?
     “Don’t turn missish on me now!” he said impatiently. “Do you or don’t you wish to—”
     “Yes, yes, I am coming.”
     He rushed her down a narrow, dark stairway. At the bottom he took a warm cloak from a hook on the wall and placed it around her shoulders.
     “Where are we going? Where is Ben?”
     “He stayed at home. I’ll take you there. You can go up before me on Caesar.”
     The black Thoroughbred was already saddled and waiting just outside the side door. Cecily decided she had no choice but to trust Lord Avon. She let him toss her up onto Caesar’s withers. He swung into the saddle