At the Ball in London
Lady Candice was enthralled as she beheld the sheer size of the ballroom which shimmered with the golden light spilling from the chandeliers, illuminating the ballroom which had paintings of gods and warriors on the ceilings, as golden vines wrapped around the pillars. The thick red curtains were pulled back, revealing large floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a view of the gardens below, underneath a starry sky, with the moon occasionally peeking out from behind fluffy clouds.
The men held onto the women as they took to the floor in their colourful silk and satin gowns, brushing past one another in a blur of colour, motion and polite smiles. She had promised herself that she would only dance three times, but by the fourth dance with another handsome stranger, she had already broken that promise.
She lingered at the edge of the ballroom, her cheeks aflame as she fanned herself with a cream fan that had gold designs on it. The music changed to a more cheerful tune, and a hand appeared from a stranger.
"May I have this dance, my lady?"
The voice was calm, deep and masculine.
Candice drew in a deep breath and looked up.
Only to be greeted by a man who was dressed in black and navy blue from the throat to the boot with silver swirls at his cuffs and vest. A silver mask hid the upper half of his face, which was smooth and unreadable, leaving only his mouth visible, firm and unsmiling. An expression that was far too serious for a ball, she thought.
She did not recoil from his commanding yet mysterious presence; she merely blinked.
"I do not know your name, sir."
"Cassius."
She tilted her head.
"Just one name?"
"It has always been enough," he answered.
Candice smiled faintly. "Then you may call me, Candice."
He took her hand then saying, "Shall we?"
As he led her onto the floor, the atmosphere seemed to shift. Conversations faltered as eyes followed them, for a masked man was always noticed and whispered about behind elegant fans and into curious ears.
"Cursed….." they whispered amongst themselves. The men frowned and the women turned with curiosity and glee.
His hand took hold of her waist, guiding her with effortless grace, anticipating her every move with ease.
"You dance as though you have done so, countless times," she said lightly.
"I have," he remarked. "And you dance as though you have never feared making a mistake."
"That is true," she said with a gentle laugh.
The music swelled, they turned and her skirts brushed his boots.
"You wear a mask, for fashion or preference?"
"Out of necessity." He replied rather bitterly.
Candice considered this. "That seems rather inconvenient."
"It is fatal to look upon my face, dear." He said softly.
She glanced at him. "You are not much for small talk."
"I find it a waste of time."
She smiled. "Then why dance with me?"
"You seemed… interesting to me," he said carefully.
Candice raised a brow. "A dangerous presumption."
"I am accustomed to danger."
The dance ended far too soon.
As they separated, Candice felt the absence of his hand like a sudden chill. She curtsied; he bowed low.
"Will you dance with me again?" she asked, surprising herself.
Cassius stepped back into the shadows. "I should not."
"That," Candice said, "is not an answer."
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "Then I am sorry to disappoint you."
He vanished into the crowd, leaving nothing but whispers and questions in his wake.
Candice stood still long after the next dance began, observing the mysterious man as he took refuge at one of the entrances, outside on the balcony.
Miss Harcourt appeared at her side. "Who was that?"
Candice shook her head slowly. "I do not know."
Candice had barely begun to wonder if the masked man might vanish forever when another hand appeared in front of her.
"May I have the next dance, my lady?"
This voice was older, smoother, the confidence of a man used to being obeyed.
The gentleman before her was impeccably dressed. His dark auburn hair was touched with silver at the temples, his smile warm, safe, entirely unremarkable, the sort of man no mother would object to and no daughter would pay much attention to.
She hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his.
"Of course," she said. "Though I fear I am nearly worn out."
"Nonsense," he replied pleasantly. "A young lady is never worn out, only momentarily distracted."
As they danced, Candice felt rather than saw Miss Harcourt stiffen at the edge of the floor.
Her governess's hand gripped her reticule. The colour draining from her face as she recognised the man Candice was dancing with.
Miss Harcourt knew that man.
She had not seen him in over twenty years, yet the memory of him was vivid, the posture, the measured charm, the tilt of his head as though the world had always made space for him.
Her breath caught painfully. No. Not now. Not here.
On the floor, Candice smiled politely. "You dance well, sir."
"I have had much practice," he said. "Though not recently."
They moved easily, his hand steady, his gaze attentive. Candice felt… oddly at ease.
"You are new to town?" she asked.
"In a manner of speaking," he replied. "I have returned to observe."
"Observe what?"
"You."
Candice laughed lightly. "I fear, you will be disappointed."
"On the contrary," he said softly. "You are exactly as I imagined."
She watched them beneath the chandeliers, Candice's expression open, curious, and unguarded.
Her knees weakened.
"Miss Harcourt?" a lady murmured beside her. "Are you quite well?"
Miss Harcourt did not answer. She could not take her eyes off the dance floor.
The man leaned closer to Candice. "Tell me, my dear, were you raised nearby?"
"No," Candice replied. "I grew up in the country."
"With a mother?" he asked gently.
"Yes."
"And a father?"
Candice faltered slightly. "No."
His grip tightened, but not enough to make her notice.
"I see," he said.
Miss Harcourt closed her eyes, remembering a winter, a carriage leaving in the night, a promise never kept.
On the floor, Candice smiled again, unaware. "May I ask your name, sir?"
He hesitated. "Call me Edmund."
Miss Harcourt's breath left her entirely.
Edmund Whitcombe. The Baron of Arlington.
The music slowed and came to a stand still. The dance drew to its close.
He bowed deeply to Candice. "It has been an honour, my lady. I hope we shall speak again soon."
Candice curtsied. "I should like that."
As he withdrew, his gaze lifted, not to Candice, but past her. Straight to Miss Harcourt.
Their eyes met. Recognition passed like a blade.
His smile faltered. Miss Harcourt's hand trembled.
The gentleman inclined his head once, respectfully, and disappeared into the crowd.
From the shadows the masked man let the glass of wine slip from his fingers and shatter across the floor, as realization dawned upon him that perhaps the reason, the Baron of Arlington seemed protective of the woman he had just danced with earlier, was because she was his daughter.