The Trouble With Moonlight Page 30

  Fran truly doubted things would progress that far. Once her mother realized that it was not Francesca in the peacock costume, the ball—and more importantly the engagement— would be cut short. She counted on her mother’s insistence on hiding scandal to protect appearances.

  She glanced at her own reflection, wondering if her mother would appreciate the irony of her choice of costume. Francesca wore the free-flowing folds of fabric that symbolized the French statue given to the United States as a gift, Liberty Enlightening the World. The costume currently was a popular one at fancy dress balls, as fund-raising efforts for the monument’s pedestal had been sluggish. Mr. Evarts had approached the Winthrops to lend support and had left several sketches of the statue behind. Once erected, he had said, the statue would serve as a symbol of liberty and escape from oppression. That is what she hoped for this evening, an escape from her mother’s oppression.

  “You won’t let me be engaged to no duke?” Mary’s wide eyes pleaded with her in the mirror.

  “No, I won’t let that happen,” Francesca reassured her. However much she disliked the future her mother had planned for her, she couldn’t in good faith send her maid to stand in her stead before an altar. No, she must conspire a way for the duke to renounce the engagement.

  “Now, remember the plan. You’re to go downstairs just as the duke enters the foyer, not a moment before. We’ll know him by that costume Maman selected. Curtsy, just as we practiced, when you’re presented.”

  Mary nodded and attempted a wobbly curtsy in front of the mirror. Fran remembered the hours her mother used to make her practice the movement as a young girl. She hadn’t wobbled like that in twenty years. Surely, a conceited, pretentious old duke would be offended by such an awkward display. A smile crept to her lips. And if her mother caused a scandalous scene, so much the better.

  “I couldn’t curtsy better myself,” Francesca said. “The duke has never met me so he won’t suspect a switch. Just play it by ear.”

  “Where will you be? What if your mother confronts me?” Mary’s eyes grew big and round. “What if she fires me?”

  “Tell her I made you do it. Tell them it is all my fault. She’ll believe you. Maybe that will make the duke call off this ridiculous engagement.”

  They exchanged places. Francesca sat on the chair before the mirror while Mary vigorously stroked her long hair with a brush. “Are you sure you don’t want me to put it up, Miss Winthrop? Your mother would want you to have it high like a proper lady.”

  Fran retrieved one of the sketches of Bartholdi’s statue from the vanity drawer. “It should resemble this lady’s hair. Gathered at the nape in a series of folds with finger curls below the ears.” Francesca said, appraising herself in the mirror.

  Mary smiled. “You look like a young girl with your hair down around your shoulders. You have such pretty hair.”

  Indeed, she did look younger this way. Not at all like the old spinster she was bound to become now that Randolph had abandoned her. Perhaps that was the true motive behind this sham engagement, she thought. Her mother might just want to see her properly married. As quickly as she entertained that thought, she abandoned it. Her mother was interested only in what her pawn could do for her. She had no concern for her daughter’s wishes or happiness. Alva’s desires were all that mattered. That was the way it had always been.

  Francesca placed a copper crown with seven spikes radiating out in a sunburst design on her head. “This headpiece should stand out above the crowd.” She hesitated. She hoped she didn’t have to exercise the backup portion of her plan, but if the commotion at the doorway wasn’t sufficient to dissuade the duke, she had an alternative plan. A cold shiver slipped down her spine.

  “If you don’t find me in the ballroom, you may wish to ask someone to check the gardens.”

  NO ONE KNEW BETTER HOW TO STAGE A DRAMATIC ENTRANCE than her mother, Francesca thought, which explained the wide Siena marble multilevel staircase solidly stationed in the middle of the house. From their position on the mezzanine level, Mary and Francesca could lean over the ornate iron and bronze rail to the gathering below. From the look of the decorations, Alva had spared no expense for the ball. A large bronze fountain, filled with floating lotus blooms and water hyacinths, bubbled directly beneath them. Humming-birds and brightly colored butterflies had been brought in specifically to flutter about the spectacular floral master-piece. She suspected a few of her honey bees had found their own entrance as well, drawn by the overwhelming floral scents of lilies and roses. A white-wigged footman dressed in Louis XIV fashion stood just beyond the fountain, announcing the names of the guests as they arrived.

  Had Francesca not already recognized the duke’s costume the moment he strolled through the decorative grille into the entryway, she would have known by her mother’s effusive efforts that a person of societal import had arrived.

  “Now!” She urged Mary with a slight push. Mary tentatively approached the wide sweeping turn of the staircase to descend to the main floor, her blue and green silks rippling on the smooth steps behind her.

  Francesca retreated behind a giant potted fern to observe her plan unfold. Guilt and uncertainty roiled in her stomach. She wouldn’t have taken such desperate measures if the stakes weren’t so high, she reassured herself.

  The fair-haired duke, dressed in a regimental uniform, had the athletic build and charming features that many would call handsome. He was not as old as she had imagined, nor as corpulent. Her attention, however, was drawn to the duke’s companion, a man dressed in tails as if for a formal evening, but with the head of a frog, reminding her of a favorite storybook character from her childhood. Holding a hand to her mouth to soften the chuckle that rose to her lips, she imagined the beautiful princess in The Frog Prince would have had little difficulty befriending such a well-formed amphibian. She cautiously moved forward, risking discovery, to see his direction.

  “His Grace the Duke of Bedford, and Mr. Percival Hunt,” the footman announced.

  Her mother’s face lit with an internal glow. Rising from her curtsy, she stepped forward to receive her special guest. She looked so carefree and happy. When was the last time she had looked so joyful?

  Doubt about the appropriateness of the switch began to gnaw at Francesca’s nerves. Her mother beamed her approval of the handsome young man. Anticipating her mother’s disappointment when she discovered the trick, Fran felt a moment of guilt. Perhaps she shouldn’t have embarked on this plan.

  Quickly, Francesca started to descend a few steps. Her mother wouldn’t approve of the costume switch, but she’d never forgive the planned deception with Mary. However, Fran had barely touched the fifth step when she realized it was too late. Mary had just reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “Your Grace,” her mother, beautifully attired as a Venetian princess, extended a hand toward the staircase. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Miss Francesca—”

  Her mother stopped in mid-introduction and stared hard at Mary. No one else would probably have noted the difference, but Francesca saw the joy drain from her mother’s eyes. A cold, passionless steel appeared in its stead.

  Mary’s peacock feathers flitted in constant motion as she bent in a surprisingly graceful curtsy with arm extended. Francesca herself could not have executed it better. “Miss Francesca Winthrop, your grace,” she said, her voice strong and clear.

  “Well done, Mary!” Francesca whispered before retreating back to the landing. Too involved with the scene below to leave, but too afraid of her mother’s reaction to remain in sight, she slipped back behind the fern.

  “Miss Winthrop,” the duke smiled and accepted Mary’s hand, bestowing a kiss on her fingertips. Her mother tilted her Venetian headdress, searching the staircase without a change in expression, not once correcting the duke’s false assumption.

  Francesca’s heart sank. This was not going according to plan! She had counted on her mother creating the sort of stir that would keep the society matrons chatte
ring for weeks. The sort of stir that would cause the duke to hesitate and rescind his agreement to the negotiated engagement. If Francesca had more time, she knew she could convince the duke she’d make an unsuitable wife. Duchesses don’t go to lengths to avoid strangers and they don’t keep bees. They certainly don’t spend their time translating myths and legends from ancient and foreign texts. And they don’t have hurtful names given to them by newspapers that don’t understand their fear of crowded places.

  Yet her mother nodded her approval as the duke placed Mary’s dyed-blue glove on top of his military sleeve and led her towards the gold ballroom. Francesca had to admit that they made an attractive couple. Mary’s smile broadcasted her delight as they made their way to the crowded ballroom. Francesca repressed a shudder.

  She glanced back toward her mother who had flagged down a footman. Alva whispered something in his ear. The man glanced up the staircase. Afraid she’d been spotted, Francesca dashed down a hallway toward the servant’s stairs. Her hasty flight carried her down to the butler’s pantry and then out to the gardens through the delivery courtyard. It was time for her secondary plan. She was loathe to take such measures, but under the circumstances, she had no choice.

  SWEAT STUNG HIS EYES AND TRICKLED DOWN WILLIAM’S temple within the closed confines of his papier-mâché prison. Although the open bottom of the frog’s head mask extended a good foot beyond his chin, the breeze stirring the ostrich feathers of the lady before him never reached his heated cheeks. Even a glass of cool champagne, awkwardly manipulated under the bottom of the mask, couldn’t reduce his discomfort.

  “Are you quite all right in there?” a lady dressed entirely in white feathers, purportedly a swan, asked.

  William nodded, finding that method of communication less painful than speaking. His vision, slightly obscured by the sheer mesh cloth covering the huge frog eyes, allowed him to observe Percy’s progress with the lady peacock from a distance. The girl possessed no semblance of grace or elegance and her irritating feathers flitted and fretted as much as those bloody bees who kept thinking his bulbous green head was some kind of exotic flower. Still Percy seemed captivated by the chit, which offered some hope that she might eventually prove suitable as a duchess.

  He glanced about the room as much as the mask allowed. The things he could do with the money spent on this room alone. The gold and the glitter, the artistry on the ceilings and in the statues tucked into the corners of the room, and all of it was new. According to Percival, this was not the result of centuries of inheritance, one generation building upon the foundations laid by another. This was all newly purchased and placed, and this “cottage” was only one of the family’s many newly purchased manors. Why the money spent on this residence alone would save Bedford Manor and all of its tenants.

  Another breeze stirred the draperies near the open door to the gardens. The temptation to blend into the cool night and remove the tormenting frog mask proved too great. Enjoying a bit of his anonymity, William managed to walk around the edges of the ballroom without once encountering an ambitious young lady or a hovering matron. The novelty pleased him, though the thought of removing the head pleased him more.

  The crowd inside had spilled out to the terrace, making it difficult to move without stepping on a lady’s skirts, or stumbling about in a most undignified manner. He was afraid his murmured apologies never escaped the confines of the mask. The light from the ballroom reached a bit beyond the terrace. He thought he spied a path that led away from the crowds and eagerly sought it out. As he walked farther along the path, the music provided by the ballroom orchestra was replaced with the faint, soothing sound of ocean waves meeting stone. Such a clean, refreshing sound. William reached up and removed the mask, letting the late summer breezes rejuvenate him as well. The moon shimmered on the undulating swells, making him feel small and insignificant: a simple man, not a duke with the weight of a dynasty on his shoulders.

  “It’s beautiful out here, is it not?” A woman’s voice asked in the darkness.

  At first, William didn’t respond, believing the woman’s question must be directed to a gentleman who might have accompanied her. He could well imagine a man’s motives on bringing a lady to such a secluded spot. A smile teased his lips and he stole a glance in the direction of the amorous couple.

  However, there was no couple. Just a goddess wrapped in bed linens. His breath caught. Moonlight shimmered on the copper crown on her head, giving the illusion of a halo. The drape of the cloth hid the body beneath, but the comely shape of her face and shoulders suggested a body of equally pleasing proportions. The ocean breeze tugged at the folds of cloth, and he found himself wishing for a bit of a gale.

  She stepped closer accompanied by the fresh scent of gardenias. He longed to touch her, to feel if she were real or just a figment of his imagination.

  “It’s so peaceful away from the crowds, away from prying eyes.”

  This time he knew she spoke to him and to him alone, yet he was afraid he would sound like a bumbling idiot if he chanced to open his mouth. Her eyes skimmed his face and briefly settled on his lips as if she recognized his difficulty. She lowered her gaze to the hideous frog head and broke into a laugh.

  “I saw you earlier. You arrived about the same time as the duke, did you not?”

  He nodded. Where had she come from? He couldn’t recall hearing footsteps behind him, and he certainly didn’t see her before she announced her presence. Such an appealing woman shouldn’t be alone out here, in the dark.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to disturb you.” He glanced about, looking for a matron or a chaperone hidden in the shadows. “In fact, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “You’ve an accent. You’re British. I suppose it wasn’t just coincidence that you arrived with the duke. Are you a close friend?”

  “Well, yes, actually.” He silenced the soft chuckle that rose to his lips, but couldn’t suppress the resulting smile. Little did she know just how well he knew the duke.

  She moved closer. In spite of the ocean breeze and the lack of the stifling frog mask, beneath his shirt a bead of sweat ran between his shoulder blades. The nymph came closer. A mere inch separated his knuckle from the hardened nub pressing through the silk of her costume. His groin tightened.

  “What’s he like?” she asked, her voice innocent yet seductive.

  “The duke?” He forced the words through his constricted throat, resulting in the strangled utterance of an adolescent boy. Control yourself, he silently commanded. Just because such posturing on her part would be tantamount to a sexual invitation in England, didn’t mean society worked the same way here. His hand clenched by his side; he drew a deep breath. A mistake. His lungs soon filled with the evocative essence of gardenias and moonlight. “He’s a good chap. Strong, reliable, and true.” His words rushed. “A good judge of horseflesh, I’m told.”

  And other flesh, his body reminded him as the breeze stirred the gathered cloth covering her chest, which brought his gaze back to that enticing nub. His mouth watered with the urge to coax the titillating swell into something harder, firmer. His body responded with a rise of its own. “Some women find him handsome.”

  “Do they?” Inexplicably, she stroked the lapel of his jacket and tilted her head back as if expecting to be kissed.

  Shocked, he had intended to raise his hand to force the release of his lapel, but his fingertips reached instead for the dewy skin of her cheek. He traced the soft curve of her jaw and ran his thumb lightly across her full lower lip, wondering if he dare taste what she offered.

  Remembering the excessive comforts evident at the cottage, the gold and silver, the floral towers and abundant champagne, the thought suddenly registered that perhaps this goddess was meant to be his for the taking. A smile pulled at his lips. These Americans, they think of everything. The frog mask slipped from his grasp and thumped to the ground. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to
him.

  “I’m not sure how these things are accomplished here . . .” he whispered, letting the urgent nature of his needs take over. After witnessing the opulence at the ball, he wouldn’t be surprised to discover a bed hidden beneath the cover of trees, a gilt-edged bed at that. He dragged his lips tenderly across her forehead, inhaling her sweet scent and preparing for an outright assault on her tantalizing mouth. “But if you’re offering what I believe—”

  A sudden clamor of footsteps behind him interrupted. His spine stiffened. Dallying with a light skirt was one thing, but he did draw the line at public performances.

  “Francesca Winthrop!” A woman’s shrill voice wailed. “Francesca, you foolish girl, what are you doing?”

  Before beginning her writing career in earnest, Donna MacMeans kept books of a different nature. A certified public accountant, she only recently abandoned the exciting world of debits and credits to return to her passion: writing romances. Her debut novel, The Education of Mrs. Brimley, won the 2006 Golden Heart for Best Long Historical. Originally from Towson, Maryland, she currently resides in central Ohio with her husband, two adult children, and loyal canine protector, Oreo.

  Donna loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at P.O. Box 1981, Westerville, Ohio 43086.

  Visit her website at www.DonnaMacMeans.com.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author