Dancing with the Earl (After the Masquerade) Read online

  Dancing with the Earl

  Ashley Stormes

  Other books by Ashley Stormes

  The Masquerade Series:

  The Masquerade

  A Mask of Black Satin

  A Tartan Mask

  Mask of the Tiger

  The Widow’s Mask

  Published by Ashley Stormes

  Copyright 2013 Ashley Stormes

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to action events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Bear. Rest in peace, old puppy.

  And for Benedict, the sweetest cat I have ever met.

  A Note on Spelling, and my Continued Gratitude

  As anyone who has read the first two books of The Masquerade Series has realized, I use British spellings. This is partly because I find it helps me to get into the minds of my characters and partly because, as a European historian, all of my resources are printed in Britain. When every book one reads uses British spellings, one begins to forget how to spell like an American.

  That being said, there are a few words that might confuse an unwary reader, such as cosy instead of cozy, pernickety instead of persnickety, and fulfil instead of fulfill. Other words, like favourite, honour, and centre, are common enough that they should not disorient anyone.

  I continue to owe a debt of gratitude for my good friend and fellow author, Amanda Eyer. She patiently endures my ranting emails about disobedient characters and helps me edit even though she has other things to do with her time.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Preview

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Ravenwood Castle, Ayrshire, Scotland

  May 1786

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  Thomas Gyrlington, Earl of Briarwood, narrowed his dark brown eyebrows as he studied his cards. He could not believe the words that had so recently poured from his friend’s mouth, and offered a chance for the man to rescind his statement. “Are you certain you wish to play with these odds, MacEwan?”

  Malcolm MacEwan nodded, his bright red hair gleaming in the guttering firelight. “Aye, Tom. If you win, I will marry Miss Smith within the week. If I win, you spend the summer in London.” He grinned suddenly, his pale grey-blue eyes alight with mischief. “I figure I will marry Miss Smith within the year, so even if I lose I will not really lose.”

  “Brianna is a sweet lass,” Eamon, Malcolm’s father, agreed. He shuffled his cards with a frown, then lay them face down upon the table. “I have nothing. Ravenwood?”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow at his father, but the marquis continued to ponder his cards with a wry smile.

  “I think I will fold as well,” Cameron finally mused, tossing his cards aside.

  Malcolm grinned again. “Time for fate to play its hand, Tom. Will I marry Brianna this week, or will you spend the summer in London?”

  “Show your hands,” Eamon instructed, motioning to the table.

  Thomas saluted his friend with his dram of whisky and then placed his cards in a fanning arc on the table.

  Cameron and Eamon bore the same impressed expression.

  “Nigh impossible to beat that hand,” Eamon praised. “Unless you have all the kings, Malcolm, I think you’re getting married.”

  Allowing a pleased smile to grace his lips, Thomas waited for Malcolm to groan and toss down his cards. Luck had granted him a fistful of queens, and he had never before lost a card game to his friend.

  Malcolm sighed. “A fair hand, Tom. Alas…” He slowly placed one king, then a second, then a third, and then a fourth on the table.

  Thomas’s jaw nearly hit the table.

  “I hope your things are packed, Tom. London is waiting for you.”

  Chapter One

  London

  June 1786

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  Music and chattering gossip swirled around the ballroom like lithe dancers. Someone laughed, the sound carrying over the other voices, but she did not turn to see. She continued to stare across the room, her back pressed against the panelled wall, and gape.

  Margaret Nettlby knew she should close her mouth, but for the life of her she could not command her jaw to move back into place. Her entire body felt numb, as if she had somehow been struck by lightning in the middle of Almack’s. It was a ridiculous notion, considering she was indoors and there had not been a cloud in the sky all day long, but she could think of no other way to describe her current predicament.

  “He’s a future marquis,” someone whispered. “Currently an earl.”

  “A young earl,” another corrected, giggling. “He is only twenty-six.”

  “I heard his father’s estate is one of the richest in Scotland,” a third woman added. “He could easily afford to buy property in England. No one of my acquaintance would willingly relocate to Scotland, even for a future marquis.”

  Scotland? Margaret felt her head tilt to one side. Her eyes remained locked on his figure, and her jaw remained unhinged. Was he the Scottish earl? Lord Briarwood?

  “Margaret, shall we take a turn ‘round the room? Margaret?” Lady Cecilia Rauley jabbed her green feathery fan into Margaret’s ribs to finally claim her unmarried friend’s attention.

  “Oh?” Margaret snapped her jaw closed and turned to her best friend. “What did you say?”

  Cecilia regarded her with an amused expression. “I asked if you would like to take a turn around the room,” she repeated, her lips twitching into a smile. “But perhaps you would prefer to stand and gawk at the earl.”

  “I was not gawking,” Margaret huffed, linking her arm in Cecilia’s. “I was…contemplating.”

  “Contemplating the magnificence of a pair of fine legs in tan knee breeches?”

  She felt her cheeks warm. “Nonsense. I never contemplate a man’s nether regions. If you must know, I was contemplating the necessity of a Season. I am in my fourth Season, after all. At this rate I would do better to suffer an arranged marriage. My father did threaten,” she lied. Her father, Baron Nettlby, would never force her into a marriage, a fact of which Cecilia was fully aware.

  “Hmm,” Cecilia murmured, steering her around the dancers. “I believe you need to work on your improvisation. Perhaps we can test you in conversation with Lord Briarwood.”

  “I have not been introduced to the earl,” Margaret pointed out. “It would be impossible for me to bore him with my conversation without an introduction, and I have it upon the best authority that you are also outside of his acquaintances.”

  They paused at the lemonade table to quench their thirst, arms still linked. Margaret let her gaze wander in the earl’s direction, but he was no longer standing against the wall. She released her friend and stood on her toes, slowly turning until she laid eyes on the tall, dark-haired man.

  Why was he standing where she had been standing?

  His eyes met hers, making her heart thrum against her ribs, and she hastily turned back to Cecilia.

  “Shall we continue?” she asked, her voice pitched higher than normal.

  Cecilia raised an eyebrow. “I was of the belief that you did not want to walk by the earl,” she reflected, accepting Margaret’s arm with a chuckle. They continued their circuit, this time pausing at the empty stretch of wall where the earl had previously stood. Margaret glanced t
owards her favourite corner of Almack’s, but Lord Briarwood had once again disappeared.

  “He moved,” Margaret whispered. “Where is he now?”

  “By the lemonade. We must have passed him,” Cecilia complained. “How could we pass him and not see him?”

  Margaret shook her head furiously. “No. He was standing where we started when we were getting lemonade.”

  “Is he following us?” Cecilia giggled, drat her. “Maybe he is seeking an introduction.”

  “Nonsense. He would never have interest in us. But if he does, we need to keep circling and avoiding him,” Margaret insisted, tugging her friend towards their starting point. “I refuse to make a fool of myself in front of an earl.”

  “Margaret—”

  “You know I cannot speak in front of a handsome young man,” she hissed, her eyes riveted on Cecilia’s amused expression. “I will not embarrass myself again.”

  “But Margaret—”

  “No, Cecilia. I have a terrible tendency to fall mute when—oh!” She released Cecilia’s hand and whirled around to face the person she had walked into. “I am terribly—” Her throat tightened. Her hands started to shake. Her mouth opened and closed several times, and her eyes widened.

  Thomas Gyrlington grinned down at her, his hands on his hips. “There you are.”

  The poor girl continued to gape up at him, her eyes large and a breathtaking shade of light blue. He knew he should not have startled her, but she had been staring at him for nearly an hour and he did not think a person’s mouth could remain open that long without said person’s mouth drying up into a terrible desert. It seemed only polite to offer her lemonade, but as soon as he started towards her she disappeared. When he reached her position she was already downing a cup of lemonade with her brown-haired friend, and it seemed pointless to offer her a drink. He realized that he was rather thirsty, however, so he set off to claim a glass and perhaps introduce himself.

  He was not sure why he wanted an introduction, considering his desire to break his agreement with MacEwan and return to Scotland, but he never reneged on his word. If he had to spend a Season in London, heaven help him if he didn’t make a few friends. Females were not his normal choice for conversation—and he had no intention of marrying an Englishwoman—but her stares seemed far safer than the giggles and whispers of the other ladies. He was used to women sighing around him, but if he overheard one more not-so-quiet conversation about his looks he was going to feign illness and retire for the evening.

  Unlike the other ladies, his blue-eyed beauty seemed determined to avoid him. Upon reaching the lemonade he caught sight of her on the other side of the room looking rather flustered and arguing with her friend in a blur of ruffles and ribbons. That would never do. He downed his lemonade, circled back to meet her, and allowed himself to be barrelled into so that she had no choice but to face him.

  Thomas continued to grin down at her, waiting for her to make the necessary polite apology that any other young Englishwoman would make. He waited, and waited, and he waited some more.

  “I think we have been dancing ‘round the ballroom,” he offered, hoping to spur her into conversation.

  She blinked, opened her mouth, and then closed her mouth again. He enjoyed the opportunity to admire her perfect Cupid’s bow lips, but he found himself longing to hear her voice again.

  “Forgive her, m’lord,” the other woman murmured. “I think she has taken ill with the fear of speaking to a man.”

  “Beast,” she hissed.

  Thomas’s grin spread. “I was afraid she would be the sort that refuses to speak until a proper introduction has occurred.”

  “Proper?” The friend laughed, clutching the blue-eyed beauty’s arm. “Miss Nettlby is rarely proper, but she is so quiet that no one ever hears her witty remarks.”

  A young man joined their party, his black hair and hazel eyes regarding Thomas with distrust. He took the friend’s arm possessively, causing her to chuckle and roll her eyes, and declared, “Perhaps it is not so in Scotland, but here it is considered rude for a man to waylay a young woman in her stroll around the ballroom.”

  Thomas admired the man’s gall, but was unable to comment before the friend spoke.

  “Charles, the earl desired to speak with Miss Nettlby,” she informed the newcomer. “Since no one else in this ballroom has offered introductions, I shall take it upon myself. I am Lady Rauley and this is my husband, Lord Rauley. You have already heard me refer to my friend as Miss Nettlby, and we all know that you are Lord Briarwood.”

  Thomas offered a short bow. “A pleasure to meet all of you, I’m sure.”

  Lord Rauley hesitated, but finally decided it would be wise to bow in return. His wife curtsied with a wry smile, but Miss Nettlby—Thomas wanted to ask if it was really her last name—continued to stand and stare.

  “I am terribly sorry for rendering you mute, Miss Nettlby,” Thomas stated pleasantly.

  Her expression changed in an instant: reddish-brown brows narrowed, lips drew tight into a grimace, and she jerked her chin forward infinitesimally. She snapped her fan shut, curtsied lowly, and strode away, leaving him to stare after her.

  Why had she turned away? He knew his words were not polite, but if her friend was correct in saying that she was rarely proper…

  “You must forgive her,” Lady Rauley murmured. “She is very shy.”

  Lord Rauley made a face. “Even Lady Beatrice has been unable to match her, and if Lady Beatrice cannot arrange a match, no one can.”

  “I was not looking for a match,” Thomas stated dryly. “Merely seeking conversation.”

  “Conversation is not something you will find with Miss Nettlby, at least not immediately,” Lord Rauley commented. “She is brilliantly witty and charming, but it took her two months to say a word to me.”

  “I might not be here in two months.”

  Lady Rauley frowned, her eyes cast on the floor between him and her husband. Thomas wanted to ask what her expression was for, but refrained himself. It did not matter. The Rauleys might be his first acquaintances, but Miss Nettlby—truly, that name did not suit her at all—was the one he was curious about.

  Her reddish brown hair caught the candlelight and reflected back at him, and he watched her cross the ballroom and hook her arm through an older gentleman’s. Her father, perhaps? The man bowed his head to hear her as she spoke, her lips moving quickly. Thomas’s eyes remained locked on her figure, and he wondered for a brief moment if he had recently hit his head. His thoughts were murky and he felt a wee bit dizzy, as if he had imbibed in a little too much MacEwan’s Whisky.

  “Lord Briarwood?”

  Thomas cleared his throat and tore his eyes from Miss Nettlby’s figure, swaying slightly on his feet. “Yes?”

  Lord Rauley smirked. “I asked whether you intended to stay in London for the entire Season. You commented that you might not be here in two months, and I thought that meant you were only staying for a few weeks.”

  “I—I made the agreement to stay for the summer,” Thomas managed. “I intend to return to Scotland at the end of July.”

  “What is the matter, dear?” Lord Lawrence Nettlby patted his daughter’s hand. “You look horrified.”

  “I couldn’t say a word, Papa. I tried. I tried to say something—anything—but I could not.” Margaret sniffed and ducked her head. “I’m certain he thinks me an imbecile.”

  “Who, dear?” He glanced around the ballroom curiously, his brows narrowed in consternation. “Who is that speaking with Cecilia and Charles?”

  Margaret refused to turn. “I don’t know.”

  “You know you cannot lie, Margaret,” he chided gently. “It is impossible for you. Who is he? Is he the one with whom you cannot speak? He seems a handsome man. Is that why?”

  “Why what?”

  Lord Nettlby rolled his eyes. “I need to speak with Lady Beatrice.”

  “Lady—” Margaret gasped. “No, Papa, you cannot—”

 
; He grinned and darted off, the tails of his mustard coat swinging as he disappeared. Margaret groaned and passed a hand over her face, muttering about fickle fathers, and risked a glance towards Lord Briarwood.

  “Hello again.”

  She shrieked, slapping both her hands over her mouth to stifle the sound.

  He chuckled and tugged her hands away. “I did not mean to startle you again, Miss Nettlby.”

  Margaret cleared her throat when he continued to hold her hands in his, their gloves only offering a thin barrier between the heat of their skin.

  Instead of releasing her, he tightened his grasp. “Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

  She had always been proud of her observational skills, and she recognized a certain hesitancy in his tone, as if he did not truly want to ask her the question. “You do not want to dance with me,” she weakly managed, dropping her eyes to his broad chest. He was silent for several moments, so she hesitantly glanced back up to see him raise an eyebrow, his expression serious.

  “You do not know what I want, Miss Nettlby,” he murmured. “Sometimes I do not even know what I want.”

  Chapter Two

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  Thomas grimaced up at the coffered ceiling of his bedroom, his hands folded over his stomach and his legs bent at the knees. It was only seven in the morning, but he had given up on sleep as soon as he crawled into bed. The mattress was lumpy, the curtains did not block the incessant moon, and the people of London had apparently learned how to function without sleep. He needed darkness and silence to sleep, and it was obvious he would find neither.

  It did not help his plight that he had been unable to tear his thoughts from Miss Nettlby.

  Though it had taken him the greater part of his patience to coerce her into true conversation, once she started speaking—rather animatedly—about her friends, her voice soothed something deep within him. He had practically dragged her into a dance, only to be dragged out in return. Lord Rauley helpfully pointed out that it was improper to dance more than two dances with one woman, and Thomas had lost count after five. After that his only option was to dance with Lady Rauley for two dances, and then stand with Lord Nettlby for the rest of the evening. Every other man was determined to follow in his example and dance with Miss Nettlby, but while their attentions might have spurred his irritation, he took great joy in knowing that she trod on their feet because she was staring at him with a lopsided smile.