It never usually bothered him. Being alone, that is. His father had passed away when he was ten, then he’d been sent to live with his uncle’s family in London. At the time, he had craved to be with his mother at the pink seaside cottage in Wales, running wild with his younger brother and sister, chasing the seagulls darting through the crashing surf. But he had lived in London on and off, and his younger brother Rafe was sent to become an apprentice to his father’s friend, Captain Ackerman, or rather Admiral Ackerman now. And as for his sister, Mari, well… they were never close before, and it was certainly difficult after the accident.
“Davies!” Stephen shouted above the din, waving Henry over to a very merry and very large group of women.
No time in his thirty-one years had Henry wished to flirt or frequent brothels or, worse, fall in love. He had one goal, and one goal only.
Henry removed his watch from his vest and pointed to it as an answer, but it didn’t matter because Stephen was already continuing with whatever one did at a masquerade. Which seemed like a lot. A lot of drinking, a lot of laughing, and a lot of behavior that normally the ton would frown upon in the grand ballrooms of Mayfair.
Funny what rules could be pushed when darkness swept over the city and masks were worn.
London was a social battleground with mamas hungry to make excellent matches for their daughters. It was often black and white, so why men were allowed to live and play in the gray was baffling to Henry.
Zeus and all his lovely wives, but Henry’s mask was damned uncomfortable. He wished to tear the stupid thing off.
He turned his back to the crowd and tugged at it, burrowing his thumb under the left eye hole so it would fit better. Henry was certain it was scraping off the bridge of his nose, and though he had been teased for his long Roman nose throughout school, he wished to leave the masquerade whole.
Henry peeked over his shoulder, toward his friends in the supper box, a small pang radiating in his chest. He should stay, but he had promised an hour, and his time was nearly up. It was finally time to retire for the evening. He had plenty of studying to do.
One day, his life would be what he worked so hard to create. One day, he would prove to everyone that Henry Davies wasn’t only Captain Davies’s son, he himself was distinguished.
He weaved through the crowd, nearly tripping over his own feet because of the damned mask. Henry cursed to himself, adjusting it once more before slipping behind a tree to take the blasted thing off.
His fingers fumbled for the tie at the back of his head when a branch snapped. He froze beside the tree, his arms still stretched up behind his head when an emerald blur raced into him.
Well, not run into—rather plowed down.
“Oof.”
The impact knocked him over, and he struck his head against a stone lodged at the base of the twisted sycamore tree. For a moment or two, his ears rang while pain radiated up his neck. Perhaps that was why, when the soft female body collapsed on top of his, he thought he had died.
Because angels walked the earth.
The air left his lungs in a heavy whoosh, and he blinked up to a mess of fire-orange hair and a smile DaVinci would be jealous of. Mona Lisa had nothing on these two perfectly lush crimson lips, curved with an enticing amount of mischief.
“Damn it, not again,” the woman muttered.
He would have laughed if he had any breath left, but all sense had been knocked out of him it seemed. He was speechless. What an absurd thing to say. He didn’t for a moment miss the Irish lilt to her voice, soft and warm like that brandy he had dreamt of all day.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
The woman blinked, staring back at him with the lightest green eyes he had ever seen, like pistachio cream. She smelled just as sweet—vanilla and jasmine.
“I haven’t hurt you, have I? Oh, I have, I have. Let me just…”
She sat up and scurried backward, grabbing her discarded champagne glass. “Careful, it broke.”
Henry pushed himself up to his elbows, his head throbbing. Everything spun, and somehow it felt more like July than September as he studied the woman in front of him, sprawled on the ground in an emerald gown and a gold mask with a broken champagne glass in her gloved hands.
Again?
Did she have a habit of running into men?
She set aside the broken glass and leaned forward. In the dim light from the lanterns hung overhead, he noticed her squinting. “Are you well?”
Well, enough, enough to know that something bigger and well beyond him had happened.
Well enough to know he had plenty to say and yet couldn’t speak a single word because he was so utterly struck by this stranger.
“You should watch where you are running,” he snapped instead.
Henry sat up, rubbed the back of his head, and gawked when his hand returned with blood smeared against his fingertips.
Tilly had almost made the perfect escape before running smack into this man…
She tilted her head, studying him and his dark eyes peering back at her from behind the black mask.
Oh, blood! Right. For the love… she had really outdone herself this time.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You’re bleeding.”
Tilly reached into the bust of her gown, fumbling as a button on her glove caught at the lace trim of her emerald satin bodice. The dress was magnificent if not entirely too fancy for a masquerade, where it seemed the majority of people were attending in hopes of not being seen. Temptation lay at her feet, literally, but her reputation was all she had left. Without it, she would find herself lifting her skirts in some East End alley to ensure her siblings and Ethan were fed and had a roof over their heads.
Too much had happened, and she had worked too hard to give up what she had now at Drury Lane.
She ripped the handkerchief out from beneath her neckline, waved it around like a white flag of peace, and hoped the stranger wouldn’t inquire about her name or why she was running, or where he could send his physician’s bills. Because she had hoped tonight would be one night where she could live the fantasy of being almost anyone else besides Matilda Brennan.
The mask certainly helped.
