MORE LETTERS, more sharing of heart-felt desires and secrets, until…

Should we meet?

CORA STOOD in the lane and bit her bottom lip. Another pinned letter awaited her at the tree.

A nagging curiosity had made her return to the lane the day after she’d found the ring, to see if anyone had claimed it, only to find a reply.

Of course, she’d responded to that note. How could she not, when she read the depth of emotion it conveyed? The correspondence had simply gathered speed from there, with notes coming every day and bringing new secrets, dreams, and confessions.

She didn’t dare reveal her name nor ask for his, although she’d garnered bits of information about him through the personal details he’d shared. Such as that he was a him in the first place. New to the area. From honest, hard-working stock who appreciated a job well-done and cared about his family and friends, so not at all like that pompous Monmouth. Yet he was also a well-educated man of self-reflection. She’d taken more pleasure in those little notes than she’d dare admit and found herself looking forward to her walk so she could claim the latest missive in their surprising exchange. Each one was a treasure, making her laugh at something witty he’d shared, see the world in a new way, commiserate, or feel a pang of sympathy.

Until the note from two days ago. Which simply surprised the daylights out of her.

He wanted to meet her in person. No—not anything that certain. Not even a suggestion, really. Just simply pondering if they should…yet it stunned the breath from her.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Eventually, they would have to share their identities and perhaps meet. But she simply hadn’t expected it so soon, and just when she’d come to count on those letters to distract her from the problems with the mill and caring for her ailing father.

The animosity between her and Monmouth had only grown during the past few weeks. The Little London lock was now the only obstacle in preventing the completion of the canal, and her father’s mill was the only obstacle preventing the construction of the lock. The entire canal project had come to a halt at the foundations of the mill. While the canal was stalled, however, the arguments she fought with Monmouth had only increased. Or, they would have increased, had she gone back to Bishopswood, had they come across each other in the village, had she not taken Samuel Newhouse’s advice and left the fight to be settled in Parliament. That option gave her little hope, except that she knew how slowly Parliament acted these days, slowly enough that perhaps the entire canal project would be forgotten by the time they moved to tear down the mill. Or perhaps her father would have passed away by then, rendering the fight meaningless.

Still, she’d given her word to Mr. Newhouse and to Papa that she would avoid any direct confrontations with His Grace. Which was why she was standing in the middle of the lane as the sun was setting, coming here only when she knew she wouldn’t accidentally meet the duke.

But she hadn’t expected to find this note.

She wasn’t certain there would be another, since she hadn’t answered the last one from two days ago, the only one she hadn’t answered since the letters started coming.

Yet there it was. Not an ordinary note pinned to the tree, either. Composed of thick cardstock, it dangled from the lowest bough by a ribbon, folded carefully, and sealed with wax. As if he were worried that she might never answer unless he made a formal overture.

Fearing he wrote something inside that would reveal his identity before she was ready, she couldn’t stop her hand from shaking as she untied the ribbon, broke the seal, and opened the note. A second card lay nestled inside. Then all of her shook as she scanned over it.

An invitation to the Monmouth masquerade.

She choked back a startled laugh. No, not an invitation to a ball—an unwitting request to infiltrate enemy territory.

Perhaps I surprised you when I suggested that we meet.

Not surprised. Downright stunned!

I simply wanted to meet in person the charming creature who’s been leaving me these notes, to have the chance to speak of all that we’ve shared. I’d hoped you’d wanted that, as well.

She did want that…just not so quickly. If they met in person and it went wrong, there could be no going back to their exchange of letters and the intimacy they’d created with them.

I have an idea, one that protects our secrets. We’ll meet at the masquerade, where we’ll be hidden behind the safety of masks and fancy dress.

Yes, they would have to be. Because she’d be tossed out as soon as she revealed her face.

Please accept this invitation and meet me there. I’ll be at the ball, dressed as a black panther. Should you decide to attend, do not tell me your costume. You will be able to find me and then decide whether you want to approach or leave, keeping your secrets in place…although I’ll be very disappointed if you leave.

A faint smile tugged uncertainly at her lips. She was tempted to meet him. And what a brilliant idea, too. She would be given the opportunity to see him first, then decide if she wanted to press on and speak with him or leave, with him never knowing which lady she was or if she’d even arrived.

So very tempted! Who was this man? Did they know each other beyond the letters? Would they like each other once they came face-to-face and had no more letters to hide behind?

Oh, how could they not?

With a soft laugh, she clutched the invitation to her bosom, then hurried away. After all, the ball was in less than a week, and she had the perfect costume to make.




CHAPTER 3




One Week Later

The Monmouth Masquerade

GOOD GOD, he was nervous! Surrounded by a sea of masked guests inside Bishopswood’s ballroom, John tugged once more at the sleeves of his black kerseymere jacket.

He nearly laughed at himself. When had he ever been nervous about a woman before in his life? In his younger days, he’d bedded more women than he could remember, sharing in all kinds of pleasures with down-to-earth women from the markets, inns, and villages. In more recent years, he’d been too busy with his business to spend much time in pursuit of the women of the gentility that his new money brought him into contact with. Since he’d inherited, though, it was society ladies who vied to capture his attention, those women who were more than eager to raise their skirts for a wealthy duke. But they did it because they wanted favors from him, or for the titillation that came from being bedded by England’s newest duke. He rejected those ladies outright, knowing he’d find no pleasure in them, because they wanted to be with the title and not with the man.

But the woman who pinned those notes to the tree knew nothing about the title or his status as one of England’s most powerful men. He suspected that she wouldn’t care even if she did. At least he hoped she wouldn’t, preferring the true man he was. God knew how much he liked her. She was an intelligent, kind, and philosophical creature who had captured his imagination.

If she were half as beautiful in person as she was in her letters, he feared that she might also capture his heart.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, more so he could continue to take glances toward the top of the stairs over the rim than for the drink itself. His eyes hadn’t strayed far from the landing all night, although how he would know her when she arrived, costumed and hidden behind her mask, he had no idea. He only prayed that he would. And that she would come at all. When he’d returned to the tree to seek her response, the invitation was gone, but she’d left no reply. Nor did she write even once during the past week.

Since then, he’d kicked himself repeatedly that he’d pressed her to meet, fearing he’d gone too far. Would he ever hear from her again?

Quashing his worry, he watched as the parade of new arrivals appeared on the landing and handed their invitations to the Master of Ceremonies, who announced them based upon their costume…Lord Tiger, Lady Peacock, Lord Green, Lady Venus. Tonight was a true masquerade, with all identities hidden until the midnight unmasking. He’d insisted on it. His guests knew that he lurked somewhere within the house and would eventually join the party, but they had no idea that he was already there, hidden among them. For a few precious hours he wanted to be nothing more than one of the crowd, so that he could enjoy the party himself before they set upon him like locusts in their rush to curry his favor. Most of all, he wanted time to enjoy the company of the woman who had written all those letters.