Read Online Elisabeth Fairchild by Provocateur - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Provocateur
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sleep.
Her gaze rose from the sparkling crystal as it swayed.
Her eyes met his. The bauble gave a little jerk.
Roger made no attempt to avoid her. He hid in a head bandage for the occasion. He leaned against a crutch. She could not know him. His own mother would not have known him, had she been alive to see him.
And yet, Dulcie Selwyn locked eyes with him on more than one occasion and as she left, breezed past, saying, “Good day, Monsieur Gargoyle. I see you are well.”
His jaw would have dropped had the bandages allowed. How did she recognize him with his head bound like an Egyptian mummy’s? He hobbled after her, heart thumping wildly, ready to demand an explanation. How could she penetrate such a perfect disguise?
Her father stood waiting. He had no opportunity to ask. But neither could he wait patiently for an answer to the mystery. So, he shadowed her. And opportunity presented itself by way of a ball, the perfect ball for a man in his line of work--it was a masquerade.
Chapter Thirteen
October 31, 1816
Tristam Hall, On the Thames
Light spoke to Dulcie, drew her, defined her. Elusive, pervasive, untouchable, it whispered to mind and soul, promising mysteries, rendering the world magical and new. A calming light, the night’s, soothing as water’s rush against the barge’s hull, perfect counterpoint to the riverbank’s swaying hush of ash and willow.
The moon flung pearls against the night’s dark, silken slip. A moonglade danced in their wake, hundreds of silvered orbs rioting on roiled waters, giddy with the barge’s passage. Their destination loomed, high along the moonlit bank, in the flicker of a flambeaux-lit garden, the golden falsehood of the Neo-Classically styled Tristam Hall stood high and proud, as she did--waiting.
Five years anticipation.
Dulcie donned her mask, a temporary dousing of the light--feathers tickling cheek and temple in the breeze. A wise bird, the owl. She felt anything but. How wise is it, after all, to wait so long for a stranger met but a dozen times--to realize they were meant to be together? And yet she did, content in her anticipation--true love worthy of such pause.
Eyes closed, she savor moonlight’s azure and gold swim against eyelid’s veil, then blinked, dispersing the jewel-like glow. The Thames stank less here than in London. Glad to be gone from coal smoke and fog, to drink in autumn’s country perfume of fire and fallen leaves, she would have been equally glad to distance herself from Lydia’s incessant chatter. Not that she usually mind Lydia’s runaway tongue. Her friend had a gift for conversation. Dulcie was better with comfortable silences, a combined strength of their friendship. Tonight Lydia focused on the topic Dulcie assiduously avoided--marriage.
Their barge bumped the Hall’s private pier, knocked them unsteady, lamps swaying, flaring, as shaken as Dulcie’s resolve. Lydia, like the drip of water against stone, continued, “You are fast approaching twenty, my friend, and Stapleton a fine fellow.”
Dulcie had heard it all before. Stapleton was not the first young man Lydia had determined she must wed. Dulcie flung back her head, drinking in the night’s wine-sweet chill, refusing to feel like an old maid.
“A wonderful fellow, barring the unfortunate limp.” Commander Oswald leapt to the pier and extended his falconer’s glove. “The night terrors no longer trouble him so desperately, do they?”
The golden haze about Lydia’s head stirred like an unpleasant memory. Her falcon-faced mask loomed brown and bird-like against the moon’s pock-marked gleam. “Everyone has bad dreams now and then.” Costume dreamlike, she clutched feathered shawl close, belled jesses jingling. “His unfortunate bout with Jossamy pirates in no other way incapacitates him. Can you not find it within yourself to marry him?”
Can you not allow me to find for myself the man I would marry! Dulcie wish to shout.
Moonlight stopped
Her gaze rose from the sparkling crystal as it swayed.
Her eyes met his. The bauble gave a little jerk.
Roger made no attempt to avoid her. He hid in a head bandage for the occasion. He leaned against a crutch. She could not know him. His own mother would not have known him, had she been alive to see him.
And yet, Dulcie Selwyn locked eyes with him on more than one occasion and as she left, breezed past, saying, “Good day, Monsieur Gargoyle. I see you are well.”
His jaw would have dropped had the bandages allowed. How did she recognize him with his head bound like an Egyptian mummy’s? He hobbled after her, heart thumping wildly, ready to demand an explanation. How could she penetrate such a perfect disguise?
Her father stood waiting. He had no opportunity to ask. But neither could he wait patiently for an answer to the mystery. So, he shadowed her. And opportunity presented itself by way of a ball, the perfect ball for a man in his line of work--it was a masquerade.
Chapter Thirteen
October 31, 1816
Tristam Hall, On the Thames
Light spoke to Dulcie, drew her, defined her. Elusive, pervasive, untouchable, it whispered to mind and soul, promising mysteries, rendering the world magical and new. A calming light, the night’s, soothing as water’s rush against the barge’s hull, perfect counterpoint to the riverbank’s swaying hush of ash and willow.
The moon flung pearls against the night’s dark, silken slip. A moonglade danced in their wake, hundreds of silvered orbs rioting on roiled waters, giddy with the barge’s passage. Their destination loomed, high along the moonlit bank, in the flicker of a flambeaux-lit garden, the golden falsehood of the Neo-Classically styled Tristam Hall stood high and proud, as she did--waiting.
Five years anticipation.
Dulcie donned her mask, a temporary dousing of the light--feathers tickling cheek and temple in the breeze. A wise bird, the owl. She felt anything but. How wise is it, after all, to wait so long for a stranger met but a dozen times--to realize they were meant to be together? And yet she did, content in her anticipation--true love worthy of such pause.
Eyes closed, she savor moonlight’s azure and gold swim against eyelid’s veil, then blinked, dispersing the jewel-like glow. The Thames stank less here than in London. Glad to be gone from coal smoke and fog, to drink in autumn’s country perfume of fire and fallen leaves, she would have been equally glad to distance herself from Lydia’s incessant chatter. Not that she usually mind Lydia’s runaway tongue. Her friend had a gift for conversation. Dulcie was better with comfortable silences, a combined strength of their friendship. Tonight Lydia focused on the topic Dulcie assiduously avoided--marriage.
Their barge bumped the Hall’s private pier, knocked them unsteady, lamps swaying, flaring, as shaken as Dulcie’s resolve. Lydia, like the drip of water against stone, continued, “You are fast approaching twenty, my friend, and Stapleton a fine fellow.”
Dulcie had heard it all before. Stapleton was not the first young man Lydia had determined she must wed. Dulcie flung back her head, drinking in the night’s wine-sweet chill, refusing to feel like an old maid.
“A wonderful fellow, barring the unfortunate limp.” Commander Oswald leapt to the pier and extended his falconer’s glove. “The night terrors no longer trouble him so desperately, do they?”
The golden haze about Lydia’s head stirred like an unpleasant memory. Her falcon-faced mask loomed brown and bird-like against the moon’s pock-marked gleam. “Everyone has bad dreams now and then.” Costume dreamlike, she clutched feathered shawl close, belled jesses jingling. “His unfortunate bout with Jossamy pirates in no other way incapacitates him. Can you not find it within yourself to marry him?”
Can you not allow me to find for myself the man I would marry! Dulcie wish to shout.
Moonlight stopped
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