Page 6 of Twice Upon a Midnight

Ella could feel the embarrassment and fury radiating from them.Good, because Ella herself could barely stand the anguish constricting her chest as their nasty words kept circling inside her head. They had no idea how awful it was for her to leave France and her friends there, those people who understood her and loved her for herself, not for her father’s rank or wealth—those people from all levels of society who admired her because of her intellect and personality rather than her gowns, who knew she wasn’t some spoiled society daughter who wanted nothing more than to marry a peer and have lots of little lords and ladies, whom she could trust to be true friends without false pretense.

Who wouldn’t behave like these two misses had…coldly polite to her face but spreading such horrible rumors behind her back.

Ella had thought the evening had been going so well, too. Oh, she knew her return to society wouldn’t be immediate, that it would take both time and effort. But she’d hoped to make one or two friends from the crush of guests tonight, to end the isolation and loneliness that had smothered her since her return to London. She’d clung to that hope.

Until now.

The Princess. She wanted to slap them both!

Instead she forced a laugh despite the sharp stinging in her eyes and nose. “But I’m so glad you were able to attend my party. After all, not all the gentlemen here will be allowed to call on me.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice as if sharing a secret, but the truth was she feared her voice might break with emotion if she attempted to speak any louder. “I’m certain there will be plenty of gentlemen I don’t want who will be left over for you two.” She gave another laugh, this one filled with the desolation and anguish that consumed her. “Enjoy the ball!”

She turned on her heel and sauntered away as casually as possible even though what she wanted to do was run. Justrun—to fly through the house and out into the darkness, not to return until every last guest was gone. Instead, aware of the two misses’ eyes on her, she glided down the hall toward the library as if she hadn’t a care in the world, crossed the room, and slipped out through the French doors leading into the garden, where the shadows welcomed her.

CHAPTER FOUR

S

penser tossed back the last of the Madeira in his glass and once again let his gaze wander around the crowded salon.

He wasn’t impressed.

Oh, the ball was spectacle on a grand scale, he had to admit. Doves cooed in gilded cages suspended from the ceiling, long drapes of white silk hung from the walls, and dozens upon dozens of roses decorated every flat surface in every room. The scent of beeswax candles sweetened the air, and torches lit pathways stretching away from the rear terrace into the quiet shadows of the sunken garden. There was even ivy curling up the main stairs’ banister to the floors above and a harpist perched on the first-floor landing, although no one could hear her playing over the din of the mulling crowd whose glasses of champagne, port, and wine were constantly being refilled by footmen.

He had to give the Duke and Duchess of Durham credit for creating an event that would be the talk of this season and most likely several more to come. But the whole party struck him as absurd.

He hated to admit that Martin had been right about wasting his time. If this was how his stepfather and half brother liked to spend their evenings, then he wanted no part of it. His nights would be put to better use making inroads with the merchant class. Where he belonged.

A footman held out his tray toward him. “Another glass of wine, my lord?”

My lord.Spenser gave a grim smile. “No, thank you.” He placed his empty glass onto the tray. “I’m done for the evening.”

He had made his point to society by attending tonight—or perhaps he’d made it to himself, since none of them would ever know he was here. He didn’t belong in this world any more than he belonged among day workers and manual laborers.

It was time to leave.

But as he turned toward the door, he froze. In the entrance hall stood his half brother Simon, arguing heatedly with the master of ceremonies who was blocking his way into the party and pointing angrily at his invitation.

Spenser didn’t have to be any closer to know what the two men were arguing about or that he was the cause of it. After all, the Marquess of Walmesley had already arrived at the party and been announced less than an hour earlier. Even a busy master of ceremonies would be able to remember that.

The butler pointed at the bowl of collected invitations as proof that Simon couldn’t possibly be the marquess—his invitation already lay in the arrivals’ pile.

It wasdefinitelytime to leave.

Spenser casually slipped away toward the open French doors leading out onto the rear terrace before the butler could remember which man in the crowd had claimed to be the marquess…or figure out how the marquess could defy physics by being two men at once.

He strode across the terrace as quickly as he dared without calling attention to himself, then hurried down the steps into the garden. The oil lamps lighting the terrace gave way to torches illuminating the winding garden paths, only for even those to run out when he reached the far wall separating the garden from the park. He plunged into darkness so black he could barely see his hand in front of his face.

There was no way back through the house without being noticed. He’d have to wander out into the park, then take the long way around to the street where he—

Oomph!

The air was punched from his chest as he collided with another guest in the black shadows. Instinctively, he reached out to steady the poor chap, a ready apology on his tongue. But in the darkness, his hand touched something soft and smooth—satin.A gown. Not a chap at all.

He froze and blinked.

So did the woman he’d run into. His gaze adjusted to the darkness, and soon, he was able to see wide eyes staring at him from behind a demi-mask, full lips parted in surprise, and a delicately oval face upturned toward him.

A verybeautifulface.