The Siren Page 9

  Unable to tell anyone who she is for fear of losing her tongue, Delphi must find a way to survive in her new world and to reclaim her Prince. But how is she to do that when she is stuck in the middle of nowhere with only a faded, yellow dress on her back as she sells lavender at market for a curmudgeonly old bat named Minnie?

  It certainly doesn’t help that an irritatingly handsome Farm Boy is proving to be an attractive but unwanted distraction!

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  Felicity Harper’s Enchanting Tales

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  Masquerade

  “The Contessa!”

  At the announcement, all eyes turned to the Grand Staircase.

  “Who is she?”

  “The Contessa of where exactly?”

  “Good Lord! What on earth is she wearing?”

  Even for a masquerade ball, the Contessa’s attire might be considered nothing short of scandalous. Her checkered ruby and cream Harlequin costume nipped in at the waist and flared provocatively over her bottom, which was itself indecently covered by little more than a pair of snug breeches. It was beyond the pale. For any Lady to flout the rules of decorum and delicacy in such a manner was unacceptable, no matter the situation. Fans fluttered at over-heated faces as the young lady under discussion sauntered by. Bold as brass. Such behaviour must not go unpunished.

  “Show her your backs, Ladies!”

  As the Ladies performed their devastating cut direct, Astrid did her best not to chuckle. She sailed through the scandalised throng, relishing the furore she left in her wake. It was terribly hard to give a jot when one was being a Contessa, especially a Contessa bedecked so outrageously. Her favourite part of the whole ensemble was the pair of ruby-red, crystal-encrusted slippers that adorned her feet. They were the most deliciously unacceptable slippers she had ever laid eyes on.

  “Who does she think she is?”

  The Contessa, actually, you snooty old bat, Astrid thought but dared not say. There were limits, after all, to what even a Contessa could get away with.

  The sea of gaily dressed revellers parted as Astrid passed through. She had a clear view of Roman as she approached. The conversation he had been having halted abruptly when he saw her. Astrid admitted to a flicker of unease as his face went from a frown, to a scowl. Was it possible he had recognised her after all? Her hand went to her mask to check it still covered all but her mouth. Silly Astrid, she chided herself; of course he doesn’t recognise you. Isn’t that why you are here?

  Roman’s face abruptly relaxed into a smile and Astrid’s courage returned.

  He looked as handsome as ever in a dark blue tail coat and breeches. She wasn’t surprised to see he had eschewed wearing a costume. In fact, she would have been astounded had he worn one. Not for him the gaudy costume of a pirate or - heaven forbid! - a witch. A lock of hair had fallen boyishly across his forehead and Astrid felt the usual urge to brush it back. Normally, his sullen look would have been enough to stay her hand but, tonight, things would be different - for she was the Contessa!

  Astrid accepted Roman’s outstretched hand. She allowed him the liberty of raising it to his lips. He was the Prince after all.

  “Will you do me the honour of the next dance, Contessa?”

  She nodded regally and he led her through the rapidly parting crowds to the dance floor where they took their places in the quadrille. Astrid could feel Roman’s eyes on her as she joined the ladies on their side of the floor. She willed her face not to betray her.

  As the musicians began to play, the men faced the ladies and bowed. Astrid’s silly heart increased its beat as the couples met in the middle.

  “Am I to know your name, my Lady?” the Prince asked her and Astrid, in defiance of her heart, gave him a serene smile before being swept away by the dance.

  They went first back and then away, circling left then right, as they completed the rounds - and, all the while, she felt his eyes upon her.

  They met back in the middle and the Prince leaned forward. “Your name, my Lady?” he asked again.

  “Am I not at liberty to keep such information to myself, your Highness?” She turned a circle with the rest of the ladies and ended up at his side. “After all, what is a masquerade ball without a little mystery?”

  She saw his jaw set with frustration and held her smile in check. It felt wonderful to thwart him for a change. She fully intended to make the most of it.

  Astrid couldn’t fail to notice the looks they were receiving from the other dancers. Nor did she miss how they all kept one ear on the music and the other on the Prince and his intriguing partner. No doubt high society would feed off the tales of this ball for weeks to come.

  “Perhaps we are already known to one another?.”

  “Would that we were, Your Majesty, but, alas, I am afraid not.”

  On the final pass, the couples clasped hands. Astrid noted with satisfaction how Roman held on to her a second or two longer than strictly necessary. The dance ended and, as the music died away, the Prince took her arm.

  “Come with me, Contessa.”

  “Contessa!” A young interloper called. “My Lady - might I beg this dance?”

  “Your Highness,” Astrid said, pulling her arm free, “a lady should not constrain herself to dancing with but one gentlemen.” She dipped a curtsy to a young who was garbed in Highwayman’s attire. “I would be honoured, Sir,” she replied, sparing the Prince barely a glance as she disappeared with her new admirer.

  The Prince, it seemed, was unusually eager to participate in another set. His hastily chosen partner was looking at him with incredulity and wonder. Little surprise, Astrid thought gleefully. The dear woman looked eighty if she were a day. Throughout the dance, Astrid and her Highwayman kept up a steady stream of flirtation and laughter. It was no effort on her part as the gentleman was both handsome and entertaining. It amused her, too, that Prince Roman was so obviously eavesdropping on their conversation even as he helped his elderly dowager through the moves.

  The last notes of the string quartet’s excellent playing were still reverberating in the air as a gaggle of eager young men encircled Astrid, all begging for the next dance. Neither the excited attentions of the young bucks nor the furious glares of the ladies, young and old, mattered to Astrid. The only reaction she noted was that of Prince Roman who was staring at her in furious contemplation. Upon hearing the first strains of the waltz, he barged through her devotees and snatched her into his arms.

  “My Lady?” He didn’t wait for her to accept before swinging her away from her admirers. Gliding across the floor in his arms, Astrid knew that it had been worth all the effort. The subterfuge: the lying; the worry of being caught - it had been worth it all just for this moment.

  Prince Roman pulled her closer. “Your charade does you justice, my Lady.”

  Now read on!

  r />   Felicity Harper, The Siren