Surveying the ballroom, Ben found himself unable to believe he was actually there. Dressed in the finest evening wear, cravat tight around his neck and jacket tailored to precision across his broad shoulders, the son of a land steward was attending one of the most exclusive balls in London.
‘I’m not sure these masks conceal our identities,’ George Fitzgerald said from his position beside him.
Ben shrugged. ‘I’m not sure they’re meant to.’
They were standing at the perimeter of the Scotsworths’ ballroom for what Ben had been informed was an annual masquerade ball. The women were dressed in flamboyant outfits and their masks were nearly all elaborately decorated. Many of the men had gone for a more subtle and less time-consuming approach of wearing their normal evening jackets and adding simple black or single-coloured masks that covered their eyes. Ben’s was black, but did have a rather annoying feather protruding from one edge that every so often would flop in his face and tickle his forehead.
‘Why are we here?’ Fitzgerald asked shrewdly.
Since arriving in London three weeks ago they’d attended a number of balls and soirées, even once braving the unknown world of the opera, but tonight was the first night Ben had actually insisted they accept an invitation.
‘To enjoy the magic of a masquerade ball,’ Ben said with a straight face.
Fitzgerald laughed, clapped his friend on the shoulders and shook his head. ‘Keep your secrets for now, Crawford—one day I’ll find out what you’ve been up to these last few weeks.’
Ben grinned, but it was almost entirely forced. He hoped no one would find out quite how pathetic he’d been in the weeks since their arrival in London. When Sam Robertson, the third member of their little group, had suggested the trip back to their homeland from Australia, Ben had quickly agreed. He had told his friends that he wanted to see his family again, at least what was left of it. Eighteen years ago, he’d left his father and younger brother behind in a sleepy Essex village. For four years he hadn’t heard a word from them—the post never arrived for prisoners held on the hulk ships on the Thames or during the eight-month voyage to Australia. Only once he was working as a convict worker for the late Mr Fitzgerald the elder did he receive a tattered and torn envelope.
His father had written every month and must have paid considerable sums of money to ensure his communications were loaded on to the ships heading for Australia. Ben had no doubt most of these letters had never left England and could be found disintegrating at the bottom of the Thames. But one had got through—one conscientious and kind pensioner guard had taken Ben’s father’s money and promised to do his best to place the letter in Ben’s hand and, nearly a year later, he did just that.
Ever since Ben had kept in contact with his father from the other side of the world. Of course, he was keen to return to Essex and see the old man again and would do so as soon as his father returned from his poorly timed trip to Yorkshire. His father was an estate manager and as such at the whim of the Earl he worked for, but soon he would be back home in Essex and Ben would see him for the first time since the age of twelve. However, the other reason for his agreeing to the trip to England he wasn’t even sure would appear tonight. For three weeks, he’d haunted the ballrooms of London, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl he’d left behind all those years ago.
Francesca. She was a woman now, of course. A woman who’d probably hadn’t thought of him much at all these last eighteen years. When he’d landed in England he’d made some discreet enquiries and found she’d been married and recently widowed. He was beginning to understand those in mourning didn’t socialise as much as the rest of the lords and ladies and had started to despair of ever setting eyes on her, but tonight he’d heard a rumour Francesca would be in attendance to chaperon her younger sister.
So here he was, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of the woman who probably didn’t even remember him.
He surveyed the ballroom again and for an instant it felt as though his heart stopped in his chest. There she was, unmistakable despite the mask and the eighteen years since he’d last seen her. Dressed in muted greys and violets, colours he was informed signalled the period of half-mourning, Lady Francesca Somersham still cut a striking figure. She was older than most of the debutantes, but having been married and widowed in the years since Ben had last seen her that was hardly surprising. Despite being almost thirty she still turned heads and Ben saw two gentlemen start in her direction as soon as they noticed her entrance into the ballroom.
This was what he’d been waiting for the past three weeks, but now she was here in the same room as him he was unsure of what he wanted next.
‘Enough,’ he murmured to himself. He wasn’t the lowly son of a steward any more. Over the years since he’d finished his sentence Ben had worked hard and taken risks, most of which had paid off, meaning he was now a very successful Australian landowner. There was no need to skulk about watching from a distance. Today he would talk to the woman he had been dreaming about for the past eighteen years despite his best efforts to forget her.
Quickly, he weaved through the crowds, ignoring the appraising looks from the masked debutantes. Fitzgerald was correct, these flimsy masks didn’t do much to conceal the face, but he was largely unknown and as such was a man of interest.
‘Mr Crawford,’ a pretty young woman murmured in his ear as he moved past her. ‘We really must find some time to spend together.’
Ben grimaced, but quickly turned it into a smile. Since arriving in London he had made the acquaintance of a number of women, mostly widows or those with husbands happy to turn a blind eye. He’d danced with them, talked to them, but never anything more despite their sometimes quite obvious offering of themselves. Ben might have a reputation as a man the ladies could not resist, but nothing was going to jeopardise his getting close to Lady Somersham, especially not a meaningless fling.
‘I await that moment with anticipation,’ he said, planting a fleeting kiss on the young lady’s hand, but moving on quickly, using the press of people to his advantage and weaving a path away from Mrs Templeton’s inviting eyes.
Suddenly she was in front of him and for a moment Ben felt the breath being sucked out of his lungs. She was beautiful. Gone was the gangly-legged, freckle-nosed girl he’d played with throughout his childhood and in her place was a woman of poise and grace. Ben took a moment to study her hair, sleek and tamed into a complicated bun at the back of her head. When they were children Francesca’s hair had always been an uncontrollable mess, frizzy and wild and more often than not flying behind her as she did something dangerous at great speed. He felt a sharp stab of desire deep inside him and fought to keep himself under control.
‘Lady Somersham,’ Ben said, pausing a couple of feet in front of her and bowing formally. He might have been brought up the son of a steward, but he was a great imitator and just a couple of days in London society had led to him being able to replicate the gestures and customs perfectly.
Francesca