‘Did you love your late husband very much?’
She thought of his indifference to her, his belittling. His downright contempt as the years went on and she didn’t produce the heir he was so eager for.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Then why the sadness?’
Looking up again, she wondered why she felt so easy in his company. He was a stranger, a man too confident and self-assured for his own good, a man she should feel wary around, but she didn’t. Instead she felt as though she wanted to spill her deepest, darkest secrets.
‘Surely a woman like you has everything?’ he pressed. ‘Wealth, family, servants to do your every bidding.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Francesca said. It had been a long time since either her late husband or her family had been wealthy. All the money had been squandered in failed investments and business ventures years ago. Living back at her parents’ house had been depressing after being mistress of her own household, but it was made even worse when she’d explored the empty rooms which had once been filled with luxurious items of furniture, when she’d seen all the servants except the cook and two maids had been dismissed.
‘So you’re sad because your family is not as wealthy as it once was?’ he asked.
Francesca laughed. If only it were that simple. She wouldn’t mind the lack of money, not if she had some say in her life to come. Seven years she’d endured her first marriage. It had been loveless and, although Lord Somersham had never been violent towards her over the years, his resentment had grown as she failed month after month to get pregnant. He’d belittled her, bullied her, made her hate him more with each passing day. She doubted her next marriage would be any better.
‘I don’t want money,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t care about fine dresses or jewels. I don’t even need a lady’s maid to dress my hair and press my clothes.’
‘What do you want?’ he asked the question quietly, turning his masked face towards hers.
‘I want to be happy. To not be forced into another awful marriage, to have the freedom to choose who I spend my time with and how.’
‘You’re a widow, surely you have some degree of choice in the matter.’
‘No.’ She didn’t, not if she wanted to save her family from complete ruin. She didn’t want to spill all the sordid family secrets, no one needed to know that her father owed various lenders debts the size of a small country.
The man next to her looked pensive, as if some great debate was raging inside him.
‘I should be getting back,’ she said.
‘No.’ He caught her hand, holding it softly. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have pried.’
‘Will you remove your mask?’ she asked, peering up at him.
‘I don’t think you really want me to.’
‘Of course I do, I feel as though I know you...’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to have this one mystery, this one little bit of magic?’ He looked down at her with dark eyes and she had the overwhelming urge to ask him to hold her. She thought there might be something rather comforting about having those strong arms wrapped around her.
He was still holding her hand, she realised, and his thumb was tracing lazy circles across the satin of her glove. She wondered if he could feel the places the material had thinned and almost frayed—it had been a very long time since she’d had money to spend on new clothes.
‘Can you hear the music?’ he asked.
With her head tilted a little to one side she listened. Coming from the open doors of the ballroom on the other side of the house were the first soft notes of a waltz.
‘Lady Somersham, will you grant me this dance?’
Placing her hand in his, she felt her body tremble as he pulled her in closer and began to dance. He was a natural, guiding her expertly around the small space with just the pressure of his hand in the small of her back. As the music swelled Francesca felt her worries begin to melt away until it was just her, her mysterious companion and the waltz.
After a minute she glanced up at him and found him gazing down at her. Again she felt that bubble of recognition, this time deeper inside. She felt at ease with this man, she realised, as if they had been lifelong friends.
‘I feel as though I know you, Ben,’ she said, seeing the easy way he smiled and wondering if she was being foolish. Surely there was no way he could be the Ben of her childhood, the boy she had loved and lost all those years ago. He’d been transported to Australia, all because of her father’s actions, and he probably hadn’t even survived, let alone made his way back here eighteen years later.
He spun her, pulling her in closer at the same time, and for a moment they were chest to chest. She could feel his heart beating through his jacket. And then the music moved on, he relaxed his grip and they were a more decorous few inches apart again.
‘Perhaps you do,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps I just remind you of someone.’
‘Ben...’ she said quietly, all the time looking up into his eyes for some sort of confirmation.
He smiled at her, but his expression gave nothing else away and she sighed. She was probably just being fanciful. For so many years she’d longed to see her friend again, longed to hear that he’d survived, that he’d thrived despite what her father had done to him.
As the music slowed Francesca wished this moment could last for ever. While she was dancing there was no Lord Huntley pushing for marriage, no debts, no family falling apart under the strain. It was just her, the strong arms around her waist and the music. Soon it would be back to reality, back to everything she wished to escape.
‘Thank you, Lady Somersham,’ her companion said, bowing and placing a kiss on her gloved hand. ‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance tonight.’
It was over. The fantasy was shattering and soon it would be as if this moment had been nothing but a dream.
‘Your mask?’ she asked, already knowing he would refuse.
He hesitated and she saw the internal debate raging as a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. ‘Best not. Best to have one little mystery in life,’ he said.
She didn’t protest. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was better not knowing who he was, that way she could make up her own story.
He raised his hand as if he was going to stroke her cheek, but his fingers paused less than an inch from her face. Instead he smiled sadly.
‘Goodbye, Frannie,’ he said and then he was gone.
Francesca felt the air being sucked from her lungs as her whole world tilted. Frannie—only one person had ever called her that.
‘Ben,’ she called out, but already he had gone. Disappeared into the darkness like a phantom.
‘Why the long face?’ Sam Robertson asked as he came and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs in Lady Winston’s drawing room alongside Ben and George Fitzgerald. Lady Winston was Fitzgerald’s aunt and their hostess for their time in London. She’d been kind to them, accepting Ben and Sam as if they were her relatives alongside Fitzgerald.
Up until recently Ben had been staying at her town house alongside his two friends, but he’d craved a little privacy to conduct his affairs and had rented a set of rooms nearby. He did, however, drop in most days for at least one meal, or to partake in the particularly delicious mid-afternoon snack Lady Winston insisted on serving. The platter of cakes, scones and biscuits was enough to keep