It was going to be a harsh winter. Though it was only late October, the night was cold, and the nip in the air threatened snow within the next few days. Even the crackling fires in the vast fireplaces of this English country home could not warm him as he stood on the landing, looking down on the merrymakers in the ballroom below.
The house belonged to the Marquis of Standon, a notorious rake who had recently buried his third wife. The guests were a motley mix of what among the Sassenach passed for gentlemen and their fashionable impures, and the merrymaking was very merry indeed. In fact, Connor had just been treated to the edifying sight of one slightly inebriated young woman stripping to the altogether while dancing on a marble-topped table to the tune of raucous cheers. His lip curled as he sought out the young woman, who was now being ushered, naked and giggling, from the ballroom by the gentleman who would enjoy her favors that night. It was the last night of a week-long house party, and Connor ventured to guess that, over its duration, the young woman had enjoyed at least as many partners as there were days in the week. It was not what even English society would term a select gathering.
The women-he could not term them ladies-who remained were outlandishly clad. It was a masquerade ball, and the costumes of most of the females were remarkable for what they were not hiding. Some of them had necklines cut so low and skirts hiked so high that there wasn't much to imagine between them. Others wore diaphanous gowns that clung to them faithfully. In their hair, some sported towering headdresses, others bobbing ostrich plumes, while still others had opted for wigs. A few were merely powdered and patched in the prevailing fashion. The gentlemen were more sedate, for the most part contenting themseLves with enveloping dominoes in various jewel tones and black in lieu of costumes. Here and there a dandy sported something more elaborate, like the giggling Julius Caesar in the corner, but their rarity made them stand out. All wore masks.
Which was why Connor had chosen this particular house on this particular night. Entry had been ridiculously easy. In his domino and mask, he looked no different from any of the other male guests. He had been in the house for nearly an hour, and he ventured to suppose that he had made intimate acquaintance with the jewelry of nearly every female present, to say nothing of the lovely set of rubies his unwitting host had inherited from the estate of his wealthy, recently departed wife, which had been carelessly left in her jewel case that still sat out on her dressing table. Those rubies had been his object, the rest mere gravy. The purloined jewels were waiting in a small bag he had dropped from an upper window moments earlier. He was now on his way to retrieve them, before quitting the premises. A small smile lurked at the corners of his mouth as he considered the approximate value of his haul. All in all, when one weighed return versus risk, robbing houses certainly beat robbing coaches.
He was turning away, ready to descend the stairs, when his eye was caught by a young woman below. What it was about her that attracted his attention he did not know. Unlike most of the other females, she was clad in a black domino much like the one he was wearing. The towering plumed headdress she wore was black as well, and dangled beads of jet. Her elaborate cat's-eye mask was of gold satin. She was unsmiling, dancing with a tall, thin gentleman also successfully disguised. Then he realized that it was something in her carriage that had caught his eye. Her lithe gracefulness reminded him of Caitlyn. His eyes fol- lowed her even as his lips tightened. One hand went automatically to massage his damaged thigh. An arrow of pain lodged in his heart.
It had been a year now, almost to the day, since he'd lost her. He still caught himself doing double takes at black-haired young women, thinking that this one or that one was, miraculously, her. Which would be more of a miracle than even God could provide: Caitlyn was dead, shot from the saddle that nightmarish night. As befitted a highwayman, she'd been buried in lime within the week without benefit of word or prayer, so he had not even a grave to grieve over. Though that did not stop him from grieving.
He had not told her he loved her, and that was part of the poison that ate at his heart. He had not even known it himself until Liam had told him that she was dead. He'd been disbelieving at first, shouting and arguing with his brother. When he'd finally been convinced, for the first and only time in his life he'd wept in his brother's arms. As his leg healed as much as it was going to and his physical pain lessened, he'd thought the pain in his heart and soul would lessen as well. He'd been wrong. Even after nearly a year, any reminder of Caitlyn was more hurtful than his leg had ever been. Her loss was an open wound that refused to heal.
After he was up and about again, he'd tried to drown his grief in drink. That hadn't worked. When he was drunk her shade took on substance and form so real that it made the ache that remained when he was sober just that much more painful, as if he had lost her all over again. Finally he had realized that the most potent Irish whiskey in the world would not bring her back, and he had stopped drinking altogether. Instead he had packed up his brothers and Mickeen, left a caretaker behind at Donoughmore, and taken himself and his family out of Ireland. If he'd thought that would lessen the constant reminders he'd had of her, he'd been right. But the move had not eased his pain.
He'd lost Caitlyn. He did not want to lose any of the remaining members of his family. He'd discovered that he did not deal well with loss, and supposed that it came from the deaths of both his parents when he was very young. He'd felt very small and alone when they'd come to tell him about his mother, and when Mickeen had broken the news of his father's death, he'd felt just as lost, just as frightened. That was how he'd felt after Caitlyn's death as well, how he still felt now whenever be fell into a melancholy that he could not shake: like a child abandoned in the dark. He, Connor d'Arcy, Lord Earl of Iveagh, also known as the Dark Horseman, unfaltering paterfamilias, respected master of Donoughmore, had sometimes, in those first dark days after her death, cried in the wee hours of the night like a bairn. It was a secret that shamed him, and that along with fear for his brothers had driven him out of Donoughmore.
The Dark Horseman had died with Caitlyn. He no longer had the heart to ride, and a very real fear for his brothers' lives made it imperative that they not be allowed to take his place. He'd brought them with him to England, settling Cormac and Rory in at Oxford to get a long-delayed education, much to their disgust, although in deference to what they perceived as his grief-stricken state they had not protested overmuch. Liam had obstinately refused to leave him and was now ensconced in the London town house they shared. A faint shadow of a smile touched Connor's mouth as he thought about Liam. Quite the man about town had Liam become, though he and Mickeen, who had remained with him as well, acting as his valet of all things, watched over Connor like hens with one chick between them. As months had passed, and to outward appearances his grief had lessened, they had ceased to fret over him every time they set eyes on him, and now confined their searching looks to once or twice a week.
Three months ago, Father Patrick had sent word to him of tenants, a family of nine with a father dying of the lung sickness, on the verge of being evicted from Ballymara because they had no money for rent. There were many such, and Connor knew that their plight was more desperate than ever because the Dark Horseman rode no more. So he had taken up his present form of supplying them and himself with funds, and found that, when he was working at least, the sharp edge of his grief was temporarily dulled. Unless, like tonight, he came across something or someone that reminded him of Caitlyn. Then the aching pain would take up residence in his heart again.
Watching the young woman twirl about the dance floor below, Connor's hands tightened over the polished walnut railing until his knuckles turned white. She was dancing; Caitlyn had never learned to dance. In the brief glimpses he was afforded of her gown as the domino parted, he saw that it was of lace-trimmed silk, very costly. Caitlyn had never possessed a gown like that, never expressed any interest in possessing one. But the color of the skirt was the exact kerry blue of her eyes.
Of course, from this distance he could not see the young woman's eyes. They would be brown, or hazel, or maybe even, if she was a ravishing beauty, green. Up close, they would not be kerry blue, set beneath slanting black brows and fringed with lashes so thick they could be used as brooms. Her nose would not be slender and elegant; her lips would not part to show small, dazzlingly white teeth when she smiled. Her hair would not be a silky black cloud that fell past her waist, and her waist would not be small enough so that he could span it with his hands. In short, if he got closer he would see at once that she could not be Caitlyn.
But beneath her mask he could see her mouth, and it was full and red as Caitlyn's had been. Her jaw was fragile yet strong. And her skin was as white as smooth new cream.
Turning, he saw a footman passing behind him. Crooking a finger, he summoned the man to his side.
"Who is that?" he croaked, pointing. He knew it was folly, knew he was being foolish past permission, but he could not help himself. He had to know who she was- and was not.
"The lady in the domino? I don't know, sir. She came with one of the guests."
Connor's eyes closed for just an instant as the footman started to move away. Then he stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Do you know who she's with? What room she's been given?"
"No, sir. But if you wish, I'll find out."
"Please do."
The footman bowed and disappeared. Connor was left to watch the young woman below. She was still dancing, though with a different partner, and she held herself stiffly as if she did not like his touch. Her lips were curved up in a small, polite smile. That smile riveted him. It recalled Caitlyn so vividly that his heart shook. It was all he could do not to race down the stairs, shoulder his way through the cavorting crowd, and rip that mask from her face. To do so would call too much attention to himself, of course. It might even lead to his arrest.
But his heart urged him to it.
"Pardon, sir, but none of the staff is acquainted with the lady's name. However, I can show you where her chamber is located, if you wish."
"Yes. I do wish it."
Feeling dazed, Connor followed the footman, who led him to a door along a long corridor on the second floor of the east wing.
"Would you like to get inside, sir?" From the footman's smirk, Connor realized that the man thought he was enamored with the mystery lady and wished to try his luck with her when she returned to her chamber. Of course, he had to remind himself that the females below were all Cyprians, up for sale to the highest bidder. The high-flyer who bore such a heart-stopping resemblance to Caitlyn was naught but a common whore.
Connor inclined his head. With a flourish, the footman produced a key and unlocked the door. Connor pressed a note into the man's hand and entered, pocketing the key. Then, bethinking himself of something, he turned back.
"Say naught of this," he warned in a voice that was far from his normal one. The footman inclined his head and took himself off. Connor closed and locked the door, pulled off his mask, then prowled the room. There was nothing in it of Caitlyn. The clothes in the wardrobe were of the finest material and most fashionable cut. The brush and comb on the dressing table were of chased silver. There were boxes of powder, a tin of rouge. There was even a crystal flacon of scent. Caitlyn had never worn scent.
This young woman was not Caitlyn. He knew she was not. She could not be. He had to learn to accept the unalterable fact that Caitlyn was dead. He should take himself off now, before the thefts were discovered, before his bag of jewels was found in the shrubbery beneath the window, before he himself was exposed. He knew he should, but still he stayed. He was in the grip of an obsession so strong there was no fighting it.
Connor waited for what seemed like hours. Occasionally he heard high-pitched laughter accompanied by lower- pitched murmurs in the hall outside as the female guests retired to their rooms with bed partners in tow. It occurred to him to wonder what he would do if the object of his inquiry was accompanied by a male. Kill him, came the immediate savage thought, and again he had to remind himself that this female was not Caitlyn. If she was accompanied, he would merely ascertain her identity by whatever ruse was necessary and take himself off.
In any event, when she returned to her room she was alone. It was nearer dawn than midnight, and she unlocked the door and stole inside as if she feared being observed. Once inside, she turned the key in the lock and leaned against the panel in a silent posture of relief. She still wore her costume. At close range, the black silk domino topped by that outrageous plumed and beaded headdress and the cat's-eye mask made her look like some rare exotic bird. Beneath the disguise, her human identity was still impossible to determine. Connor stared, his hands tightening over the arms of his chair.
The bedchamber was lit only by the fire in the hearth, and it had burned low. It cast but a small amount of light, so he was deep in shadow as he sat in the room's only small chair. She carried with her a candle, which she used to light the taper on her dressing table before she blew out the one in her hand and laid it aside. Then, without becoming aware of his presence, she began to undress.
She stood by the bed with its sumptuous gold satin coverlet, her back to him, not more than six feet from where he sat. First she took off her domino, revealing the expensive dress in all its glory. Then she lifted off her headdress, shaking her head so that a mass of black hair tumbled down her back in a silken tangle that reached past her waist. Connor swallowed, watching with growing shock. He leaned forward, ceasing to breathe. As she removed her mask and placed it on the bed, he was sure the very blood had stopped coursing through his veins.
He still could not see her face. Her back was to him as she twisted both hands behind her and tried to work the hooks on the back of her dress. She managed one, then the next. The third one eluded her. Finally, out of patience, she yanked at it, tearing the delicate material. The soft curse that followed the faint ripping sound stilled his heart.
"By the blessed virgin," he breathed, staring transfixed at her slender back.
She must have heard him, though he spoke scarcely louder than a breath, because she whirled about. To his stupefaction, Connor found himself staring into the delicately powdered and painted face of his lost love.