Marquis' Masquerade

By Ellie Cort

Lord Aiden Masters, the Marquis of Covington, must launch his late fiancée's younger sister, Lady Celia Fairburne, on the Marriage Mart. It is a duty he disdains nearly as much as he disdains Lady Celia herself. At wit's end, and trapped between abhorrent duty and percolating desire, Lord Masters arranges a betrothal between his ward and a distant relative--a relative that does not exist except in name only: His!

 

So begins a tangled masquerade of machinations that reveals untold desires and threatens to upend the Marquis' carefully crafted facade. The facade itself poses a precarious death knell to his future and that of Lady Celia. While the Lord and Lady struggle against competing tides of duty, can the Marquis' final masquerade reset their course toward one final act of undeniable love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellie Cort
• Release date: Aug 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301662562

Ellie Cort

Ellie Cort began reading romance novels at age 12, and she promised to write her first romance novel by graduate school. She did. Ellie grew up on the summer-sun soaked beaches of Grand Haven, Michigan, and did not stray far from home. She currently lives with her husband, two daughters and two dogs (Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley) near Lake Michigan.

Book preview

Prologue

Fairhaven, England , 1807

Celia! Lady Francine Fairburne screeched, leaping from a delicate settee and dashing across the room like a fox chased by a hound.

Oh, Franny, ‘tis just a harmless little creature, her eleven-year-old sister, Lady Celia Fairburne, said, dangling a narrow, sleek snake between a soiled thumb and index finger. It has such lovely black and yellow stripes and is ever so much prettier than the little brown one I found yesterday. She stepped forward.  Come, look at it and you'll—

"Look at it? Are you mad?" Francine flattened herself against the wall and held up the voluminous skirts of her lovely jonquille day gown as if the Ambusson rug had suddenly swarmed to life with ophidians. This is a drawing room, not a marshland!

But it—

Hell's bells, Celia! a deep voice thundered from the doorway of the salon.

Oh, hello, Papa, Celia said, tossing the Earl of Fairhaven a proud smile and shifting the snake in his direction. The skinny creature flailed a bit, the tip of its tail tickling the palm of her hand.  She suppressed a giggle as her eyes landed on a much taller and broader figure looming like a specter behind her elderly parent: Lord Aiden Masters, the Marquis of Covington, and Francine's betrothed.

Jibberties, Girl! Put that thing down this instant! her father, jowls quivering, demanded as he heaved his bulk into the room. 

No, don't! Francine cried from her self-appointed corner. The tendril of golden hair so artfully arranged along her cheek shook like a kitten's tail. 

Celia, with a quick glance in her sister's direction, noticed that two raspberry spots now stained her elder sibling's cheeks. She couldn't blame her really. What girl didn't redden and swoon in the presence of virile Marquis of Covington?

But, in truth, her sister was right. Celia couldn't let the little snake go. It would sidle across the room as quick as you please and disappear in a thrice, and then Francine would really have a kink in her corset.

A mere grass snake, the marquis declared.

Celia turned to find that man studying her acutely from across the room, his face as impassive as a cloudless sky. All eyes swung in his direction as he approached Celia with a panther's grace.  In that moment, even she appreciated his artfully hewn athletic figure, perfectly encased in a black riding coat, doeskin pantaloons, and Hessian boots so polished that they reflected the afternoon sunlight skipping across the floor. 

By the time he stopped, he stood a mere hand-span before her, his cinder-pitch eyes boring into hers as if puzzling out her very soul. He smelled of sandalwood, a clean yet musky scent that reminded her of the wild woods at dawn.

He had already doffed his beaver hat, yet even without it, he loomed two heads taller than her, an imposing man by anyone's standards and a downright daunting man by Celia's.

For the first time in her life, she felt like a veritable Dowd, her hair a nest of riotous curls, her dress discolored with dirt, her slippers mussed with moss. What must he think of his future sister-in-law?

Harmless and more frightened of us than we should be of her, I daresay, he said, his lips tilting upward.

It took Celia a moment to realize that he was referring to the snake and, when she did, her brows tipped upward. Indeed—

Surely you have no wish to permanently remove this little reptile from her natural habitat, do you Lady Celia? he continued.

For no discernable reason, she retreated. No, of course not, I only wished to show—

Undoubtedly your act was as harmless as the little snake herself, he said, although Celia wondered at his sincerity.

With a smooth gesture, the marquis plucked the snake from her hand and grasped it carefully in his much larger gloved ones. Alas, the garden party is over, he said.  I shall return your little—ah—friend—to her rightful home. In the meantime, perhaps you should apologize to your sister for nearly scaring her out of her chemise.

Celia sniggered at the thought of her sister cowering in the corner in just her under things, but the marquis' quelling glare froze the laughter on her lips. She dipped a quick curtsy, allowing the marquis to pass her as he quit the room and headed to the garden.

Then, and only then, did Celia turn to her sister, composing her features into a proper mask of contrition as she had so many times before.

Chapter One

Hartley, England, 1814

Well, then, leave I must, Lady Celia Fairburne said to no one in particular. She was quite alone, in fact, and had just finished rereading the message contained on a well-worn piece of vellum.

It was late afternoon, an hour after Mass. The seminary’s headmistress had sounded the dinner bell some time ago, but Celia would not dine with her schoolmates that night, or any other night for that matter.

She had other plans. 

Well, her guardian had other plans for her at least. 

With feelings of elation mixed with trepidation, she tucked the letter between the pages of her journal. She had already read her guardian’s note several times that day, and many more times these few weeks past. She had read every letter he had sent—not that there were many—over and over, until the papers had become nearly transparent from use.

Gazing across her spartan bedchamber and out a single leaden glass window, she visually traced a series of low buildings that comprised the entire campus of Bethel’s Seminary for Girls, a rigorous and sensible school for noblemen’s daughters. The weak March sun peeked through an airy blanket of silver clouds and lightly danced across the face of the formidable structures, temporarily relieving their austerity.

She would not miss it here. She had spent a third of her last eighteen years among these buildings, strolling the grounds, traipsing the halls, learning the intricacies of Latin and French, how to play Bach’s Fugue in G, and how to stitch a perfect round of embroidery. She had learned all she could, no doubt. It was time for her to move on.

From the tone of his recent missive, her guardian apparently agreed. 

She issued a sigh and placed the journal in her valise, snapping the latches closed.

He’s here, milady, the tiny servant girl named Annie said from the doorway.

Celia gave her a small smile, detecting a note of nervousness in the girl’s voice that matched her own. He’s here, she thought, digesting the news about as easily as she could her garter. Yes, he would come right at the appointed time. Her guardian had a reputation for being particularly punctilious.

No longer then could she ignore the existence of this man who held the reins of her life from afar. For six years, she had not seen him, although he had dutifully written to her every three months. The last time she had clapped eyes on him was when she was a knobby-kneed twelve-year-old. He, then twenty-four and already wise beyond his years, had deposited her at the seminary, almost a year after her father’s death, and only two weeks after her sister’s.

Their parting had borne the pangs of relief and distress, and she wondered if he remained much unchanged. He had been a handsome and rather formidable man, carrying an intimidating wit like other gentlemen carry a walking stick.

With an involuntary shiver, she straightened her shoulders and smoothed the folds of her chestnut colored school gown. Taking a deep breath, she donned her cottage cloak, seized the trunk that comprised all of her earthly possessions, and followed the maid out the door. 

As she descended the broad wooden staircase of the dormitory, it occurred to her that she had forgotten to check her appearance in the cheval glass. She had a schoolgirl’s hope of impressing him, of validating the changes that had occurred in her person over the years. For whom else could she test those changes against? Surely he would be pleased that she had shed her clothes of clumsiness, that she had at last perfected the art of deportment and grace. No longer was she Francine’s little ragamuffin sister, the hellion that befriended field mice and woodland creatures and scampered about Fairhaven estate in bare feet and unbound hair.

Indeed, she had no wish to give her guardian any disgust of her before they renewed their acquaintance, but what to do about it? 

Come, my child! Headmistress Patterson scolded when she paused on the last step into the foyer. But the older lady smiled with a degree of warmth that had heretofore never existed as she took her hand and directed her toward an office on the main level of the school. No doubt the headmistress's warmth had everything to do with the eligible and exceedingly wealthy aristocrat that cooled his heels just ahead.

Offering Miss Patterson a tentative nod, and earning her own nod of encouragement, she stepped across the threshold of a sparsely furnished room, one she had inhabited rather frequently in the early years and always to receive a scold.  Her eyes riveted on the figure of a man whose commanding presence dwarfed the small confines. 

Yes, there he was, although only the expansive shoulders of his powerful back greeted her. The sight of him sent an unbidden wave of heat coursing up her spine and out to her fingers, and she chided herself for her nerves. 

Swallowing hard, she contented herself for the moment by studying him. His hair was still dark, black as a raven’s wing and settled in thick waves. It curled just so over the collar of his tailored great coat. She discerned that the rest of his attire—no doubt costing a king’s ransom—comprised form-fitting trousers and glossy boots. She imagined he also sported a morning coat, complementary waistcoat, and an immaculately tied cravat in the Osbaldestan style, for it was a conservative fashion he had favored when he courted her sister many years ago.

Although she continued to study him quite intently and issued a discreet cough, he did not turn. Indeed, he did not acknowledge her presence whatsoever. Celia wondered at his reticence to do so. Perhaps he did not hear her entry? Perhaps he wished to postpone this meeting as long as he could? She could well believe it was the later.  How difficult it must be for this premier parti to be saddled with a schoolroom miss now ready for her come-out, despite the intertwining of their earlier years.

Yet, his silence needled her, indeed, confused her. 

With a determined sniff, she strode toward a leather chair farther in the room, intent on occupying it until he condescended to break the silence.

But then he did speak, and his words stopped her heart along with her feet.

Do not sit, Lady Fairburne. We shall be on our way in a thrice.

The tersely spoken, icy words froze her to the core, and her startled eyes flew in his direction. 

Lord Aiden Masters, the Marquis of Covington, and her lately absent guardian, finally faced her.

His first thought was that there had been a mistake. The girl with the willowy figure and direct cerulean gaze could not possibly be Celia Fairburne, he thought, studying her from across the room with a critical eye. 

His late betrothed’s sister had been an odd little bird on the day he had left her at the seminary, replete with narrow limbs and a wan countenance. This girl—nay, woman he amended, assimilating her modest, yet clearly pronounced curves—was eminently well formed and, dare he say it, quite elegant in overall appearance, despite the odious color of her dress. Delicate features sat well in a heart-shaped face composed of clear porcelain: if a bird, then a swan, certainly.

She did not have Francine’s beauty, of course, but then few women did. He fleetingly wondered if this particular lass still possessed a penchant for fumbling into one scrape after another, still wild-minded and carefree, something Francine had never been.

Yes, this was Lady Celia. Her peaches and cream complexion, ocean-blue orbs and thick, honey-gold curls—all trademark traits of a Fairburne—clearly convinced him thus. To some degree, she vaguely resembled her sister at that age, a fact that threatened to unleash a torrent of memories that he was ill prepared to handle. 

Feeling displeased, for she was still a burden regardless of her beauty, he clenched his jaw and sketched a bow, observing her as she dipped into a curtsy. Surprisingly, her deportment was good. Perhaps she would be a quick study, and one that required little of his time or effort.

From the way her chin jutted like a flag, he suspected he had already set her teeth on edge.  Good. Better for her to learn sooner rather than later how it stood between them. 

You—you said we are leaving now, my lord? Her slight stammer gave credence to nervousness, but her gaze was courageous and direct. In that case, I—I request leave to bid a few of my friends goodbye.

His eyebrows inched upward. Her request to delay their departing was a bold one.  How unlike the ordinary schoolroom chit! Not missish, this one, and she evidenced a determination not to be cowed, at least by him. As a general rule, he flustered women beyond all verbal comprehension. But he should have expected that young Lady Celia of all people would have enough bottom to address him in such a forthright manner.

He clicked open his pocket watch and promptly snapped it closed again. Leave is denied, he said. We are already late and the carriage awaits. He strode purposefully toward the door with his coat billowing behind him, ignoring her tiny valise entirely. 

He knew she followed him, for she had little choice. He was all she had in this forsaken world, a fact that made him nearly feel sorry for her.

Moments later he handed the rigidly held girl and her bag into a highly polished coach-and-four that bore the great Covington Coat of Arms. She shivered at his touch, a response he further invited by clasping her fingers more tightly. He ignored her venomous glare and defiant pout with surprising ease.

Lady Celia Fairburne, meet Massie, your lady’s maid, he said, nodding toward a girl sitting deeper in the coach.  The servant was an absurdly plump lass, but pleasant in all respects. She will attend to your every whim and take charge of your outward presentation from this day forward. He raked his young charge’s figure from head to foot, an action rewarded with a furious blush. I suspect the lass shall manage to wrest some respectability from your toilette, and hopefully sooner rather than later.

Another dagger-edged glare. Ah, that was three, and he expected to be on the receiving end of a good deal more before their trip to London was complete.

Shutting the door of the carriage with a decided bang, Aiden vaulted into the saddle of Rhemus, his favorite stallion. With a click of his tongue, the faithful mount skittered forward and settled into a light prance. 

Taking his master’s cue, Johnny Coachman snapped the reins of matching bays and the carriage lurched forward, inching its way onto the broad thoroughfares of Hartley. 

London was a mere thirty miles outside of the small village. Aiden knew they would arrive in Town at nightfall. It was not soon enough for his peace of mind, however. He despised his guardianship responsibilities. He despised more so the fact that he could no longer ignore his obligations to the chit who reminded him too keenly of his past and of his mistakes.

Now that she was in his physical custody again, he was anxious to be rid of her. She had been a tiresome hoyden as a child, always up to antics that tested her father and sister’s patience. He doubted