Page 112 of Notorious

“Kind sir.” Drusilla dropped a curtsy and then handed him an orange. “And who are you? The Protector of lobsters?”

Gabriel laughed.

“Sharp-tongued Nell.” Byer ran a finger around the ruff at his neck, his exposed skin indeed an alarming shade of red.

“Hot?” Gabriel asked with a snicker. “I almost took that costume, but I am wiser than you.”

“I can’t imagine yours is much better,” Byer said, eyeing the heavy cloak.

“It isn’t.” Gabriel cut his wife a pitiful look.

She heaved a mock sigh. “Very well, you may take it off, Your Highness.”

Gabriel opened the heavy gold clasp that held the garment on and swept it off with a flourish. He gestured to a passing footman. “Put this in the cloakroom, please.”

The man sagged when Gabriel laid the burden in his arms.

The ballroom became even stuffier as more guests made their way from their carriages.

The doors remained closed in anticipation of a royal visit and the massive room was stultifying, a heavy fog of perfume and sweat hovering above the crush of bodies.

The dance floor was cramped and Gabriel was grateful his costume did not allow for much dancing as he could barely see past his wig. Drusilla, on the other hand, had danced with a very stiff Byer and a half-dozen others by the time supper rolled around. He looked over the dancers on the floor, searching for her plain bonnet, which was conspicuous among all the sparkling finery. He’d last seen her dancing with a man dressed as what he supposed was a corsair. But they were nowhere to be seen, now.

* * *

Drusilla leaned heavily on the tall corsair’s arm as she limped beside him. “Are you sure you are quite all right?” he asked, “Or shall I carry you.”

She cringed at the thought of making such a spectacle—even though she was in costume. “No, I do not require carrying. Perhaps you might help me to a seat on the terrace and then fetch my husband.”

“Ah, of course. And who might he be in this wild menagerie?”

“His Royal Highness Charles II.”

Her companion chuckled as he opened one of the closed French doors and guided her through before closing it behind her. “Better than Charles I.”

Drusilla smiled at the small jest. She had no idea who the corsair was, although there was something about his voice that teased at her memory. He had coal black hair that made his light blue eyes striking behind the full black velvet mask he wore.

He began to lead her down the steps and into the garden. Drusilla hesitated.

“It will be more private,” he assured her. “There is a seat just there—beside the fountain.”

Drusilla saw he was right and allowed him to help her to the stone bench. The garden had been lighted with colored lanterns, but the two nearest the fountain had gone out. There were other couples in the gloom, but nobody close by. A slight flutter of worry settled in her stomach before she recalled that she was a married lady: her reputation was no longer more delicate than an orchid. Still . . .

He crouched down in front of her, his colorful robes billowing as he dropped to his haunches. “Would you like me to look at your foot? After all, I am the oaf who may have broken your toes.”

Drusilla wiggled her toes, which indeed did feel crushed. But she hardly wanted some strange man looking at her foot. “That won’t be necessary. I would much rather you find my husband, if you do not mind.”

He hesitated, and then stood. “Stay right here—don’t walk on your foot or you might make it worse.”

Drusilla wanted to roll her eyes, but instead she forced out a smile. “Yes, of course.”

She looked down at her foot when he turned and left, grateful for the second time tonight that she’d worn sturdy shoes for her costume. If she’d been wearing dancing slippers when the clumsy corsair trod on her foot, it might indeed be broken.

She leaned down and untied the laces, reflecting on the odd evening. She’d danced almost every dance—a first in her life. The corsair had come upon her when she’d been looking for Gabriel. She was tired—they’d had a very energetic evening the night before—and she’d wanted nothing more than to go home early and curl up together in one of their beds.

Her face heated at her thoughts, even though she was alone. “Silly,” she muttered beneath her breath, toeing off her sturdy shoe, wincing when she tried wriggling her toes. The mysterious corsair had caught her before she could reach Gabriel and had begged for the next set so insistently it would have been uncomfortable to say no.

The first dance had been a waltz, which she had danced only a few times before—all this past week and just the one time with her husband. A dance that had seemed romantic and delightful with Gabriel had felt uncomfortable with a costumed stranger. She had not liked feeling another man’s hands on her. Nor had she liked his probing questions after she’d told him she was married. He had proceeded to winkle increasingly private details from her, his manner gentle but persistent.