Fortunately, Landross House not only boasted a high-ceilinged anteroom next to the ballroom, where the food and drink had been laid out (along with some chairs for the chaperones and other matrons), but a generous terrace that ran along the entire length of the residence. The doors from the ballroom were opened to the night air, and small lanterns festooned potted fig, lemon, and olive trees throughout the patio.
Feeling secure behind her large cream-and-silver mask, which covered her from hairline to over the top of her nose, and curved down over the sides of her face like a medieval helm, Victoria strolled through the room. Most of her hair had been twisted into a long coil, then wound in a large, intricate knot at the back of her crown, but a thick wave had been left to hang freely over her shoulder and down over one side of her torso.
The dancing had not yet started, and Victoria held her dance card and its little dangling pencil as she examined the other guests. She fully expected George Starcasset and Sara Regalado to be in attendance, and her main goal was to remain unrecognized by them so that she could observe.
In keeping with the theme of an underwater grotto, lighting was scarce and often obscured by false rocks inside the ballroom. Illumination threaded through the silver and blue strips of silk that hung from the ceiling, glittering and shifting the light as if it were under the ocean. The footmen, butler, and serving girls all wore livery decorated with glittering green, blue, and silver sequins, as though they were fish swimming silently among the guests. Victoria took a small glass of something pink and sparkling from one of them. It turned out to be effervescent water flavored with sugar and grapefruit peel— rather unusual and delicious, if a bit warm for her taste.
As she sipped, she turned in a slow arc from her vantage point across from the patio. From here, she could see the dance floor to her left, the orchestra positioned behind a thrush of papier-mâché rocks studded with fake seaweed and glittering fish, and beyond, in the anteroom, the long tables of food and drink.
Her eyes snagged on a man with blond hair that was long enough to just brush the back of his neck.
Romeo, if his doublet and slashed pantaloons were any indication. His cleft chin and the familiar movement of his shoulders betrayed his identity. As she watched George without appearing to do so, Victoria wondered if, somewhere, Sara was dressed as a matching Juliet.
As she considered whether to approach him directly or merely to observe, George turned and looked in her direction. Victoria held her breath and forced her attention to move casually away as though she didn’t recognize him. She felt the weight of his attention skim over her and, out of the corner of her eye, watched it settle on one of the Fates, who happened to be holding a pair of shears.
The glint of her blonde hair and the puffy pink lips beneath Atropos’s mask, along with her diminutive stature, identified her as Gwen Starcasset. Victoria hadn’t realized that Gwen was going to be in attendance tonight, and she eased back behind a nearby cluster of potted plants disguised as seaweed in an effort to keep out of her friend’s view. Watching as George approached his sister, she strained to see if she could hear anything. Even from a distance, and in the untrustworthy illumination, she recognized the pure delight in Gwen’s smile when her brother greeted her. And the surprise evident in his physical reaction, which gave Victoria something to think about.
“Ah . . . Diana the Huntress,” murmured a silky voice from behind Victoria. “How apropos. ”
She stepped slightly to the side, angling half toward Sebastian while keeping her attention focused on George. Her left shoulder brushed against the right side of his chest. She smiled. He’d guessed correctly that her flowing, silver-shot gown and Roman-styled hair depicted Diana. But perhaps the small bow and arrow hanging from her heavy belt had given him a clue.
The whisper-thin fabric of her togalike gown gathered over one shoulder with a wide silver clasp, leaving the other bare. Her skirt, made of the same material, fell in many deep folds to the floor, but wrapped around in such a manner that it split to well above her knee, just below a vee-shaped girdle of silver studded with cabochons. The slit gave her ease of movement when she walked, yet the yards of fabric camouflaged the opening when she was standing, as now. And Verbena, in a moment of brilliance, had created two separate skirts with the frothy fabric. The overskirt could be removed easily—for it was tucked into the belt—to reveal a shorter, less voluminous skirt in the event that Victoria needed more freedom of movement, which happened more often than not, it seemed.
“You have the advantage of me. I can’t place your costume. Cupid perhaps? Odysseus?”
“Adonis, of course. ” His chuckle tickled her ear; he was standing much closer than was proper, and she did not move away. Under the cover of shadow, his arm slid around her from behind, tugging her gently back against him. Her heel stepped between his feet, and her light, silky gown gusted around his legs. The metal fastening on his toga was cold against her bare shoulder.
Victoria couldn’t hold back a smile at Sebastian’s boastfulness. Of course the man would dress as a perfect specimen of the male species—he certainly considered himself such. And from what she’d seen, he had the right to do so. She couldn’t help a little flutter in the pit of her belly, and focused her attention strictly on George. He had bowed to Gwen and was leading her to the center of the ballroom for what looked to be the first dance of the evening—a short, traditional line dance. The orchestra slid into the opening notes, led by two violins.
“Why does that not surprise me. But what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Same as you, my dear. Enjoying wearing a mask, and anonymously keeping a watch over our acquaintances Romeo and Juliet. I missed you last evening,” he murmured into her ear.
“Did you?” she asked, remembering that, according to Max, he’d been in Vauxhall Gardens on a false trail. “I ret
urned early after the dinner party at the Hungreaths’. ”
“No hunting of vampires?” he asked casually.
“No, indeed. ” She hadn’t yet had a chance to tell him about the events at the dinner party, and at this moment she felt rather like keeping them to herself. As if she would have an assignation with another man in the gardens when she and Sebastian were . . . well, what? She hadn’t allowed Sebastian into her bed for months, and his frustration was becoming evident.
And truth to tell, she’d begun to wonder exactly why she’d been holding him off. Even now, his strong body eased up behind her and his firm arm around her waist reminded her of their intimacies . . . and of how she missed the touch and affection of a man who understood her. And now that he had joined the Venators, she thought she knew where his loyalties lay.
There in the shadowy corner behind the clump of fake seaweed, he brushed his lips and then the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin behind her ear. She shuddered lightly, and felt warmth flush through her. Perhaps tonight . . .
Sebastian smoothed his hand over the silk of her gown, murmuring, “Might I say, your gown is quite—”
“Drafty. ”
Victoria started and turned to find dark eyes looking down at her from behind her right shoulder. Max was dressed as a highwayman; there was no mistaking his garb, from the black cape and high black boots to the white shirt and red leather jerkin. A wide-brimmed black hat covered his thick hair, and a mask completely obscured the top half of his face, stopping just above his upper lip. He hadn’t shaved, and his chin and jaw were dark with stubble. Despite his height, she might not have recognized him immediately if he hadn’t spoken.
“That wasn’t quite the word I had in mind,” Sebastian replied, his arm tightening ever so slightly against Victoria’s belly as he shifted to the right, behind her. “Convenient. That’s more what I was thinking. ”
“Regardless, I’m disappointed. ”
Victoria adjusted her mask and looked at Max. “What do you mean?”
“Diana? I expected something less . . . obvious. Scheherazade, perhaps? Or even Zenobia. ”