Cynders and Ashe

Elizabeth Boyle

One

London – 1815

“You expect my daughter to wear that gown?” Lady Fitzsimon’s acid tones carried to every corner of the elegant dress shop on Bond Street.

“My Lady, it is exactly the gown you ordered,” Madame Delaflote replied. Used as she was to the fits and fleeting fancies of London ladies, she took Lady Fitzsimon’s protests in her stride.

Either the lady was doing this to get her bill lowered – which would never happen, for Madame Delaflote never gave up a shilling that could possibly be wrung from a client – or she was just being aristocratic merely because she could.

In that case, Madame Delaflote had naught to do but wait her out.

From behind the curtain that separated the showroom from the workroom, Miss Ella Cynders flinched with each protest as if she were being flogged. For the dress was her creation, her finest – if she was inclined to boast – but she knew that it had been a risk making it for Lady Fitzsimon’s daughter.

“The Ashe Ball is tonight, Madame!” Lady Fitzsimon was saying. Ella glanced out and found the matron waving her invitation about for all to see. Invitations to the Ashe Ball were so coveted, so limited, that most who held one kept it carefully guarded. For without that printed invitation, one could not enter. Proof of this being demonstrated at the moment by her ladyship, who was keeping hers on her person, never far from sight, and, better yet, close at hand to flaunt over those who hadn’t been invited. “My daughter cannot go in that!”

Ella watched the lady point at the dress her daughter was modelling as if it were made of rags – when nothing could be further from the truth. The fair green silk, embroidered with silver thread and adorned with thousands of seed pearls, was an artistic triumph. Ella and the two other assistants, Martha and Hazel, had all but worn their fingers to the bone to get the gown ready in time.

It was a fairy-tale dress destined for an unforgettable night.

“My good lady,” Madame Delaflote said, “your daughter shines like the rarest jewel in that gown. Lord Ashe won’t be able to take his eyes off her.”

“Of course he won’t – she looks naked in it,” the lady declared.

Not exactly naked, Ella would have told her, but the illusion was there. As if she were a woodland nymph stepping from her hidden grove. Sleeveless and cut low in the front, the dress clung to the wearer as if it were a second skin.

“That gown is ruinous! Why, she looks—” Lady Fitzsimon’s hands fluttered about as she searched for the right words.

From behind the curtain, the three assistants finished her sentence for her.

“Gorgeous,” Martha whispered.

“Breathtaking,” Hazel added.

“Unforgettable,” Ella said.

“Common!” Lady Fitzsimon declared. “As if she’s just stepped from the stage of a revue. I want Lord Ashe to fall in love with my daughter. Marry her. Don’t you realize he must choose his bride tonight? Tonight, Madame! The gown Roseanne wears must be perfect!”

“Stupid cow,” Martha muttered, her less than refined origins coming out. “That gel fair on sparkles in it.”

“Aye, she does,” Hazel agreed. “Like a princess.”

Ella agreed, for she and Roseanne were of similar colouring and build, and she had tried the dress on herself to make sure the blush green silk – like the first verdant whisper of spring – would bring out the girl’s fair features.

“If you think I am paying for this, you are sadly mistaken,” Lady Fitzsimon said, sounding more like a shrewd fishwife than a baroness.

Madame Delaflote took a furtive glance at the curtain, where she knew her assistants were most likely eavesdropping. Her brows rose in two dark arches, the sort of look each of them knew was a dangerous harbinger.

If Lady Fitzsimon refused this dress, someone would pay for it.

“And whatever are those things sticking out from her back?” the lady continued.

“Wings, My Lady,” Madame Delaflote told her. “You asked for a fairy costume, and those are her wings.”

“They are a nuisance. However is she to dance? They’ll get crushed in the crowd before the first set – and then what? She’ll be in the retiring room for a good part of the night having them clipped off.” Lady Fitzsimon shook her head. “No, no, no, this will never do. And I blame you, Madame Delaflote. Everyone says your gowns are the finest, but I hardly see what you were thinking to dress my daughter like a Cyprian.” She turned to Roseanne. “Take it off at once, before someone sees you in it and thinks we actually ordered such a shameful piece.”

Ella cringed. For the gown had been her idea, her creation. And if Lady Fitzsimon wouldn’t pay for it, refused it, well, she knew very well who would be paying for it – her.

“She’s not taking it?” Hazel whispered, as Roseanne slipped into the changing room and Martha hurried after her to help her out of the gown.

Meanwhile, Madame Delaflote and Lady Fitzsimon continued their heated exchange.

“My Lady, that gown is exactly what you ordered.” If there was one thing that could be said about Madame Delaflote, she was a determined soul.

“I ordered a gown that would set my daughter apart – not have her appear like some Covent Garden high-flyer.”

Madame Delaflote sucked in a deep breath to be so insulted, for her gowns were sought after, fawned over, ordered months in advance (as this one had been) and no one called them tawdry.

And certainly no one had ever refused one.

Yet here was Lady Fitzsimon in high dudgeon, having gathered up her daughter, by now properly dressed in a blue sprig muslin day gown, and leaving.

Ella closed her eyes and wished herself well away from this disaster. But a loud whoomph, and Hazel’s muffled giggle brought her back to the present.

The other two had parted the curtain and there in the front of the shop lay Lady Fitzsimon on the floor.

In her rush to depart the shop, she’d run right into a footman who was delivering a missive. His notes and messages had fluttered up in the air as he had tried to catch the lady from falling, but her girth had defied even his strength and the two of them had ended up in a tangle at the doorway.

Madame rushed forwards to help the baroness, as did Roseanne, but the matron was too furious to have any assistance. She righted herself, caught her daughter by the arm and marched from the store, her nose tipped haughtily in the air.

An embarrassed silence filled the shop, but only for a moment. Madame snapped her fingers, as if that was enough to dismiss the situation, then got back to business, calling for her assistants, and greeting the waiting clients with her usual French airs.

The footman gathered up his notes, with Hazel’s help – for the girl had a romantic nature and flirted shamelessly with all the handsome footmen who came and went from the shop. They all knew Hazel and she knew them.

The cheeky fellow handed over a pair of missives and winked at the girl before he turned to leave.

Madame, however, was in no mood for such behaviour and snatched the mail from Hazel’s hands. She sent the girl a scathing glance that sent her scurrying to the back room.

“Take these and see to them,” Madame told Ella. “We will discuss that gown later.”

Ella bowed politely, took the notes and also fled to the back room.

She didn’t know whether to continue her work on the gown for Lady Shore or begin the task of packing her bags. It had only been lucky happenstance that she’d gotten this job when she’d returned to London six months ago.

Luck, and her skill with a needle. Another job might not be so easily gotten.

For to be dismissed yet again and always without references – Ella shuddered at such a prospect.

“She’ll not sack you,” Hazel said, as if reading her friend’s bleak expression. “She’s made too much money from your designs.”

Ella absently sorted through the notes in her hands. “That gown cost a fortune, and if Lady Fitzsimon doesn’t pay for it—”

Hazel nodded in grim agreement.

It would come out of Ella’s salary. Glancing over at the silk, which now lay on the work table, she sighed, for it was ever so lovely a dress and it had been meant to be worn this night and this night only.

Lady Fitzsimon was utterly mistaken on the matter. Lord Ashe would never have thought that gown common. He would have loved it.

“Gar, Ella! Whatever is that in your hand?” Hazel said, coming around the work table in a flash.

Martha had slipped into the workroom just then, a stack of sample brocades in her arms. Her mouth fell open and she nearly dropped her burden when she saw what Ella was holding. “Oh, as I live and breathe! It is.”

“Is what?” Ella said, before she glanced down at the thick cream card in her hand.

Ella’s mouth fell open. An invitation to the Ashe Ball.

Hazel began to laugh. “That old cow must have dropped it when she went off in a huff.”

“She won’t be able to get in without it.” Ella crossed the room and caught up her cloak. She started for the back door, when Hazel caught her by the arm.

“And just what do you think you are doing?”

“Returning this to Lady Fitzsimon.”

“Why would you be doing that?” Hazel held her fast.

“Because she can’t get in without it,” Ella told her, pulling her arm free and reaching for the door.

“Well, she don’t need it now, does she?” Martha said. “Since her daughter hasn’t got a gown to wear.”

Something about the girl’s words – nay, suggestion – stayed Ella’s steps. “Whatever do you mean?”

Martha glanced over at Hazel, who nodded in agreement. “That we didn’t work our fingers raw to see that gown spend the night here, being taken apart, so the mistress could not only charge you for it, but sell the makings off again to someone else, taking the profit twice over.”

Hazel nodded.

“You could go, with that gown and that invitation,” Martha whispered.

Ella shook her head. “I couldn’t—”

“And why ever not? It isn’t like you aren’t quality, and it isn’t like that gown doesn’t fit.”

“You could see him again, Ella,” Hazel said.

“No,” Ella gasped, staring down at the name on the invitation. Viscount Ashe.

Him.

“I can’t . . . I would be discovered . . . Think of the trouble . . .”

“Think of seeing him again,” Hazel said. “You know very well that you sewed that gown with him in mind. So he would think it was you.”

“I did no such—” But she stopped herself. She had. Shamelessly designed and embroidered every stitch for his eyes, his favour.

“Wouldn’t seeing him again be worth a bundle of trouble and then some?”

“Julian, you vowed tonight would be the last time,” Lady Ashe said, over the tea table.

The Ashe residence was a flurry of activity as the servants and the added help that had been hired for the ball continued working at a furious pace to ensure that everything went off as planned.

“Yes, yes, Mother, I recall my promise,” Julian, Viscount Ashe, told her.

“You will choose a bride tonight and no more of this foolishness about finding ‘her’.”

Julian glanced out the window at the garden beyond. Her. His mysterious lady love. The one who’d come to the first Ashe Ball five years earlier.

The Ashes had always been a romantic lot, and family tradition held that the Ashe viscount had five seasons to find his true love. Five. A bride to be plucked from a masquerade before the five years were out.

Julian had found his the very first year.

Found her and lost her.

He’d spent the last five years searching for the mysterious lady who’d come to the ball, danced with him, kissed him – Julian glanced over at his mother who was deep in discussion with the housekeeper over where to find their extra plates – the lady whose virginity he had stolen in an impetuous moment of passion.

But it wasn’t just her passion that had intrigued him, it was her lively nature, her bright eyes, her sharp wit.

She’d stolen his heart that night, just as the Ashe legend said a lady would. But what the Ashe legend didn’t say was what to do when the love of your life, your future viscountess, ups and disappears into thin air.

And now tonight was his last chance to find her.

It wasn’t as if Julian hadn’t searched for her – but all he’d come to were dead ends.

At first, he’d thought his choice was Lady Pamela Osborn. Everyone had assumed that the young lady, who the elder Lady Osborn hauled out of the ball just before the unmasking, had been her daughter. But, as it turned out, Lady Pamela had given her costume to another and used the night to elope with Lord Percy Snodgrass. Who Lady Pamela’s twin had been was the real mystery, for Lady Osborn had refused to give Ashe any information about the scandal. And the newly minted Lady Percy had sent back his enquiries unopened.

He’d even taken to haunting the streets outside the Osborn townhouse in hopes of spying a maid or companion who might fit the bill, or one willing to be bribed to give a hint who his mysterious lady love might be. But not a one would give Ashe even a crumb of information about the lady in green silk who had haunted his every day for five years.

Two

The Ashe Ball – 1810

Miss Ella Cynders, companion to Lady Pamela, the daughter of the Earl of Osborn, stood at the entrance of the Ashe Ball, her knees quaking with fear and her heart hammering with excitement.

Fear, because if she were discovered impersonating Pamela, she’d be sacked without references.

Of course, if she was honest, her being sacked was a given. By the morning, there would be no way to conceal Pamela’s runaway marriage and she, Ella, would be let go.

But Pamela, the soon-to-be Lady Percy Snodgrass, had promised to hire her immediately as her companion to come live with her in the country. So if Ella were to be unemployed, it wouldn’t be for long.

Still, Ella couldn’t help but allow a bit of excitement to nudge aside her fears. This was the legendary Ashe masquerade after all. There hadn’t been one in twenty-seven years, not since the last Lord Ashe had plucked the unlikely Miss Amelia Levingston out of the crowd as his perfect bride.

Tonight would be their son Julian’s first attempt to find his viscountess, and the ton was abuzz at the opportunity the ball afforded on a lucky young lady. To become Lady Ashe.

“Pamela,” Lady Osborn said, “remember, if you are to catch his eye, do not be obvious, but not so shy that he doesn’t notice you.”

Ella nodded, but didn’t say a word. Luckily, she and Pamela were of the same height and build, and with Ella’s red hair powdered and done up in a crown of flowers, it was impossible to discern that it wasn’t Pamela’s blonde locks beneath.

And it helped that Lady Osborn was dreadfully near-sighted.

“Certainly, Lord Ashe’s mother has left nothing to chance,” Lady Osborn was saying as they walked deeper into the room. “There are the Damerells, and the Sadlers. And I see Lady Houghton has both her daughters here. I daresay, Lady Ashe knew what she was doing – including only the best families, so there was no chance of some undesirable parti catching her son’s eye.”

Ella flinched. Undesirable partis were the bane of Lady Osborn’s existence. Such as the one Lady Pamela was running away with this very night.

“I am glad you had Ella rework your costume,” the lady said. “She has such an eye for these things, for I daresay your costume is the finest in the room. I had my doubts when we hired her, but she has the most exquisite hand with a needle.” The lady sighed. “Now, make the most of this evening. While Ashe is only a viscount, at least he has a title and lands.”

This was a pointed snub about the attentions of Lord Percy, who claimed only a courtesy title and no property. Second sons held little appeal to an ambitious mother like Lady Osborn and being in love with one was nothing short of treason.

So Ella nodded and smiled, thankful the lady really spent so little time with her daughter and cared so little for her opinions and even less for her conversation. Thus, Ella wasn’t required to do much more than nod obediently.

They continued to wade through the crush, and Ella felt a bit light-headed, for the crowd was dazzling in its costumes and masks – she’d never seen the likes of such a party. Certainly she’d been to other affairs as Pamela’s companion, but she’d always spent her time alone on the periphery, watching Pamela being courted, while the marchioness was off getting caught up with her cronies.

“I wish I knew how Lord Ashe was disguised,” Lady Osborn mused, tapping her fan against her lips and scanning the crowd, though it was unlikely she could tell a Robin Hood from a Cavalier. “But then again, I have to imagine there isn’t a mother here who wouldn’t give up a year’s worth of pin money for that confidence.”

Lord Ashe . . . Ella had heard nothing but talk of him and his ball for the last two months. Certainly everyone knew what he looked like – burnished gold hair, a square jaw and wide shoulders. Tall and elegant, he made lady after lady swoon. He would be hard to disguise, so like everyone else she couldn’t help scanning the crowd trying to discover him.

But her quest to find Lord Ashe suddenly paled.

Dutifully following Lady Osborn through the crush of bodies, she spied a tall man dressed in a long, embroidered surcoat and form-fitting hose and boots coming towards them. She didn’t know if it was her own love of medieval stories or the way he carried himself, but she was utterly and instantly mesmerized. From the dark mane of hair brushed back, to the straight line of his shoulders, to the way his leggings showed every muscle in his long legs – it was as if Lancelot or Richard the Lionheart had just stepped out of the Crusades or a tournament, minus the chain mail and sword. He came closer, prowling through the crowd as if it was his to command, and Ella’s breath caught in her throat.

She, who had no business falling in love, fell. Fell in an instant. If that was what this was – being unable to breathe, afraid to move, afraid even to blink, lest he disappear from sight.

Oh, save me, came an errant thought. Save me, oh, knight.

And as he passed by, his gaze met hers, and something inside her flamed to life. A spark passed between the two of them.

It was as if they had always been together, were destined to be united. That they had known and loved each other until the ages had torn them apart, and now . . .

Now they had found each other once again.

Even as she continued past him, their gazes held, her head turning so she could gape after him. Then he was surrounded by the crowd and disappeared from sight and, in a flash, the connection was broken.

Ella shivered. I cannot lose him. It was a cry from deep within her heart, a place within her that until now had been silently slumbering. Sleeping no longer, she couldn’t do anything other than stop and whirl around.

She forgot all about being Pamela, all about deceiving Lady Osborn – who had waded ahead, having spied a friend she knew would have the most current on dits, and had all but forgotten her daughter.

And to her shock, as she turned to determine where he had gone, he was no more than a few feet from her. For he had stopped as well. Frozen and fixed as if he couldn’t take another step away from her.

Gazing at her, his eyes sparkled beneath his mask, and a smile rose on his lips. And that connection, the one that had brought them to this moment, sparked anew. It drew her closer to him, even as he closed the final bit of difference between them.

“Good evening, oh, fair, fey creature,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, bringing it up to his lips. “I have sought you for an eternity.”

Then he kissed her fingertips and sent a tremor of desire racing through her. Ella willed herself not to snatch her hand back, for she’d never felt anything like it. And it seemed she wasn’t alone. He looked at her anew as if the sensation had been something he had hardly expected.

“You . . . you have?” she stammered as she looked down at her fingers, which still tingled. Biting her lip, she hazarded a glance up at him.

“How could I not?” he said, bowing slightly. Then he leaned closer. “I believe they are about to start the dancing. If you are not already engaged, may I have the honour?”

She nodded wordlessly and he led her through the crowd.

Again, a thrum of desire raced through her as she walked alongside him and out on to the floor. Couples were taking their places, and soon they were surrounded, but Ella couldn’t shake the sensation that they were all alone. When the music began, they moved through the steps that pulled them apart and pushed them together and then separated them yet again.

“Your costume is lovely,” he said, as he returned to her. “Are you Titania?”

She blushed. “Goodness, no. I am merely one of her court.” Out of the corner of her eye she spied Lady Osborn watching her, then turning her gaze on Ella’s partner. Once she’d taken his measure, she turned to the lady next to her and got to work. To discover whether or not he was an eligible parti.

Not that any of that mattered to Ella. She’d never danced at a ball, never held a man’s attention, never even been kissed. Not that she expected such a thing, but stealing a glance at the firm line of his lips, she had to imagine a kiss would be heavenly. This was her own fairy tale, one she doubted very many ladies in her position ever lived. And instead of being cautious, instead of remembering her place, she allowed herself to believe that this night was hers to discover her heart.

“I feel as if I have met you before,” he confessed, as they moved around each other, their hands entwined and his gaze never leaving hers.

“I you.” Ella wasn’t about to play coy, or engage in all the elongated trappings of courtship. She hadn’t the time. She knew if she was ever to have a night, this one was it.

This one night. Her night. Their night. And then it would be off to the country to Lord Percy’s family estate in Shropshire. Certainly, there were no such men there – no knights like this, capable of sweeping a lady off her feet.

The dance continued and they said little, just stealing glances at each other, and revelling in the moments when his fingers entwined with hers, when his hand would come to the small of her back and guide her through the steps.

When the music ended, Ella held her breath. For she didn’t want this dance, this night to ever end.

Apparently, neither did he.

“Have you seen the conservatory?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It is rumoured to have oranges blooming right now. Would you like to see them, my lovely fey creature?” He held out his hand to her.

“Oranges?” she said. “Oh, I do love orange blossoms. The fragrance is heavenly.”

“Then come along and indulge yourself.”

Ella smiled and twined her fingers with his. “Do you think we should?” she asked, as he led her from the ballroom. Stealing one last glance over her shoulder, she could see Lady Osborn with her gaze fixed on the dance floor as she searched for some sign of her daughter.

“Certainly. Lord Ashe is a particular friend of mine,” he confided. “He won’t mind in the least.”

It was exactly from this sort of scandalous adventure that she’d been hired to keep Pamela – and then again, here she was disguised as Pamela so her charge could run away with Lord Percy.

So she might as well fall into her own mire.

“I can’t help thinking that we’ve met,” he was saying.

“I feel the same, but I can’t think of where or when.” Ella looked at him again, searched for something familiar, wondering if he was an officer who might have served with her father. For certainly he had the confidence and bearing of a man used to being in command. But she could hardly ask who he was, for then he would ask for her name.

And she would have to lie. The one thing Ella didn’t want to do to this man was tell him half-truths and fabrications. She couldn’t. But the truth? That she was naught but a pauper hired by Lady Osborn because her services could be had for very little?

Would that matter to him? He was a few paces ahead of her, leading the way to the back of the house, and she glanced at his back. His pace reminded her of a lion’s, the surcoat doing little to hide the muscled strength beneath it.

“Whatever are you smiling at?” he asked, as they stopped at the door to the conservatory, which had been built in the gardens behind the house.

“Your costume. I can’t determine if you are Galahad, Richard or Percival.”

“I would prefer a Templar,” he said, taking a fighting stance and grinning wickedly at her.

She laughed. “You do realize that most of them were nothing more than expert brawlers, men trained for naught but waging war.”

This took him aback. “You know of the Templars?”

“Certainly. My father was in the army, and adored military history. I have no brothers, so I grew up on a steady diet of books featuring the campaigns of Hannibal and Alexander, and ever so many histories – including the Templars. My mother feared I would be quite unmanageable from such an education.”

“No, I think you are most surprising,” he said, opening the door. The warmth and moisture of the air inside swarmed over them. “But I suppose I must leave the unmanageable part for further discovery.”

“I am hardly unmanageable,” she told him, as she stalked past into the warmth of the conservatory.

His brow arched.

“Well, I do make my mistakes from time to time. And I fear I don’t always exhibit the demeanour expected of a lady.” Which is why she’d been fired by Lady Gaspar and Lady Preswood.

He folded his arms over his chest and eyed her. “Let me see how outspoken you are.” He paused. “What do you think the likelihood of the Americans joining France against us?”

“Very,” she told him. Forgetting Lady Osborn’s dictum that ladies never discussed politics. Never. “But it will be a dangerous situation.”

“Yes, well, I doubt the Americans have much sense over the matter. A hot-headed rabble is all they will ever be.”

“No, sir, you mistake me. I mean it will be a dangerous situation for us.”

“For us?!” he sputtered. “I think your mother was right.”

“No, sir, you aren’t looking at it from a military vantage,” she said, feeling the thrill of debate outweigh any dictum by Lady Osborn. “We will be spread too thin. If we make war in the Americas, we weaken our ability to defeat Bonaparte quickly.”

“So you think we cannot defeat the French?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said, pacing around him. They were circling like cats, but to Ella it was exhilarating. “It is just that every military leader in history who has spread his troops over greater and greater distances thins his lines to the point where gaps are created. Dangerous gaps.”

He paused for a second and eyed her, an astonished respect in his gaze. “But Napoleon is faced with the same problem. He called for Spanish recruits last month and the bloody Spaniards raced for the hills rather than be conscripted.”

“And yet there are eighty thousand Frenchmen who have been conscripted, and another forty thousand in the waiting. And how many able men are in America? We are but one island.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

Her knight scratched his chin. “But there are the Spaniards who are joining our troops in Majorca – they will fight at our side.”

“Yes, in Spain, but not in New York, or Maryland, or the Carolinas. Will they defend our hold in Canada?”

He grunted and paced in front of her.

“Bonaparte knew exactly what he was doing when he gave the Floridas to the Americans, and stirred their wrath against our Navy – as well deserved as it is.”

“So you would criticize the might of the Royal Navy, you bold minx?”

She nodded emphatically. “When they anger a sleeping bear, yes. Not one of those captains thinks of the consequences of taking a single American ship, but what will they do when that country’s Congress acts? When that country begins to build ships? Fleets of ships. They have a continent of forests. They can build frigates for the next hundred years – and man them. Can we?”

He threw up his hands and strode away a few steps. “I can’t believe I am arguing this with a lady!”

“And being bested,” she pointed out.

“Routed!” he declared. “Your mother was entirely correct – you are unmanageable.”

Ella didn’t feel the least bit insulted. “I daresay, you don’t mind.”

This gave him pause and then he grinned. “No, I actually don’t. But if you tell anyone I’ve conceded—”

She shook her head and crossed her fingers over her heart. “Never! I swear.”

“It shall be our secret,” he told her, moving closer again. As he passed an orange tree, he reached and plucked a blossom from the branch and handed it to her. For a moment all Ella could do was gaze down at the delicate blossom cradled in her hand, for she didn’t dare look up at him.

“Does your father still read you military tracts?” he asked.

She shook her head. “My parents are both gone.”

He paused and gazed at her. “I am so sorry. You have sisters?”

“No, I am . . . I am all alone now.”

“Not any longer,” he told her, taking her hand and leading her down the long aisle.

The conservatory was glassed on three sides, running the length of the garden wall. A stove provided extra heat and lamps overhead illuminated the wild, exotic collection of plants flourishing in the artificial tropics. As they drew closer to the middle, the intoxicating scent of oranges in bloom curled around her, enticed her to come closer and inhale . . . deeply.

“It is just like our garden in Portugal,” she told him, reaching out to touch the narrow leaf of a palm.

“You lived in Portugal?”

“Yes. Though not always. I was born in the West Indies. Then my father’s regiment was sent to Portugal.”

“I imagine you find London quite different.”

She laughed. “I find London ever so cold.”

They both laughed.

“Is it still a cold place?” he asked, drawing her into his arms.

“No,” she said, shivering, and definitely not from London’s notorious chill.

His hands, firm and warm, pulled her closer, until she was nestled right up against his chest. Her hands splayed over his surcoat, and marvelled at the hard plains beneath.

Like a Templar reborn.

“I don’t even know your name,” he whispered as he lowered his head, drew his lips closer to hers.

“Does it matter?” she whispered.

“No. Not really,” he said, his breath warm on her lips. And then that breath became his lips, covering hers and stealing a kiss.

Ella didn’t know what to expect, but this . . . this invasion . . . this breach of her defences, left her breathless. His tongue sallied over her lips, teased her to open the gates, to let him storm forth. Everything she knew about defences gave way to his very expert onslaught.

Besides, how was she not to let him in, when he was creating this breathless storm inside her?

Desire, new and exhilarating, raced through her, as his hands held her even closer, began to explore her, running down her sides, curving around her backside.

Ella was starting to burn.

His kiss deepened and, instead of being frightened – as she supposed she should be, as she ought to be – she welcomed him, drawing him closer, her arms winding around his neck.

She had to hold him like that, for her knees, her legs, her insides, had become ever so unreliable, quaking with need, with desires, leaving her shaky and unsettled . . . and eager for more.

He drew back from her, lips parted for a moment, and gazed at her, a wonder in his eyes that startled her. For even in her innocence, she knew this was different. This wasn’t what he had expected.

Or had he known all along, just as they had found themselves drawn to each other in the middle of the ballroom?

“Ahem,” came a polite cough from the doorway of the conservatory, breaking into their intimate moment of wonderment. “Sir?”

Her knight looked up. “Yes?”

“You are required inside,” the fellow said, staring down at the floor.

“Yes, thank you, Shifton.”

The man bowed and left.

“I must—” he said, waving at the door. “But only for a little bit,” he added hastily.

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “I think I should go to the retiring room and put myself in order.”

“I will only undo it later,” he told her, leaning over and kissing her brow tenderly. Ella should have realized then, it was actually a promise.

Three

Ella rushed into the empty retiring room, her cheeks completely flushed and her heart hammering. Whatever is happening to me?

She was falling in love. Oh, and it was perfect and delicious and wonderful. She hugged herself and spun around, only to come to a complete stop when she realized she wasn’t alone.

For there in a chair in the corner sat an elderly matron.

“Oh, I didn’t know—” Ella stammered, glancing towards the door and then around the room.

The lady’s gaze narrowed and then she rose and crossed the room. As she got closer, Ella’s eyes widened in recognition. “Mrs Garraway!”

“Ella Cynders, oh, my dear!” The lady took Ella into her arms and hugged her tight. “You wicked, wicked girl! You don’t know how I have worried after you. And here you are.” Mrs Garraway held her out at arm’s length and examined her, smiling widely.

“How is the Colonel?” Ella asked, as she took off her mask to get a better look at her mother’s dear friend. Colonel Garraway had been her father’s commanding officer, and Ella and her mother had spent countless hours with Mrs Garraway, sewing and gossiping and keeping each other company in Portugal.

That is until Ella’s parents had died, and Ella had been sent home to live with an aunt. But unbeknownst to the kindly Garraways, the lady had also recently died, leaving Ella without friend, family or a home. That was how she had ended up as Lady Pamela’s paid companion.

“He’s just the same, always in a fine fettle over something. But won’t he be ever so happy to see you. We’ve been so worried, for when we got to London and discovered that your aunt had passed away and there wasn’t a word of you, I feared the worst. But I see I was worried for naught, for here you are and looking perfectly lovely.” She hugged Ella again and looked to be ready to burst out in tears. “Wherever have you been?”

“I took a position, Mrs Garraway. I work for Lady Osborn as her daughter’s companion,” Ella told her.

Instead of being shocked or disappointed, Mrs Garraway nodded approvingly. “That’s my girl. You were never so above yourself that you couldn’t find your way. That’s what the Colonel kept saying. ‘Got her father’s nerve,’ he’d say when I would get to fretting.” She paused and looked Ella over again. “And they must be very fond of you to give you such a lovely costume and let you have suitors.”

Bad enough that the colour in her cheeks drained away, Ella couldn’t even look the lady in the eye. Oh, she was in the suds now. More so than for just taking Pamela’s place at the ball.

“Ella!” Mrs Garraway said, her voice turning from welcoming to stern. “I can see it on your face. What mischief is this?”

She bit her lip and looked over at the woman who was the closest person she had left to family. And with her thoughts in a whirl, she turned to the lady and confessed all. “Mrs Garraway, I am in such a tangle. Lady Pamela begged me to take her place tonight. Lady Osborn thinks I am her daughter.”

“Is the woman so daft that she can’t see her own daughter?”

“She’s a bit near-sighted,” Ella confessed. “And has paid little heed to Lady Pamela until now. She confuses me with her daughter often, so we thought, well, Lady Pamela knew that her mother wouldn’t notice the difference.”

Mrs Garraway shook her head. She’d raised three daughters herself, all while following the drum, and seen them all married to good men. But she’d done so by keeping a close eye on them. And her maternal ways returned in full force. “And where is this Lady Pamela?”

Again, Ella blanched. “She’s run off.” And when the good lady gasped, she continued quickly, “He is a good man – Lord Percy Snodgrass, the second son of the Marquess of Lichfield. They are very much in love.”

The Colonel’s wife pursed her lips. “And if it is a good match, Ella Cynders, why ever are they eloping?”

“Their parents don’t approve.”

This didn’t win any favour from Mrs Garraway. “Oh, good heavens, gel, however did you get mixed up in such a scandal? You’ll be sacked. Did you think about that?”

Ella shook her head. “Oh, no, it won’t be like that.”

Mrs Garraway’s brows rose into a pair of question marks.

“Well, yes, I will be sacked, that much is for certain,” she conceded. “But Lady Pamela has promised to hire me as her companion, so I will have a job once again when they return to London.”

“Oh, Ella, think on this. Does Lord Percy have an income? Estates? The capacity to keep a wife? Do his parents approve of the match?”

“Well, not exactly—” In fact, they had forbidden it. They wanted an heiress for Percy, since he was unlikely to inherit. And Lady Pamela, while a lovely creature, would come to her marriage with little, considering her father’s shaky finances.

“And if his parents don’t approve of the match, do you honestly think they will take you – the one who helped to make this mésalliance happen – into their employ?”

Oh, that had never occurred to her! As Pamela had laid out her plans, it seemed so simple. And now . . . “You don’t think I’ll be—”

“You’ll be dismissed without references, gel. You’ve landed yourself in a great deal of trouble.”

Ella’s breath froze in her throat. No, it couldn’t be. But, in her heart, she knew the truth. Tears welled up in her eyes. Oh, she was done for.

“Now, now, no need for all that. It isn’t your fault – entirely – that this Lady Pamela is a headstrong piece, not that her ladyship is like to see it that way. Still, I can see you haven’t changed a bit. You romantic thing. You likely thought Lady Pamela’s marriage would be just like your parents’, didn’t you? But your mother fully understood the consequences that her marriage wrought.”

Ella nodded. Her own parents had made a runaway marriage and been blissfully happy despite the family cutting their daughter off completely. Her grandparents had even refused to acknowledge Ella.

“They loved each other, and they never lacked for anything, and neither will Lady Pamela,” Ella said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. Despite her father being an officer with no background, her aristocratic mother had been more than content to follow him. The likelihood of the pampered Lady Pamela living happily in reduced circumstances wasn’t so certain. Not even with Lord Percy at her side. For he was just as spoiled. “Oh, Mrs Garraway, I am in ever so much of a coil.”

“That you are, lass. That you are.” Then Mrs Garraway smiled. “But it is your good luck that I’ve found you when I did. The Colonel is being sent back to Portugal and I am off with him. We sail in the morning, and you will come with us. I’ve missed you, gel. So after her ladyship sends you off with a flea in your ear and you are in complete disgrace, make haste to the docks, so you can come and keep me company in my dotage. That is, if you don’t mind coming to Portugal? Better than the streets of London, I have to say.”

Ella didn’t know what to say. So she threw herself into the lady’s arms and hugged her tight. “Oh, Mrs Garraway, whatever have I done to deserve you?”

“You might not say that in a few months when you’ve grown tired of me!” she laughed, a fond glow in her eyes. “Oh, now, don’t gape so, gel.” She glanced again at Ella’s costume. “I must say, dear girl, you are going into your disgrace in an elegant fashion. You sewed that costume, didn’t you?”

“You would know, you taught me every stitch,” she said, finally finding her voice, and swiping at the tears that had bubbled up in her eyes.

“I might have taught you how, but you have an eye, lass. Your mother’s eye for colour. And for handsome fellows, I must say. Whoever is that swain of yours?” The lady grinned and glanced at the door, for the music was striking up again.

“I don’t know,” Ella confessed. “But he is so handsome, and so kind. Yet, I am hardly—”

“Bah! He’d be lucky to have you,” the lady said. “And if things were different . . .” The dear woman sighed and hugged her one more time. “Oh, Ella, it isn’t fair, but it is the way of things.”

She knew exactly what Mrs Garraway meant. If Ella wasn’t in service . . . if her parents hadn’t married in disgrace . . . If she were really a lady . . .

Mrs Garroway took Ella’s mask and tied it on to her face once again. “Never you mind, gel. I was young once. And in love. Besides, that knight you’ve found is a handsome devil. I’d dance with him too if I was your age. Do more than dance, I daresay,” she said with a laugh.

Ella blushed. “I never imagined—” Her fingers went to her lips.

“Oh, so he’s gone and kissed you, has he? Good. Give you something happy to remember of this night.” She shooed her towards the door. “Go with him tonight. Make your memories, gel. Then come dawn, take your lumps from her ladyship, pack your bags – if she gives you time for that – and make your way to the docks. We sail first thing.”

“Mrs. Garraway . . .” Ella began, pausing at the door.

“Yes, lass?”

“However can I thank you?”

“Enjoy this night,” she told her, her blue eyes asparkle with mischief. “The reckoning will come soon enough.”

Enjoy this night. Mrs Garraway’s encouragement filled Ella’s heart with hope as she slipped out of the retiring room and paused in the hallway, wondering which way to go.

Back to the conservatory and hope her knight would come to her? Or back to the ballroom where he had been summoned?

Of course, then she risked running into Lady Osborn, who would surely be searching for “Pamela” by now. No, probably best to go to the ballroom and make some muttered excuse about not feeling well.

Then again, she realized, she couldn’t confess to being too ill. Lady Osborn, in some rare pique of maternal concern, might decide to take her home.

No, that will not do, Ella decided.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t for her to decide. Just before she got to the ballroom, her knight came swooping out of an alcove.

“Good heavens, I thought you’d never come down from there.” He caught her in his arms again and kissed her anew. This time his lips were hungry and quick and ever so wonderful. “Whatever is it that you ladies do up there?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, thinking of Mrs Garraway’s advice.

“Would you like a tour of the house,” he offered. “I know for a fact that Lord Ashe shares your penchant for military history, and has a fine map room upstairs.”

“Do you think that would be right?” she asked, looking up the stairs. The retiring room was the first room of a long hall, but one never ventured past the safety of the retiring room into parts unknown.

Then again, ladies didn’t kiss strangers in conservatories either.

“Upon my honour, I know Ashe wouldn’t mind in the least.”

“If you don’t think Lord Ashe would mind,” she agreed, all too curious.

He took her hand, and then glanced around to make sure no one noticed them. They darted up the stairs like a pair of wayward children.

Down the hall they went and into the study, where there was only the glow of coals in the fireplace. It was a grand space, with a large map table in the middle – atop it were spread several charts and city plans held down with lead soldiers. The table was ingenious, designed so that roll upon roll of maps could be stored in the cubbyholes built into the base.

Bookshelves lined one wall, while a desk and chair took up another corner. A long, wide settee, with a chair opposite, sat before the fireplace.

It was the sort of place she could imagine a general plotting his spring conquests. Then her gaze flitted over to the rare light in her knight’s eyes. It was the light of another sort of conquest. And when he caught hold of her and kissed her, she knew she should raise her defences, flee for the safety of the ballroom, but all she could consider was that this was her last night here.

Then it would be off to Portugal, to a life as Mrs Garraway’s companion. And yes, the dear lady would do her best to marry her off to some officer or other, but Ella knew it would never again be like this.

Like this starry brush with the heavens. As if the Fates had brought them together to remind them of what could be had . . . And lost.

And so Ella caught hold of him and held fast to what chance had offered her.

It was wrong, it was foolhardy, but if she didn’t . . . oh, if she didn’t, she would regret it the rest of her life.

As her mother had said often enough, If I’d had only one night with my Roger it would alone have been worth every bit of disgrace . . .

And that kind of talk was another part of growing up in army camps, travelling with soldiers, living far from the drawing rooms and strict society of London.

Ella, at one and twenty, had a pretty good notion of what happened between men and women. Having seen enough camp followers in her days, lived around the rough talk of common men, the physical act was no mystery to her.

So when her knight kissed her, carried her over to the settee, she wasn’t afraid. No, she was ever so curious. Ever so desirous – for he had awakened inside her an insatiable need.

They fell into the wide, warm depths of the settee in a tangle of limbs.

They kissed, deeply, hungrily, until it seemed to flame a fire of need neither could deny.

He kissed her neck, sending tendrils of desire dancing through her limbs. He freed one of her breasts and kissed it tenderly, taking the nipple into his mouth and sucking on it – first slowly, gently, then pulling it deeply into his mouth. At the same time, he tormented the other with his hand, bringing both nipples to taut points.

Ella arched beneath his touch, his kiss, for he was bringing her body to life. When his hand slid beneath her gown, ran up her leg, up her thigh, touched her so intimately, traced circles around the tight, throbbing nub hidden there, instead of being shocked, she gasped, for his teasing touch only made the torment so much more inescapable. She sought out his lips and kissed him, her hands ran beneath his surcoat, around his leggings.

Unlike breeches, his leggings left no means to conceal what was beneath them – a hard masculine line straining to be freed. And she ached to release him. Find her own release from this wild fire he stoked inside her. So she brazenly traced her fingers over his form, stroked him, boldly reaching inside his leggings to free him.

He moved, instinctively, atop her, poised to take her, fill her and then, suddenly, his eyes widened, as if he were awakening from a dream.

He brushed the hair back from her face, his breath coming in ragged sighs. “You’ve never—”

She knew what he meant. Never done this. Not trusting herself to say the words, she just shook her head.

He started to pull away. “This is madness. We shouldn’t . . . But dammit, my fey little beauty, you have bewitched me.”

And him her. “Then take me,” she whispered, feeling the morning tide pulling her away from him. “Please, I am yours,” she said, shocked by her own bold and impassioned plea.

“Then you realize what that means. If I have you now, I will have you for ever.” His mouth curved into a smile.

But how could she tell him there was no for ever for them. That tomorrow she would be well and gone from London. There was no time for him to save her.

Save from the bonfire of desire crackling inside her.

“This is how it ought to be,” she told him, reaching up and cradling his face. To reinforce her words, she arched her hips up to brush against him, nudge him to come closer, to fill her.

She pulled his head down and kissed him. They began again, kissing and touching and exploring and the fury of their early moments became an exquisite dance. And when he entered her, he did it slowly, allowing her to feel the pleasure of each stroke, so when he breached her barrier, it was over and done and then there was only pleasure . . . Sweet euphoric pleasure that surrounded them both, drove them both until once again they were riding that wild cadence that had ensnared them earlier but this time it brought them both to a heady release.

Ella gasped as the first wave of sensuous gratification came over her, filled as she was by him, covered by him, surrounded by him and so she caught hold of him and clung to him, as her body drowned in the sweet pleasure.

And she wasn’t alone, for he made a deep groan and stroked her wildly and deeply as he too found his release.

He collapsed into her arms and they clung to each other, marvelling in the starry world they had found in each other’s arms.

A little while later, he rose from the couch and pulled her up as well. Glancing behind her, he laughed a bit. “I fear I’ve broken more than just your wings.”

She caught a glimpse of herself and saw the real problem – there was no disguising the fact that she’d been tumbled. Besides her dishevelled curls, the lost petals in her crown, the wrinkled state of her gown, there was no mistaking the starry light of wonder in her eyes.

Oh, good heavens, that is what it means to be loved, she realized, her hands coming to her cheeks. She doubted very much that this was what Mrs Garraway had meant when she’d told her to enjoy herself.

Behind her, her knight took her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, then he tipped his chin up and kissed her. After a few more kisses, he tried to straighten out her flowered crown and resettle it atop her tangled hair. He finally gave up and laughed at his own lopsided attempts, handing her back the fairy crown. As she went over to the mirror to set it to rights and make what repairs she could, she heard him say, “I never believed in the legend, until tonight.”

“The legend?” Ella said, distracted by the tangle of curls before her. Oh, good heavens, she wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow to be sacked. Even near-sighted old Lady Osborn would be able to see what she’d done.

“The Ashe legend,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled on his boots. “About finding a bride at the ball. I had rather thought it a bit of madness cooked up to get reluctant heirs to marry.”

Ella stepped back and eyed her work – not bad, she almost looked as she had earlier, save one missing earbob. Turning to look for it, she told him, “Well, you needn’t fear such a legend, because I believe it only applies to Lord Ashe.”

Then there was a long silence, one that said more than a declaration of the truth.

Lord Ashe? “No!” she gasped, as she slowly raised her gaze to his. He couldn’t be.

“I thought you knew,” he said. “But it is no matter, the only problem is my mother.”

“Your mother?” she forced past her suddenly parched throat.

“Yes. She’ll be crowing for weeks. She worked over that damned invitation list of hers and vowed I would find a suitable bride tonight. She left nothing to chance as she wanted me well matched. And now I am. Perfectly so.”

“And you think—” It was all Ella could manage to get out.

“That you are perfect? Yes, in every way.”

Ella groaned. “Oh, this cannot be.” He couldn’t be Lord Ashe.

“I thought you knew,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No, I never!”

“Does it make a difference?”

However was she to answer that? Did it make a difference to her? No, he was still the most wonderful man she’d ever met. But he thought her to be a lady. One of his mother’s eligible misses.

Not Ella Cynders, a mere companion. Make that a “disgraced-without-references-and-unemployed” companion.

Suddenly the blare of a trumpet pierced the solitude that had surrounded them.

“Excellent,” he said. “Time for the unmasking and our announcement.” He held out his hand for her.

“Announcement?”

“Of our engagement.” He drew her close again and kissed her forehead. “That was the point of the ball. So I could find a bride. And I have found you. If you think I am letting you go, you are most mistaken.”

“But I-I-I . . .” she stammered. “That is . . . Oh, the devil take me, this is happening too fast.”

He glanced at her as he towed her from the room. “Don’t you want to get married?”

“Well, yes,” she said without thinking, for she was too busy trying to find a way out of this muddle. She couldn’t be unmasked, couldn’t have him announce his engagement to a mere hired companion.

He’d be the laughing stock of London.

She had to tell him, and tell him quickly, that she couldn’t be his bride.

“I suppose you will want to tell your guardian first. Of course,” Lord Ashe was saying as he drew her closer and closer to the ballroom. “That is understandable.”

Tell her guardian? She didn’t have a guardi . . . Ella’s panic had her digging her heels into the carpet. Not that Ashe noticed her reluctance. He all but carried her along, as if her leaden steps were nothing of note.

As for Ella . . . She had to imagine that Mrs Garraway’s ship wouldn’t be sailing soon enough to get her out of London. Lady Osborn would have her thrown in Newgate before the sun was up, for bringing this scandal down upon them.

If I can find Mrs Garraway, maybe she can help, Ella thought desperately. Maybe she can get me out of here before . . .

Just then they slipped into the ballroom and Lord Ashe turned to her, beaming. “Go speak to your guardian and be ready when I call for you.” He winked. “Just for a few more moments, and then you will be mine always.” Before she could stop him, before she could confess the truth, he turned and strode confidently, proudly, through the crowd, towards the dais where his mother was waiting for him to announce the unmasking.

Ella drew an unsteady breath as he moved away from her. The further he went the more she felt him slipping away.

“There you are!” Lady Osborn said, coming up from behind her. “Where have you been, Pamela?” And then she looked at the young lady she assumed was her daughter.

Ella had to imagine that her hasty attempt to salvage her costume and her tumbled hair had failed given the lady’s wide-eyed expression of horror.

“What have you done?” she hissed, coming closer and taking Ella by the arm, dragging her towards the door. “Who did this to you? Is it that wretched Lord Percy? Because if he thinks to press his suit in this sort of despicable manner, he is sadly mistaken. Your father and I will never allow you—” By now Lady Osborn had dragged Ella out to the foyer and had her pinned in an alcove. The lady stood so close that not only could she see every bit of evidence of Ella’s rumpled condition, but one other pertinent fact.

That the girl she held wasn’t her daughter.

“Ella!” she said, releasing her and stepping back.

“Lady Osborn,” Ella replied, tipping her head, and fixing her gaze on the floor.

The matron glanced around and then caught Ella by the arm, rattling her like a rag doll. “Where is my daughter?”

Ella bit her lip and tried to speak. She tried to confess the truth, but the woman was hurting her, her unforgiving grasp like a pair of steel pinchers.

“Never mind, I can guess.” Lady Osborn pulled her towards the door. “She’s run off with that wicked boy.”

Ella took a furtive glance at the ballroom, where Lord Ashe stood unmasked. She could see him scanning the room, looking for her.

The last thing she saw before Lady Osborn hauled her out the door was the startled expression on his handsome face as he caught sight of her.

But it was too late. Ella was about to pay the piper for her impetuous nature and there was naught her knight could do to reach her in time.

Four

The Ashe Ball – 1815

Ella took a deep breath when the carriage stopped before the Ashe townhouse. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t.

But now it was far too late to back out, for too many others had put their own employment on the line for her to disavow them.

Oh, Hazel, what did I let you do? she thought, as the handsome footman – one of three – opened the door and held out his hand to her. This was all Hazel’s doing – the elegant carriage driven by a well-appointed set of matching white horses, a coachman, and three footmen, all courtesy of the Marquess of Holbech, who was currently in Scotland at his hunting box and had no knowledge of his brand-new and as-yet-unmarked carriage being used in this manner.

But Hazel’s flirtatious romance with one of his footmen was enough to gain its illicit use. And, as it turned out, the Marquess’ old coachman had a romantic streak. He managed to rummage up some old, unremarkable livery for them to wear so they wouldn’t be identified.

“Remember, madam,” Hazel’s swain said quietly as he handed Ella down to the kerb. “Before midnight. We must be away.”

She nodded, drawing her cloak around her and pulling its hood down over her face. She ascended the stairs to the grand front door. Other guests were arriving as well and there was a bit of a queue to enter – for each guest had to present their invitation to pass inside.

As she neared the door, a familiar voice cut through the excited whispers around her. “I say, I have an invitation but it was stolen!” Lady Fitzsimon complained. “Now let us in!”

Ella glanced up to find the matron and her daughter standing before the butler, holding up the procession. Ella was glad for her mask, and did a second check to make sure her gown wasn’t showing under the concealing cloak. But still, if the lady recognized her . . .

Not that this was likely to happen, for Lady Fitzsimon was in a rare mood, facing down the Ashe butler like Wellington’s troops charging forth. She was going to breach this party if it took her all night.

The butler snapped his fingers at one of the footmen to continue checking invitations so the front steps didn’t turn into a crush.

Ella handed over her invite and held her breath until the man waved her inside, and began checking the invitations of the others behind her. She hurried along, Lady Fitzsimon’s shrill notes chasing her inside.

“I say, I was invited!” the matron complained, her voice rising sharply, almost hysterically. “I will not be denied entrance. If you would but tell Lady Ashe to come to the door, she would order you immediately to admit me and my daughter.”

“Madam,” the butler intoned, “Lady Ashe’s rules are simple. No invitation, no entrance.”

A tall, graceful lady and her equally noble husband came to a stop beside Ella. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Lady Fitzsimon and then back at Ella. “Dreadful woman. No manners.”

“Yes, quite,” Ella replied, imitating the same bored, elegant tones.

“Oh, heavens, I can’t recall where the retiring room is,” the woman said, before turning to one of the footmen. “Which way?”

He bowed slightly and then pointed up the stairs, not that Ella needed directions. She’d imagined the Ashe house over and over these past five years.

“Come along, my dear,” the lady said. “I do so hate going up alone.”

As they made their way up the stairs, Ella shot a glance towards the ballroom, searching for her knight errant. But in the crowd of guests, it was impossible to find him – then again, she remembered, he would be in costume.

Not that she thought he could hide his identity from her. Not even after all these years. Still, whatever was she going to say to him?

They went upstairs and, to Ella’s relief, Hazel and Martha were there, helping the guests and making small repairs to various ladies’ costumes. Madame Delaflote often hired them out, at a considerable profit, to provide these services.

Hazel nudged Martha when Ella arrived, and Hazel hurried over to help her take off her cloak.

The moment the cloak was removed, an awed hush came over the crowded room, as all eyes turned towards Ella. Her costume, her hair – done up in a cascade of curls that fell down to her back – the glitter of the silver embroidery, and the soft glow of a thousand seed pearls, caused a sensation.

“You made it in,” Hazel whispered, as she checked Ella’s back to make certain her wings were still intact.

“Yes, your friends played their part perfectly.”

The girl grinned. “This is the best lark—”

“That could end with us all being sacked. Lady Fitzsimon is downstairs determined to get in.”

Hazel waved her off. “Let her try. She hasn’t an invitation. As for being sacked . . .” The girl shrugged and then glanced around the room. Every eye was on the two of them. Well, on Ella. Hazel went back to work, with her nose in the air, setting Ella’s gown to rights. “We’ll not be sacked. For when you are Lady Ashe, Madame Delaflote won’t dare.” She knelt down and straightened the hemline. And with that completed, Hazel curtseyed slightly and said, “All is well, your highness.”

Ella’s eyes widened even as a gossipy trill ran through the room.

“A princess?”

“But from where?”

“Have you seen such a gown?”

Hazel sent her a cheeky wink and then there was nothing left for Ella to do but to go and face her past.

Lord Ashe stood in the ballroom and watched the parade of masked and costumed debutantes, ladies and likely brides stroll past.

But none of them was her.

And tonight was his last chance to find her. Not that he had much hope left. For every year, as each subsequent ball came and went, and she hadn’t arrived, he’d begun to wonder if she’d ever existed, his lady in green silk.

Where are you? he mused. We are running out of time.

Then a strange hushed air moved through the crowd, followed by a tremor of whispers. One after another, the guests turned towards the entrance to gaze at the latest arrival.

Ashe stilled as he spied the graceful lady making her entrance.

No, it couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be.

But then she turned her head and he spied something he had dared not hope to see. For on the back of her costume perched a pair of gossamer wings. Fairy wings.

Ashe pushed his way forwards without thinking. He ignored the insulted gasps of his guests pressing his way through the crowd, even as speculative whispers whirled around him.

“A princess, I heard.”

“Russian, I believe.”

“Wherever did she get that costume?”

Then before he realized it, she stood before him.

“You!” he exclaimed. “I’ve found you!”

She smiled at him, her blue eyes twinkling behind her mask. “No, I believe I found you.”

“It doesn’t matter how you’ve come back,” he told her, catching her by the hand and drawing her into his arms. “I won’t lose you again.” Then, to seal his vow, his head dipped down and his lips captured hers.

The night from five years ago came back to him in rich clarity. It was her, the same sweet response, the same curves, the same soft sigh as he deepened his kiss and plundered her lips without any thought of propriety. And when he pulled back and held her at arm’s length, he could only exclaim, “Devil take me, my love, I cannot believe I have found you.”

“Believe again,” she whispered, raising her lips to his and again, they kissed, much to the shocked gasps of the company around them.

“I have imagined this so many times,” he whispered in her ear.

“You have?” She sounded surprised.

“Yes, of course,” he told her. “You left me bewitched and lost that night.”

“I did?” Truly, how could she be so surprised? Hadn’t that night meant as much to her?

“Yes, you did,” he told her with every bit of his heart, and an unabashed grin from ear to ear.

Her eyes sparkled beneath her mask. “And now?”

He grinned even more if that was possible. “I am still yours, my fey sweet love, if you will have me.”

“I . . .” she stammered, much as she had years before, and he realized he had to tread carefully lest he frighten her off yet again. He hadn’t another five years to wait.

The musicians struck up their instruments and Ashe smiled at her, holding her slim hand in his. “Come, you owe me this dance. One of many, I might add. I’ve been waiting all these years for your return.”

He unmasked himself then led her out to the dance floor, to the amazed and scandalized stares of his guests. For it appeared to one and all that the Ashe legend was about to come true and the viscount had found his bride.

More than one matron with an unmarried daughter in tow and her hopes now dashed for an advantageous marriage, cursed this interloper, this princess from out of nowhere.

Ashe led her out to where the couples were lining up for the first set and, when the music began, it was as if time had not moved a tick since the ball five years earlier.

“Your hair is red,” he teased as they came together.

“Are you disappointed?”

“No, enchanted. It is glorious,” he whispered. He knew what it felt like, but now he could see the ginger strands and honeyed colours. He imagined what those silken tresses would look like spread out over his sheets, unbound and cascading all over her naked shoulders. “The colour matches your unmanageable temperament, as I recall.”

She laughed. “You remember!”

“There is nothing I have forgotten,” he told her.

They turned and moved down a long line of dancers before being reunited at the end of the floor.

“I see you found new wings,” he commented. “Did you lose your other ones when you took flight last time?”

She shook her head at him. “I outgrew them. Besides, they were never mine to wear.”

“So I discovered when I went looking for you.”

Beneath her mask, her eyes widened. “You looked for me?”

“How could you imagine that I would not?”

Once again they made their way down the line of dancers and when they got to the end, she turned to him. “Do you know who I am?”

He grinned and shook his head. “And I’m not the only one curious to discover the truth, my fairy princess.” Ashe nodded to the circle of guests around the ballroom, all gazes fixed on the two of them. “I believe you’ve created a sensation, Your Highness.”

She leaned in a bit. “There was a mistake in the retiring room – a suggestion that I am a princess.”

“Are you?”

His lady love laughed, this time heartily. “Oh, good heavens, no!”

“I am glad of that.”

“Why?”

“Because I suspect there would be all manners of protocol and such to marrying a princess, and I have no patience now that I’ve found you again.”

She shook her head and glanced shyly up into his gaze. “And it doesn’t matter to you who I am?”

“No. I was destined to find my bride that night, and I did. You wouldn’t have been there that night if we weren’t meant to be together.”

She laughed, a musical sound that brought back memories for him. “When did you become such a romantic?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “When you ran out and left me naught a clue to be found. You could have at the very least left me a slipper.”

“Or my wings?” she teased back.

“They might have helped, but I doubt the mothers of London would have appreciated me wandering about trying them on their daughters,” he said, before he leaned closer to her ear, “or asking them if their little girl had a cute bit of freckle on her—”

She swatted him playfully and danced down the line away from him. Ashe watched her every step and, when they rejoined each other, she said, “I see you haven’t lost a bit of your wickedness.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not in the least,” she replied.

They danced for a few more minutes in silence, just gazing at each other. To Ashe, she was lovelier than he remembered, from the gorgeous mane of red hair down to her slippers. She seemed less fragile than she had those many years earlier.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “And don’t you dare tell me you got married.”

“No, nothing like that.” She tipped her head slightly. “I went away. It seemed the sensible solution at the time.”

“Sensible? Not to me! And what do you mean, away? Away where?”

“Far away,” she told him. “I thought it best.”

“Best for who?” he said. “You stole my heart, you minx.” He pulled her close, closer than was necessary for the dance, and whispered in her ear, “Let me guess, you were deserting heartbroken men from one side of the Continent to another.”

She shook her head, lips twitching with mirth. “No. I haven’t been doing anything like that.”

“And when did you come back to London?”

“Six months ago,” she confessed.

“And why didn’t you come to me?”

It seemed an eternity before she answered. “I almost did,” she said, a tremble to her voice. “But I didn’t know—”

He stopped in the middle of the floor. “Know what?”

“I didn’t know if you would forgive me. Or what that night had meant to you—”

“Did it mean anything to you?”

“More than you could know.”

“Then prove it. Say you will marry me.”

Then came a loud outburst that drowned out her response. For a red-faced, furious matron at the doorway to the Ashe ballroom stopped the evening cold, as she shouted at the top of her lungs, “That woman is a thief and an imposter!”

Five

Ashe stalked back and forth in front of the breakfast table where his mother sat eating her morning repast as if nothing were amiss.

“I lost her, Mother! Again!” In the chaos of the Lady Fitzsimon’s shouted accusations, his lady love, his fairy queen, had managed to slip through the crowd and get out of the house.

One of the servants had seen her leaving through the garden.

Lady Ashe nodded and smiled and buttered her toast without a word.

“How will I ever find her again? I don’t even know her name.”

“You looked as if you knew each other quite intimately,” his mother said. It wasn’t so much a scold . . . But really, such a kiss! And in front of the guests. Then again, hadn’t her husband kissed her in much the same manner the night they had fallen in love? But he’d had the decency to steal her off to the conservatory on some ridiculous pretence that the oranges were in bloom.

“What if Lady Fitzsimon gets to her first?” he said. “She’ll have her thrown in prison.”

“Lady Fitzsimon will most likely get to her first,” Lady Ashe said.

That froze her son’s steps. “Mother, that is the last thing we want to happen.”

She shrugged and continued eating her breakfast.

Julian paused before the table. “How can you be so certain that Lady Fitzsimon knows where she is?”

“Because I, just like Lady Fitzsimon, know exactly where that dress came from.”

She glanced up at him and he looked ready to burst. Yes, he was in love with that girl and there would be no setting her aside. He’d loved her all these years and no other lady would brighten his heart. Good. It was exactly as it should be. So she pushed aside the tablecloth and pulled from beneath the table a set of gossamer wings. “She lost these last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he exploded.

Lady Ashe smiled, wiped her lips with her napkin. “Because I wanted to finish my breakfast before we went and fetched your future wife home.”

Ella emerged from the basement room that she shared with Hazel and Martha a miserable wreck. She’d been able to escape the Ashe Ball the night before – her knowledge of the house suddenly becoming rather convenient.

Once she’d found her trusty carriage and helpers, they had whisked her home and scattered into the night. When Hazel and Martha had arrived so many hours later, she had sobbed out the entire story on their sympathetic shoulders.

Now the morning had come and Ella knew the reckoning, the one she’d avoided all those years ago, was about to come to roost. But perhaps it was as Hazel averred – there had been no crime committed. Madame Delaflote had demanded that Ella pay for the gown, so technically it was hers. She had found the invitation on the floor of the shop. There was no theft whatsoever.

Not that Madame would see it that way. She’d sack Ella for bringing this scandal down upon her shop, she’d—

Ella’s wayward thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she parted the curtain before going about the business of opening. She spied a crowd of ladies and onlookers outside, all queued up and waiting for the shop to open. Several of them waved at her and others pointed at the door, in hopes of enticing her to open the shop early.

Lady Fitzsimon stood front and centre with a pair of Robin Redbreasts at the ready. She hadn’t wasted any time and was here to exact her reckoning. But that sight didn’t frighten Ella as much as did the tall, handsome figure of Lord Ashe standing at the back of the crowd.

He was here!

Ella whirled around and hid behind the curtain. He’d found her after all.

Hazel and Martha had just come upstairs and were rubbing their sleepy eyes.

“What is it?” Martha asked.

“Is something wrong?” Hazel said, then glanced over Ella’s shoulder. “Is she out there?” “She” being Lady Fitzsimon.

Ella nodded her head.

“Is he out there?” Martha asked.

She nodded again.

“Well, let him in and see what he has to say. I still wager he’s here to propose. Then he’ll send that old cow packing.” Hazel pushed past Ella and went out into the main shop but then came to an instant standstill, much as Ella had done previously. “Oh, my stars! He’s brought half of London with him.”

At this point, Madame arrived, coming down the stairs from her rooms above. She glanced at the lot of them and sighed. “What is this? Standing about? The shop needs to be readied. I want—” She pushed open the curtain and discovered the mob outside.

She whirled around on her employees. “Whatever have you done?” But before any of them could answer, she took another glance at all the anxious and happy faces outside – well, except those belonging to Lady Fitzsimon and her police officers. “Oh, la! It matters not – I’ll be rich before this day is out. Get those doors open!”

Martha bobbed a curtsey, and made her way to the door. The moment the doors sprang open the shop was filled with people and a cacophony of requests.

“I would like a gown from that green silk.”

“Can you do my costume for the Setchfield masquerade?”

“I would like the same design of gown as the princess wore last night.”

“I want that gel arrested for theft! She stole my gown and my invitation!”

But the loudest and most commanding request came from Lord Ashe. “I am here to fetch my bride. Bring her out immediately.”

This stilled every pair of lips in the shop. Even Lady Fitzsimon’s.

“Gar,” Hazel whispered. “It is just like a fairy tale.” Then she pushed Ella through the curtain and into Ashe’s waiting arms.

And like any good fairy tale, it all ended with a kiss.