Knightley's Tale Read Free

mollify her—she could always charm Knightley out of a bad mood. For years she had studied him, committed every facial expression, indeed, every quirk of an eyebrow, to her memory.
    Yet, tonight, he was a virtual stranger.
    Perhaps it was the mask. Dark and uninviting, the black silk hid his expression, especially the eyebrow quirk. She couldn’t read his thoughts or predict his moods. His mysteriousness was maddening. And exciting.
    But Knightley was full of secrets.
    Such as, where did he go when he disappeared “to London” for weeks on end and then returned, relaxed and good-humored, to lecture her on her meddling?
    And, why was he always shooing her out of his library? Not that that ever stopped her.
    As she shadowed him through the anteroom to the terrace doors—and how was he so familiar with these “demoralizing” gardens?—she vowed to herself that tonight would be a night of unveiling for both of them.
    With one step onto the terrace, her schemes abandoned her.
    “Oh my,” she breathed.
    This was no ordinary garden, but a fairyland—a fantastical outdoor wonderland of flowered trees and shrubs enclosing a glistening dance floor. Tiny lanterns hung from wires crisscrossing the sky twinkled candlelight onto the occupants below. A white gazebo to the left housed the orchestra, and thick bushes on the right opened into narrow pathways where people were disappearing or reappearing in pairs or groups.
    Even though no music played, the dance floor was crowded as were the chairs and tables scattered around the floor.
    “It’s breathtaking. Whyever do they keep this a secret?” Emma asked Knightley as he led her along the edge of the floor.
    “To protect the innocent.” His sneer matched that of the woman stalking toward them. Knightley tightened his grasp on Emma’s arm, but there was no avoiding the confrontation as the woman glared down at Emma’s clothes.
    Apparently, this ball had room from only one “Red.”
    Emma pasted on a placating smile. Really, the woman’s costume—a crimson gown and matching demi-mask—would have been unremarkable had it not fully exposed her breasts.
    As if no one had ever seen Lady Willingham’s painted nipples before.
    “Why you’ve come as Rose Red. What a clever disguise, Lady W.” Emma chattered. Knightley groaned. Hailing a passing waiter, he grabbed a champagne flute and emptied the contents down his throat.
    “Have we met?” Lady W was trying to be coy but her mouth was set in a hard line. It perfectly matched her tits. Usually they were covered by the sheerest of ball gowns, but Emma had always marveled after them. Could they, as the fables claimed, cut glass?
    “But of course. I am one of your greatest admirers,” Emma said smoothly. “You should wear scarlet more often. It accentuates your finest assets.”
    Knightley choked.
    Emma struggled to maintain a serene smile, as Knightley twisted his head to look anywhere but at Lady Willingham’s rouged tips.
    “My dear, you have me at a loss for I do not know your name.” Lady W was turning up the coyness.
    “Red Riding Hood, to be sure,” Emma answered sweetly, patting her hood more tightly over her head.
    “And she must not talk to strangers along the way,” Knightley broke in, pulling Emma into the throng on the dance floor.
    Well, at least she had gotten more than a grunt out of him. When they were out of Lady W’s clutches, Knightley waved for another glass of champagne. As an afterthought, he reluctantly handed a flute to Emma.
    She smiled into her glass and returned to unmasking other attendees.
    “Look there. I’m sure that’s Sir Osgood Fielding the Third dressed as the Frog King,” Emma whispered to Knightley. “He’s the man wearing green silk and sticking a very long tongue to the neck of that lovely statuesque woman? But why can I not place her? You see, the princess there? It seems I would remember a lady so tall.”
    Knightley wheezed and gulped more from his glass. In a raspy