One Night with an Earl Read Free

golden light onto the street below, where people milled about.
    Mingled among those who had chosen to simply wear their formal evening dress, there were all sorts of costumes. Peering out the foggy window, Beatrice could see sheikhs and Turks and ladies wearing breeches, and both sexes dressed in the traditional Venetian domino outfit. Most everyone, even those in evening wear, wore masks.
    Excitement was palpable in the air. She watched a man wearing a domino costume, the nose of his mask a long, gruesome thing, saunter up to a lady holding a blue, feathered mask to her face and whisper in her ear. She reached up and stroked his arm suggestively.
    Beatrice stared, fascinated, grasping the door handle tightly. She might be a recluse now, and she’d always been shy, but there had been a time in her life when she’d enjoyed such gatherings. And tonight, she could tell already, would be a visual feast. Just looking at all the costumes could entertain her for hours.
    She wouldn’t think about the repercussions of someone recognizing her. And she wouldn’t think of what would happen if word got back to her parents. None of that would happen. She reached up to touch her mask. She was safe. She was anonymous.
    The door swung open, wrenching the handle from her grip, and a blast of cool evening air washed over her. Squaring her shoulders, she alighted from the hack and stepped into the melee.

Chapter Two
    A ndrew Sinclair, the ninth Earl of Weston, fingered his champagne glass distractedly. He wished he were at home, studying the latest unclassified flora brought back from South America.
    But Madame Lussier could be very convincing. She’d come to his house last week, waving a card at him.
    â€œHere!” she’d exclaimed in her heavy French accent. Drew wasn’t even sure she was actually French, but she certainly liked to make a show of it. She’d stuck the card in his face. “Here is another one, since you failed to return the last.”
    Drew had regarded her calmly. “Good afternoon, madame.”
    She’d responded by flapping the card in his face again.
    Unperturbed, he’d taken it from her and read the fancy printed script.
    The honor of your presence is requested
    At the Masqued Ball of the Century
    Presented by Madame Jean-Louise Lussier
    18th May at nine o’clock in the evening
    Répondez, s’il vous plaît.
    Madame Lussier had exclaimed, “Do you see the last line, Andrew? Do you?” She came closer, pointing at the last line of fine script. “Do you?”
    â€œI do,” he said.
    â€œDo you know what it means? Non? Because you are not French or because you are simply a fool? It means respond, if you please .”
    â€œAh.” Drew frowned. He knew what it meant, but he remembered seeing no such invitation. Then again, he had been distracted. He raised a brow at her. “Why, exactly, are you here, madame?”
    â€œBecause you did not respond!” she bellowed.
    He stepped back. “But you just brought that. I haven’t had time to respond.”
    â€œDo not speak such nonsense. I sent you the invitation a week ago. A week. I gave you very much time. And yet you choose to ignore my efforts.”
    â€œI am truly sorry, madame. I did not mean to ignore you. Now, when is it again?” His immediate instinct had been to wave the invitation away. He had better things to do than watch people flirt and tease all night at a masked ball. However, he knew Madame Lussier very well—well enough to know he needed to tread carefully. She was a rich widow whose husband had been an astronomer, and though she herself wasn’t scientific, she had drawn from her seemingly never-ending well of funds to support matters of science in homage to him.
    Finding Drew’s scientific bent—botany—acceptable as one of her many scientific pursuits, she had partnered with him five years ago, and together they’d financed