“I am angry,” he said, fiercely. “I am uncertain.”

“But you don’t show it,” she said, her chest growing tighter.

“I can’t.” The whisper was the kind that shouldn’t have come from a boy. It was too grown, and Grace hated his father for it. “I can’t.”

She reached for him, her fingers traced the high arc of his cheek. “You can with me.”

He’d gone stern, then—stormy enough for her to forget the sunshine beyond the trees. He’d grabbed her hand in his, pulling her touch away. “I don’t want to show it with you. I never want you to see it.”

Confusion flared. “Why?”

A pause, and then his touch changed, and he wasn’t pushing her away anymore. He was pulling her closer, coming up to his knees to meet her. He set his forehead to hers, and they stayed like that for an age, Grace’s heart pounding in that mysterious way that young hearts do, with a promise of something that cannot be named, and a hope for something that cannot be imagined.

And then he’d kissed her. Or she’d kissed him.

It didn’t matter who did the kissing. Only that the kiss happened. Only that it had transformed them both in the way firsts did, making itself memory that could never be lost.

Memory that crashed through her now, twenty years later, in this room that felt like it had been designed as pure resurrection of that memory, which felt as though it had happened yesterday. As though it had happened only moments earlier. As though it was happening now.

She took a breath, grateful for the shield provided by the crush of people gathered around her, all agog at the elaborate decor, and for the mask and wig that protected her from discovery—not that anyone in the room who might recognize her would reveal her identity. After all, if someone knew Dahlia, then they had reason to frequent 72 Shelton Street, and that was a far more dangerous piece of gossip than Dahlia’s introduction to society.

“Playing at being a brunette tonight, are we?” someone said close at her ear.

The irony of the intrusion at that particular moment, as Grace dwelled on her anonymity, was not lost, though the new arrival was a more than welcome intrusion, forcing her to stop thinking of the past.

She turned to the other woman—a woman whose dark eyes glittered behind an intricately worked peacock mask—all while ensuring that her own masks, physical and emotional, were well in place. She immediately recognized the Duchess of Trevescan—who had procured the invitation Grace had requested.

“Am I that easily identified?”

The duchess smiled. “I make it my business to know everyone.” That much was true. The duchess had the farthest reach of any woman Grace knew—which made her a powerful foe and an essential friend.

“The wig is fantastic,” the duchess said, reaching to tug on one of the mahogany curls artfully piled atop Grace’s head. “French?”

“French.” Brought in on one of her brothers’ ships two weeks earlier.

“I suppose in your case, natural is a dead giveaway. It’s gorgeous, anyway.”

“I could say the same for you.” Grace dipped her head, allowing surprise into her voice. “I so rarely see you masked.”

The duchess laughed and shook out the skirts of her magnificent gown, sending a riot of silken teals and sapphires and greens and purples shimmering in the glow of the canopy, along with the explosion of peacock feathers that had been added to the costume. “You rarely see me masked because you regularly see me in a location that should not require masks, as you well know. Men never hide their identity when visiting their private clubs. Why should I?”

It wasn’t entirely true, but Grace could not deny the double standard that existed when it came to gender and pleasure. Nevertheless, she could not stop herself from looking about to see who might be listening.

“Don’t worry,” the duchess said. “The masks ensure that absolutely no one is interested in what we have to say.” She sighed. “You see why I much prefer to be fully identifiable?”

Before Grace could reply, the duchess continued. “I confess, having never seen you on this side of Piccadilly, I was rather surprised when you asked for an invitation.” She flipped open her enormous peacock-feather fan and added, “Are you going to tell me why you took such a keen interest in this particular party?”

“I have always been something of an arborist.”

The duchess burst out laughing. “What a tragic lie. I can only assume it has something to do with Marwick’s obvious search for a bride.”

Grace allowed one side of her mouth to rise in a little smirk. “No. As I said, I quite like moss, and where else can you find so much of it in city limits?” The other woman’s laugh faded to a grin as she added, “And indoor oak trees—what a treat! Of course I angled for an invitation.”

The duchess rapped her on the arm with her ridiculous fan and said, “I shall divine the truth, you know.”

Grace offered her most secret smile. “No, you shan’t, Your Grace, but I invite you to try.”

The other woman’s brown eyes twinkled behind her feathered mask. “Accepted.”

Before Grace could reply, the air around them changed, heralding something new and exciting. Not something.

Someone.

She turned to look behind her, and a thrum of heat shot through her as her gaze fell on a tall, handsome man in perfectly tailored black trousers and coat, white cravat starched to perfection. A simple black domino that was a mere nod to the festivity and not designed to hide his identity—not that he could hide his identity in this room.

The Duke of Marwick, whom she had not seen in a year, since she’d put him to his knees and thrown him out into the streets, stood not ten feet from her.

Six feet.

Three.

She hated the breath that caught in her throat as she took him in, close enough to touch if she reached for him. Close enough to notice how he had changed. He was still tall and lean and handsome, but now, somehow broader than he’d been, more muscular, and with a face that held fewer hollows, even as his cheeks remained perfectly carved below his mask.

Not that she’d ever mistake his beautiful whisky-colored eyes, with their dark fringe of lashes. And if they weren’t enough? That full, handsome mouth was his and his alone.

She’d marveled at his handsomeness in the club a year earlier, but tonight—he put the past to shame.

He’d been eating.

He’d been sleeping.

More than the physical, however, he seemed changed in other ways—his movements more languid, his smile easier—his smile existent.

He’d been well.

For a moment, Grace wondered if perhaps she was wrong, and it wasn’t he, after all. Except of course it was, because she would never mistake him. He was written upon her, for better or worse. Etched with desire and sorrow and anger.

Seizing the last, she watched his gaze slide over the duchess’s extravagant gown, taking in the wild costume even as she extended a hand. He accepted it with perfect manners and bowed low over it as she delighted in the treatment. “Ah! Another surprising discovery among the rabble.”

“Did you think I would not stay for the revelry?” He offered a look of joking offense, so utterly unlike him, and the room around Grace began to tilt.