Chapter Text
June, 1815.
It was the end of the London season. Mamas everywhere fretted over their remaining ducklings. Truthfully, if a young lady had not yet ensnared a gentleman, there was little hope that this night would be any different. It had been a slow year. Few matches and fewer scandals. The most notable match was of Miss Kat Godwin to Mr. Quill Kipps – and he was a mere Mister!
The ton salivated for action. And tonight, there was the sense that the tides could turn.
For one, tonight’s ball was a masquerade. The illusion of concealed identity added a sense of magic to an otherwise ordinary event. Instead of ladies trussed up in the current fashions and palettes, there would be a smattering of Marie Antoinettes and mermaids.
And second, and certainly more importantly, the elusive Duke of Portland was in attendance.
“Lockwood?” The Duke in question, one Anthony Lockwood, turned toward his dear friend Mr. George Karim. “I’ll be damned, it is you!” George exclaimed.
Lockwood brightened at the sight of his friend, then smiled wryly. “And here I thought my mask would keep me concealed tonight.”
George snorted – a very ungentlemanly sound. A nearby debutante instinctively sneered – then, upon, realizing the pair next to her, began to fan herself. The men beside her were undoubtedly not gentlemen. No, they were both something more than that.
Viscount George Karim was the reluctant first son of a long-respected noble family. Most of the ton found his humor too sharp and his interests much too peculiar. Still, George was a viscount, which meant even an offended mother would fling her daughter his way.
Now the duke? Well, fling is too soft of a verb for the kind of force they’d use.
Anthony Lockwood was quite the catch. He was a duke, of course. The list could end there. But Lockwood lived up to his title to its fullest. He was charming, wealthy, handsome, in good health, known to be bright, and – to boot – rather good at fencing. This made him the most eligible bachelor in England. Sure, there’s that sad business about his family, but a diligent wife could bolster the Lockwood numbers in no time.
That lack of family was the very reason the ton waited with bated breath for him to select a bride. Lockwood was two and twenty, just returned to London from Oxford the year before. Any other man of his age – like George – would not be expected to marry anytime soon. But Lockwood had seemingly no relatives to speak of. Not even a far-flung cousin in America.
Which meant that Lockwood needed an heir. A spare or three to be safe. Every marriage-minded mama with eligible daughters expected him to settle down sooner rather than later.
So you see, there was no chance that Lockwood’s demi-mask could conceal his identity. Even if he were stout and unstriking (which he was far from), he was still a rare truffle in a field of hunting pigs.
Which is why Lockwood was hiding in the shadows.
“Coy doesn’t suit you” George noted to Lockwood, who clung near the exit to the gardens.
“Does it not?” Lockwood grinned. Not the grin of a coy man. “I have been here five minutes and have heard myself called mysterious a dozen times.”
“Mysterious!” George shook his head. “I’ve never met a man – or a woman – who loves attention as much as you do…”
Lockwood didn’t argue. It was true, he liked that he’d become something of an enigma. He was ambitious and he was, at times, a touch vain. His first season in London – the previous season – had been exciting (at first). He’d been a precocious, admired kid growing up in London – but as a (technical) man, he was the talk of the town. The apple of everyone’s eye. The object of every debutante's fantasies… and an opera singer or two. It was enough to distract him from the tedious parts of dukedom: the paperwork, the accounts, and so on.
Too quickly, though, Lockwood’s other ancestral duty began to shade his starry eyes. The duty to marry and beget an heir. Yes, he knew he was charming enough to entice the ton, but his title was what they were after. He liked attention, sure, but of his own merit. He was proud to be his father’s son. He hoped to bring honor to the Lockwood name and he did plan to have children. Continue the family legacy. But, he realized he desperately wanted people to like him . Not the duke.
And with this realization, the ton became less interesting. Much more tedious. So, Lockwood stopped showing up to their functions. He traveled. He worked. He spent time with his friends. But he rarely attended something so sacred to society as a ball.
“Did you see the gossip sheets speculating I left town?” Lockwood asked George, his mind drifting to this week’s edition.
“I did not.” George’s eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re here? To make a splash in the gossip rags?”
Lockwood flung his arm around George’s shoulders and said, “I am here because my oldest friend asked me to be.”
George looked touched – but he would never vocalize it. “I sent you an invite. It was a formality.”
“It’s your ball! I had to attend!”
“It’s my mother’s ball,” George corrected, “but… I suppose it is nice to see you. I’ve been accosted by so many ladies. Be careful, they’re ravenous tonight.”
“It’s the final event of the season,” Lockwood offered as an explanation.
George eyed him suspiciously. “If you’re so sympathetic to their plight, go dance with one of them.” He shook off his friend’s arm, daring him forward.
Lockwood opened his mouth. He wanted to voice a nagging thought that had recently taken root – but he firmly shut his mouth. As he always did, when his darkest thoughts neared his tongue.
His primary motivation for attending was indeed for George’s sake. But, Lockwood, well… as women often were, mothers of the ton were right. He did need an heir sooner rather than later. What the women of the ton did not take into account was that the Duke of Portland was a bit abnormal.
You see, he was secretly a romantic.
He couldn’t help it. His parents were blissfully happy together. They passed when he was young – so his memories were blurry – but what existed were warm and wonderful. And though his sister died a few years later, she’d spun tales of Donald and Celia Lockwood’s love story. The idea of a loveless marriage felt like an affront to his parents. But, so would failing to continue on the family name.
It was a bit of a pickle.
Perhaps Lockwood should’ve unloaded his fears on George. Perhaps, then, his friend could’ve rationalized his fears. Lockwood was young! He had plenty of time to find a wife!
Instead, Lockwood stepped out of the shadows. He looked out at the crowd.
This was the other, fleeting, secret motivation for attending tonight’s masquerade. Maybe there was a lady he’d never met. Maybe, Lockwood was more rational than he’d given himself credit for, and he needed to work at a romantic connection. Maybe…
But no. It was fruitless. Lockwood mentally chided himself for being silly.
Quickly, the hunters caught their prey. Whispers amongst the room rose. But, as Lockwood’s gaze swept the floor, the ladies averted their eyes. It was the same ladies he’d seen a hundred times before. Even in their amusing costumes, Lockwood felt no impulse to speak to any of them. In the rapture of their attention, he could hardly shrink away and disappear. He wanted to.
He eyed the front… itching to catch sight of the door. Of an escape route.
And, miraculously, Lockwood found a reason to stay.
All Lucy wanted was a night off. A night away. But, now, she felt she’d overstepped.
This grand masquerade was the perfect setting to pretend to be someone else. Ladies could pretend to be fictional creatures or historical icons. The ball was not, however, intended for bastards to pretend to be ladies. And that (a bastard) is exactly what Lucy was.
Lucy did not always know. As a child, she – and most of those around her – were unaware of her origins. She was born in Cheviot Hills, the daughter of The Earl of Northumberland. Lucy was the youngest of five daughters. The daughter of an unforgiving mother and a short-tempered father.
The first part of Lucy’s life was not one to wax poetry about. Her parents hated each other. But, it was an easier life than most. It was comfortable. She was well-educated, well-clothed, and well-fed. And, more than everything, she had hope. When she came of age, her options were to stay her father’s property or get married and become someone else’s. Lucy did not wish for butterflies and romance. She wished not to belong to her family.
And damned irony, she got her wish.
She was born Lucy Jacobs. The issue came to be that she was not, by blood, a Jacobs. When she was thirteen, Lucy learned that she was Lucy Carlyle. Her mother’s by-blow with a railroad porter.
The details of the reveal were murky. Naturally, it’s harder to prove the result of a wife’s affair. While Lucy did not particularly look like the earl, they had similar enough coloring. The what-ifs are pointless though. One day, Lord Jacobs discovered the truth of Lucy’s parentage. Her mother – who’d always treated Lucy particularly poorly – did not deny it. And the next day, Lucy’s life was forever changed.
It was bad enough that Jacobs’ last attempt at a child had not been a boy. Thirteen years later, it stung his pride that the girl was not his at all (in truth, if Lucy was a boy, he might’ve forgiven the indiscretion if it meant he had an heir).
The whole ordeal had been terribly confusing for Lucy. But the earl had made it crystal clear – she was no longer his daughter. She would no longer bear his name. He could hardly turn her out, the townspeople would talk, so he did the next best thing. Lucy went from lady to servant. And by decree, her mother and sisters went along with it.
The help at their country estate were sworn to secrecy. At the time, Northumberland was removed from London society, so no one noticed when the number of Jacobs’ daughters dropped from six to five. And thus, over the years, Lucy Jacobs was blotted from memory. All that remained was Lucy Carlyle – the unpaid, mistreated servant.
By one and twenty, Lucy accepted her lot in life. While Jacobs was not her father, she had a mother and five sisters. They were not particularly caring… in truth, they were caring not at all. They treated her worse than their other servants. But they were family. And they were the devil she knew. She had no money, no prospects…
The other servants were kind to her – especially the ones who witnessed her fall from grace. It was one of those kind servants, an older woman, who helped concoct the masquerade scheme.
The Jacobs were in London for the season, as they had been for the past seven years. Lucy often wondered if they dragged her along to torture her with the life that should’ve been hers. The likely truth was sadder. That they were not considering her feelings at all. She was more their maid now than a cast-off sibling.
Three of her five sisters were married and off somewhere. Once they flew the nest, they never returned to visit. The remaining two, the twins (Mary and Grace), were still on the marriage mart. Lucy was part lady’s maid, part scullery maid… really, whatever her mother deemed necessary. The earl had not shunned her mother for her adultery – and there had been little love to begin in that marriage – but Lucy ruined whatever understanding they’d managed. These days, the earl kept his purse tight and his physical presence up north.
For Lucy, every day was the same. Work, sleep, work, sleep, and so on and so on.
Until that fateful night. After her mother and sisters departed for the last ball of the season, the servants came to Lucy with a plan. A ridiculous, ludicrous plan to give Lucy a taste of the life she’d grown up expecting. They’d spruce Lucy up, conceal her identity with a mask, and send her to the ball. She just needed to depart before midnight – before her family could realize she’d ever been gone.
Lucy was in such low spirits that she’d thought the plan thrilling and foolproof. Without consequence. She nodded and let them do their magic. When she saw her reflection, she had to admit, she looked rather pretty.
Lockwood’s breath caught. In his periphery, he could see mothers and ladies approaching, but his focus was on only one woman entering the ballroom. A brunette in a deep blue gown and a silver mask. She was beautiful. Well, Lockwood couldn’t quite see her face, but the impression of her took his breath away. In an instant, she captivated him.
And he wasn’t alone. Quickly, a dozen people pounced on her. Lockwood’s chest tightened. This new arrival was not his sole discovery. Even his own admirers were temporarily distracted.
Without letting her out of his sight, Lockwood stepped back towards George. “Tell me, what is that lady supposed to be?”
“You’ll have to be more precise. There’s a great deal of ladies here.”
“The lady in blue.” Lockwood searched this mind for a more helpful indicator. All he came up with was, “The pretty one.”
“They’re all in masks! I don’t-” George followed Lockwood’s singular gaze. “Oh! I see. Well, that’s no fun. Why bother with a costume party if you’re not going to partake!”
“Did you partake?” Anthony glanced at his friend.
“I’m Sir Isaac Newton!”
“Huh. That explains the wig. Well, she – ah. I…” Lockwood stumbled for words, looking back at the woman. She looked positively overwhelmed. Not blushing, not shrinking, or even coy, but simply… surprised.
George raised a brow. “Who is she? This one in blue?
“I don’t recognize her.” Lockwood sounded dismayed at this.
“I thought we established that these masks do very little.”
“Even without the mask. I’m quite certain I’ve never seen her before.” Lockwood insisted. “Have you?”
“Well…” George squinted, “No. But surely we don’t know every lady in the ton.” Lockwood looked unsure but George continued. “Well, you have been gone all season. Perhaps it’s a debutante. How charitable Lockwood, to set your eyes on the newly chopped liver…”
George said something else. Lockwood didn’t hear. His feet were carrying him, without any forethought, over to the lady in blue. It suddenly felt pertinent that he made her acquaintance.
As he approached, her eyes happened to land on him. For a fleeting moment, the two took each other in. He expected to find the typical hunger there. The hunger for a title. This woman in blue… for a moment he wondered if there was a more interesting hunger in her eyes. No. That was not right in a room full of blushing ladies. But, mere curiosity? That was even curiouser. Everyone in this room knew who he was. And yet.
This woman clearly had no idea who Lockwood was. His need to know her became urgent.
Lucy could not make out the mutterings of the men around her. A tall, dark-haired man in a black demi-mask was beeling towards her. And while this whole affair was overwhelming, to be the object of this man’s attention felt important. It felt right.
Someone to her side asked if she wanted to dance. Before she could respond, the dark-haired man had arrived. And he said smoothly, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but the lady had already promised this dance to me.”
Lucy met his eyes once again. They twinkled – clearly curious to see how she'd respond. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t be angry if she declined. He was cute (okay, handsome), and at closer inspection, could hardly be older than her. Younger than the men he’d just usurped. But he didn’t seem phased by this and the other men did not protest.
She let him take her elbow. And his grin! He looked so damned happy to have stolen her away. It was so distracting that it took her a few moments to process his request.
“I can’t dance,” she said.
“Do you not have permission to waltz?”
“No, I can't dance,” she repeated. “I don’t know how.” It was without teasing or embarrassment.
Lockwood didn’t know what to make of that. A lady who couldn’t dance? Who was she? He had to know, thus he had to rectify the situation. “Then I’ll teach you.”
Lucy laughed. A one-note, incredulous laugh. “You can hardly give me a lesson right now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s… crowded.”
He considered this and offered, “Then we’ll go somewhere quieter.” He didn’t mean for this to sound scandalous. He was problem-solving now. The only motive in mind was to learn more about her. If somewhere quieter was what it took, he would make sure no one saw them slip away.
Lucy sensed the potential of scandal. Someplace quiet was the enticement of a rake, according to the romance books she’d pilfered from her sisters. But this man’s intentions seemed honorable enough. And Lucy would be gone in less than two hours. She might enjoy a bit of scandal before her life went back to normal.
She studied him. Yes, she’d definitely enjoy a bit of scandal. And it would be fine as long as no one unmasked her. “Okay,” she decided. “Take me somewhere quieter.”
Lockwood knew the Karim household like the back of his hand. And George was rather amused by the whole situation – and willing to provide a distraction. More or less, this was how Lockwood and Lucy found themselves alone together on a private balcony, far from the rest of the party. Of course, they only knew each other as that gentleman and the lady in blue.
They were giddy as Lockwood gently closed the terrace doors. He could feel his heart racing. From the thrill of an exciting getaway, sure, but he imagined the company was more to blame.
“Who are you?” he asked breathlessly.
She walked to the railing and rested her arms on the ledge. “We haven’t met.”
“That’s for sure,” he breathed. “I’d remember you.”
“That’s kind of you to say,” she said gently.
“It’s true.”
Lucy felt a tiny stab in her chest. Lucy was playing a role tonight. She was someone else… she was transformed. And tomorrow, she’d disappear. She might as well make the most of this night. So she turned and said, resolutely, “I can’t give you my name.”
Lockwood could work with that. For now. It was a masquerade after all – maybe he’d accidentally found himself interested in someone theatrical. It would serve him right. “Can I know where you’re from?” He tried. “More specifically than the north, that is.”
Damned northern accent. It gave away more than Lucy intended. She shook her head.
“What can we discuss?” he asked, nearing her.
Lucy shrugged. “Anything, I suppose. Just not to do with my identity… but I assure you, I’m not very interesting.”
Lockwood practically huffed. He did not believe that.
“What about colors?” she posed.
“Colors?” He repeated. Dumbly.
She nodded. “Colors. My favorite’s blue.”
He grinned. She liked his grin. And his eyes flicked down to her dress… and back. “It suits you. Is that why it’s your favorite?”
“You know, I never considered why,” she mused. “I suppose I like the open sky. Being outside.” God knows Lucy hardly got the chance after her demotion in life. “What’s your favorite?”
“Hmmm.” He paused. “I like blue too.”
“But it’s not your favorite,” she assessed.
“I don’t… god,” he laughed, “I don’t think I have a favorite color.”
“That’s sad,” Lucy muttered.
“It is? Isn’t it?” Lockwood was obliged to agree. “I wear a lot of black. And white.”
Lucy considered this. “Those are colors,” she decided.
“Are they?”
“Not very fun ones,” she teased, “but I guess blue is mundane too.”
Not on you, he thought.
A pleasant silence descended. They were settled next to one other, back to the railing. Lucy glanced up at him, waiting for the scandal to begin. But the gentleman seemed content standing. Colors! Perhaps she’d ruined the mood. Or, he thought her daft.
On the contrary, Lockwood felt… he felt something like delight. Some would renown him the best conversationalist in London. On this terrace, with this lady, he felt no need to put those skills to the test. No need to entertain. He merely enjoyed her company. He certainly wanted to charm her but for once, he felt he was being charmed too.
“You promised me dance lessons,” she suddenly said.
That he did.
His lady in blue was a rather atrocious dancer. She really was not lying. Lucky for her, Lockwood was excellent. And he would withstand her stepping on his toes.
And Lucy – she couldn’t stop giggling. “I’m sorry! I-”
He shook his head but smiled. “I fear we might need more lessons before you take the main floor. I’ll have to keep you out here all night.” Instinctively, he gripped her waist tighter.
Lucy gulped. His touch and words were sobering. This dance business turned out to be a good deal more fun than she could’ve imagined – but up close, she couldn’t deny how handsome her gentleman for the night was. But he was being too much of a gentleman for her liking. And her time was running out.
“Did you really bring me out here to dance?” she said, serious – and a tad annoyed.
Lockwood straightened up. “Yes! Of course. Well… in truth-”
“Yes?”
He met her gaze. He looked nervous. “I wanted to get to know you,” he admitted with all the sincerity in the world.
I want to get to know you too, Lucy wanted to reply. Her heart ached. And it truly was her heart that responded to him, but that would only break. There was no future with this gentleman. Only the present.
So she took it.
It all happened rather quickly. Lucy reached up, cupped his cheeks, and pulled him towards her. Though there was a moment’s hesitation, he responded in earnest. The kiss started off sweet. It was a fairytale kiss – but this was no fairytale.
She deepened it. He groaned. Hands began to wander and they both wondered just how scandalous things could get…
And then gongs sounded.
Lucy pulled an inch away. “What is that?” she asked, hands still wrapped up between them.
“Midnight,” Lockwood muttered, pulling her back in. She got caught up for a moment – before abruptly pulling away. Her wide eyes were wide with fear.
He sobered. “Are you alright? What did I do? Did I – did I overstep?”
“I-I’m fine.” She shook her head. Her eyes began to water. “It’s midnight?”
“The gongs. They signal when it’s time to lift the masks. Are you sure I haven’t-”
She grasped his hands and held them tight. He was shaking – but so was she. “I’ve had a great time tonight, really.”
He was relieved but not for long. Lockwood heard it, the goodbye. “You’re leaving.”
“I wish I didn’t have to,” she said sadly.
The urgency from earlier grasped him again. He’d gotten to know her as much as she’d allowed – but it wasn’t enough. He gripped her hands tighter. “Please. Give me your name.”
“There’s no need,” she pressed.
“I insist.”
“I also insist.”
For a moment, he felt a pang of hurt. Did she not want to see him again? But he felt the squeeze of her hand. Though her eyes were growing wearier and wearier, she looked at him like he hung the moon. Many ladies (and women without such a distinction) had looked to Anthony Lockwood with admiration. But the tightness in his chest over this girl’s expression was new. It made him feel both incredibly weak and ferociously strong.
“I can start.” He sounded more steady than he felt. “My name is Anthony.”
“I…” Lucy hated feeling speechless. She should’ve never come here tonight. It was a disastrous idea. Yet… this was not a disastrous night. It was wonderful and enchanting but it needed to end. “I can’t give you my name,” she repeated.
“My surname is Lockwood,” he tried instead.
“I can’t-” Lucy looked pained. “I didn’t mean my Christian name. I can’t give you my surname either.”
“Then have mine,” Lockwood quipped, but god, his voice was hardly light. As he processed his own words, he realized he might’ve meant them. Cart before horse – but if he had been waiting for some kind of mystical sign to court someone, he’d certainly found it.
“Anthony,” she muttered. It might’ve been a chastisement. She might’ve been trying it out…
…But if she wanted to get rid of him, whispering his name was not the way to do it. Hearing his name from her lips, however, did surprise him. His grip loosened. She freed her hands. She lost a glove in the process.
Then, she made a run for it.
Anthony was hot on her heels, back through the house. He racked his brain for what to say. God, he’d practically proposed. How does one follow that up when the girl of your dreams is quite literally running from you?
“I want to call on you!” He’d gotten used to bottling up feelings. The sudden ones that burst forth were half-baked but genuine. “I want to know your family, where you live. I want to pet your dog – or your cat – and if you don’t have one, I want to buy you one. If you want. Dammit, I want to know your name!”
Lucy was on the verge of tears. She would never recover from this. So, when they arrived back in the ballroom, she disappeared.
Lockwood did not how she managed to get out of his sight. But she did. She was gone.
As he stood outside, watching carriages carry people away, he looked down. In his hands, he held a single glove. It was all he had of his lady in blue. It wasn’t much – but it was a start.