"His name is Lord Philip Daventry, and he came backstage to beg an introduction after last night's performance. I cannot explain... connection I felt the moment I looked into his eyes. I only know he is the one ..."
From the diary of Elise Marchand,
April 5, 1794
Essex, 1818
What the bloody hell am I doing here?
Not for the first time that evening, Gabriel Sutcliffe, the tenth Earl of Hawksley, mulled over the answer to that question as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against a stone pillar, viewing the bacchanalian scene taking place before him with a curious mixture of detachment and discontent.
Masked revelers in various stages of undress frolicked about the Viscount Lanscombe's moonlit garden, indulging in all manner of lascivious activities. In groups of two, three, and sometimes more, naked limbs entwined and gleaming with the sheen of their carnal exertions, they cavorted to the strains of music coming from the gazebo, where a costumed orchestra presided over the goings-on with admirable stoicism.
Those of long-standing acquaintance with Lord and Lady Lanscombe were well aware of what an invitation to one of their "special" affairs entailed, and Gabriel had known what to expect from the moment he had arrived at Lanscombe Manor. But he found he could summon none of his customary interest in the proceedings. A fact that left him more than a trifle bemused.
His forehead furrowing, he pivoted on a booted heel to face the man standing next to him with a frown. "This was a mistake."
At the disgruntlement that laced his words, his companion turned from his own brooding contemplation of the licentious spectacle to eye him askance through the narrow slits of a black demi-mask.
"And you are just now coming to this conclusion? You, who dragged me here to begin with? You, who insisted that I had hidden myself away long enough and needed a night of orgiastic debauchery to take my mind off of—"
Gabriel cut him off with a sharp, impatient gesture. "You can stop there, Stonehurst. I am well aware that I am the one at fault for our presence here. But had I known you were going to stand about like a waxwork with that forbidding expression on your face, I never would have made the suggestion. You've frightened away half the willing females in the vicinity with that fierce scowl of yours."
Royce Grenville, Viscount Stonehurst, shrugged a massive shoulder, his attitude one of careless unconcern. Reaching up, he fingered the long, pale scar that snaked out from underneath the edge of his mask and ran the length of the right side of his face, compliments of a French saber on the battlefield at Waterloo. Its jagged starkness against the bronze of his skin gave him a rather disreputable appearance. "I'm afraid since I came by this that members of the fairer sex tend to avoid me whenever possible."
He paused, then surveyed Gabriel with an arched brow. "But what about you, Hawksley? Those two luscious blond wenches next to the gazebo have been fluttering their lashes and sending you seductive looks for the last hour, yet you behave as if you don't even notice."
Gabriel slanted a glance in the direction of the blondes his friend had indicated. He had most definitely noticed them. Lovely and curvaceous, they looked ripe for just the sort of lusty sport he normally enjoyed. But he felt no desire to join them, or any of the other nubile beauties in attendance, and he was at a loss to explain his utter indifference.
Perhaps this was what those in elitist circles liked to refer to as ennui. Although, at only eight and twenty, he hated to think that he was already starting to lose his taste for such...
