Dearest William,
I've loved him since the moment we exchanged words. I fear, however, that he does not know the extent of it.
In reply to your inquiry, I do not wish to reveal my true self for I do not wish to be judged by you. I am afraid that you, too, will not find me to your liking should you know my secrets.
I had a walk in the park today. An orange leaf fell through the hole from aboveground. I kept it for it is a part of a world I may never get the chance to see. It sounds wonderful and tragic at the same time, is it not? Up there is a world so within our reach, yet it seems farther than a lifetime.
Your friend,
Lady Weis
*****
The Cinderella ball was probably one of the wisest and sensible occasions that Wickhurst had managed to come up with in Ysabella's opinion, for it was merely about them, men and women in the highest rank of society. It was about those far below who were never given far more choices than they deserved.
In the said ball, service people could come and join the upper class for one night of festivities. Everyone was equal.
Some gentries, of course, were too proud to come as they believe that associating with servants would give way for such people to demand for more. But for those who did not care like the Everards themselves, the ball was a chance for those underprivileged to leave their posts and be someone they wished to be. Some of them lived for that one night. Some dreamed for days until the Cinderella ball and they were not the ones to deprive these people of that.
Ysabella came with the entire family, save for Levi and his family who had already gone back to Standbury and their brother Benedict and his wife who were still in Devonshire—everyone else who were in Wickhurst had to come as ordered by their mother.
Their maids, those who wished to come, were dressed in gowns and jewels, their masks in place. Their footmen and even Jefferson, did try their best in dark suits, masks also necessary. The moment they all entered one of the grandest balls of the year, they were stripped of their titles.
"Will you go and see him?" Aurora whispered beside her.
"I am not certain I am ready," she whispered back.
Emma and Ralph were standing close by and she hated that her sister did not know what she was planning to do.
"If you decide to meet him," Aurora said, leaning closer, "will you confess?"
"I am not utterly certain of that as well," she admitted.
Aurora turned her head, her white mask glinting under the light. "Is that why you chose a mask that is almost covering your entire face?"
Ysabella cleared her throat. Emma was looking at her and Aurora. "Yes," she uttered, her hand absently arranging the mask over her face. It was white like Aurora and Emma's but she had personally designed it with sapphire stones. Emma chose topaz for hers.
They were not a family who mined precious gems and make jewelleries for others for nothing if they could not wear them with pride.
"If you are afraid that he might recognize you, you must not fear. Nearly everyone is wearing white masks."
"Unless someone intends to dance, I do not see how I can enjoy this evening," Nicholas droned behind them.
"You can ask Aurora to dance," Emma suggested with a slight grin.
"Yes, brother, ask Aurora to dance," Ralph joined in, tilting his black mask over his forehead so Nicholas could see the playful look in his eyes.
"Marvellous idea," their mother said with a clap of her hands. "Someone might take notice of dear Aurora if you do it, son," she added, pushing Nicholas in Aurora's direction.
"Go, brother, before Miss Randolph starts to think she is undesirable even for you," Maxwell dryly urged.
"Dance with him, Aurora," Ysabella said to her friend.
"But—"
"Nick is no longer cross about what you said to him in the parlour. I am right, am I not, Nick?"
"What?" her brother asked.
"Dance. Go," Ysabella whispered to Aurora.
Her friend sighed and faced Nicholas. "Very well, let us get this over with, my lord." She offered her hand and waited for Nicholas to take it.
With a groan, Nicholas reached for it. He guided Aurora to the dance floor as a Quadrille started, which urged Aurora to say, "You do know how to dance, do you? My slippers are new, if you must know."
"I do know how to dance, Miss Randolph," was Nicholas' reply. The rest of his words trailed off as they went farther into the dance floor.
Ysabella watched as Emma was led by Ralph to the dance floor as well. She turned to Maxwell, gave him a sweet smile and he groaned before offering his hand. Their mother merely laughed as her brother took her to join the dance.
As Ysabella enjoyed her time with her family, she was also looking out for any indication of Wakefield's presence. She found none. There were too many blonde men amongst the guests and the worst of all was the fact that all were wearing dark masks. What was it with men and dark colours?
As they danced and talked, Ysabella also enjoyed a glass of lemonade. Unlike their brothers, she and Emma never learned to love any sort of spirits, mayhap a glass of wine here and there, but merely for social etiquette.
"It is almost about time," Aurora whispered beside her. "Oh my," her friend gasped beside her.
"What is it?"
"I believe Adam Nimrod is coming toward us," her friend said.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. It is him."
"Well, then, never mind. He might not recognize us."
"Not if we stand separately. But a black-haired woman and a red-haired one together gives away too much."
She groaned. "I am afraid you are right."
"I suggest you go now. Go and find Wakefield."
"But it is not yet midnight and—"
"Better to go before him than later," Aurora whispered in a rush. "I shall cover for you."
Ysabella looked across the ballroom. Emma was talking to someone who must be one of their maids. Her brothers were lost somewhere among the sea of many colours. Their mother...well, the lady had somehow lost herself somewhere in the ballroom.
"Go," Aurora said, pushing her away as Adam Nimrod approached.
"I owe you," she said to her friend before she whirled to disappear into the crowd. She heard Aurora greet Adam but decided not to look in fear that he might see her.
After squeezing through gowns and suits, Ysabella finally found her way out of the ballroom and into the corridor that led to the library.
It was dimmer outside, almost dark in fact, but she could hardly find her way through the many doors. She had been to the countless Cinderella balls in the past to know where the library was. She briskly made her way down the corridor, turned right and then left.
Finally, in the eerie silence, she stood before the giant door of the library.
Her hand absently fixed her mask as she drew in a deep breath.
Could she truly do this?
*****
Wakefield did not bother to spend his time inside the ballroom. He chose to stay in the garden while he waited for the right time.
He merely came here for one reason. And he was hoping it would happen. He was hoping she'd come.
Just before the stroke of midnight he found himself in one of the corridors that led to the library. He paced at the far end where there were very little guests. Almost none, in fact. He practiced what he would say to her. It was exciting, yet it was scary as hell as well.
Once or twice he almost convinced himself that this was a terrible idea. But more than once he also realized that this could very well be the last chance he'd get.
If she ever decide to see him, of course.
Or mayhap she would see him but not reveal herself.
It was why he chose the Cinderella ball after all. He knew she might not want him to see her face so he suggested a masked ball. He simply wanted to know she was real—that she was living inside a body. Whether or not she'd show her face, he would not care. At the very least he could have this one chance to talk to her in person, to show her that he meant his words, that he was ready to leave his old life.
He resumed his pacing and scoffed at himself. If his friends would ever know of what he was doing for one mysterious girl, they'd make a feast of it. They'd spend their night at Grey's laughing at his face, his foolishness.
But this was not foolish. He knew foolishness. He had lived it for years. This—her—was not it.
He checked the watch he kept inside his pocket. It was nearly midnight. His hand started to shake and his breath came into short gasps. To calm himself, he decided to go to find the library. He ought to control his nerves while he did so.
As he walked, he wondered if he ought to keep the lights on inside the library. In events such as this, the room would merely have a faint light.
No, it would not be wise to wait for her in total darkness. Should she not want to reveal her face, he'd at least want to know her hair colour or gown so he could find her after.
He looked over his shoulder and found no one lurking near. He made the last turn to the left and found the library door. He checked his watch once more.
Almost midnight.
It was almost time.
He pushed the door open.
What greeted him was total darkness with merely the light from outside the estate shining through the windows. That same light gave way to a silhouette.
His heart stopped and he swallowed.
It was her. He should have known she'd be here first. She was wise enough to know he'd want to see her so she came early to extinguish the lights.
Standing in the dark, merely her white mask and fair skin were visible. Her heavy gown barely gave him any hint of her form.
Bloody hell, he cursed in his mind. There were hundreds of women in that ballroom wearing nearly the same mask and the same gown!
"It's you," he found himself saying. She did not reply. "Come into the light, please," he nearly begged, afraid to approach her. Behind him, in the corridor, was the light.
In answer, she turned around to close the curtain, enveloping the entire library in darkness. For a moment he was reminded of a child who did not wish for her secret be revealed. She had moved so fast that he was not able to catch anything of her form. What colour was her hair? Her eyes? He was desperate to know so he finally entered the library.
For a second he thought of leaving the door open, but he was afraid it would merely dissuade her so he closed the door, finally shutting off the light from the corridor.
The library was now almost in utter darkness. Light still seeped through the light curtains, but not enough.
He took a step closer. He took another when she did not back away.
And another.
And another.
But it was dark enough that he could not see. Her eyes glimmered behind the mask in astonishment, catching the little light from the curtains, but there was no way he could know what colour they were.
A part of him wanted to pull her out of the darkness and into the light, but she chose to be here for a reason.
Before him stood the very woman who understood him, the same woman who told him stories of folks he did not know, the same one who gave him comfort when he needed it the most. This moment was almost unreal.
She was here. Finally.
"You came," he said in disbelief, stepping closer toward her. She took half a step back. No words. No sound. Was she refusing to talk to him? "Are you not going to say anything? Should you truly act like a stranger after everything we've talked about?" he tried to tease, taking one step closer, closing the distance between them. He did not desire for this moment to be awkward. Rather, he wanted her to feel like they have known each other all their lives. He wanted her to feel the comfort she'd feel when she wrote those letters.
She made a move to step back once again but he caught her hand. The current that ran through his arm was enough sign. He wanted to learn more, he realized. He wanted to discover more of what they could be together.
"Please," he begged, pulling her toward him, "a name. I need a name."
She did not reply.
"Are you by chance, Cinderella?" he asked jokingly.
She swallowed. And then she shook her head. She was not appreciating the humor.
Wakefield's jaw tightened. "Then why did you come here? Why come here if you do not wish for me to see you or even hear your voice? Why, damn you!" he hissed above her.
A whimper escaped her lips and he frowned. And a painful realization struck him.
Was she married?
Was that why she could never tell who she was? Could not show herself? Was this the secret she was talking about? Was her husband the man she loved yet who did not love her in return?
It was possible. There were many unhappy wives all over the Town.
Had he fallen in love with one of them?
But it could not be! She never wrote anything that could have indicated she was married.
"Tell me why," he choked out, desperately staring into her eyes, willing his own to adjust to the light and see into them. "Why can't you tell me?" When she merely shook her head, he cupped her masked face with both hands, making it impossible for her to turn away. "Are you mute?" he asked in jest.
He heard the laughter in her scoff. His heart swelled, proud that he could make her laugh after all.
"Then tell me why," he whispered, his hand slowly taking her mask off. He dropped it on the ground as he leaned his forehead against hers. He was starting to hate the darkness. Despise it, really. His hands went back to her face and found tears in her cheeks. "Tell me why you came here. Why I can't see you. Why you're crying," he asked, his voice in rugged whisper, his lips brushing against her trembling ones. "Can't you understand the desperation I feel at this very moment? You know me yet you deprive me of the same thing. Half of me wants to drag you out of this room and into the light."
Another whimper escaped her lips. It brushed against his.
"But I shall not do it for I would not betray your trust," he whispered. "Do you trust me?"
She nodded her head and he smiled.
"Good, because you—"
The rest of his words, along with his breath, were snatched out of him for she suddenly crashed her mouth against his for a kiss.
Her hands came to his nape to pull him closer, snapping him out of his surprise.
He blinked in disbelief before he allowed himself to close his eyes and feel the kiss.
She tasted of lemonade, sweet and sour. Soon, Wakefield forgot everything else he was about to say for the need to feel was growing. He slowly took control, opening his mouth over hers, angling his head to kiss her fully. His hand cupped her face, his thumb tracing her cheek, one hand slowly coming down to caress her jaw, her neck.
It was as if he was sculpting her in his mind, engraving every edge and curve in memory.
He stepped closer as she clung to him. She was trying to tell him something in that kiss, as if she wanted to give voice to each movement of her lips against his. But all he heard was a soft shaky sigh.
Wakefield's breathing turned heavier as he urged her mouth to open and when they did, he tasted more of her, past the faint trace of lemonade was something uniquely hers.
The longer the kiss lasted, the more urgent he became for he knew that their time was also coming to an end. He knew not how he was able to tell, but he knew her. She would soon end this and whether he liked it or not, she'd disappear. So he gave it everything he had—every emotion, every longing. The desperation to prove that he was better than the man she thought she loved, the desperation to make this kiss the best one she'd ever have.
He had had many kisses and he could barely count them. He had had many lovers who offered far more expert samples of their expertise, yet nothing could come close to this.
This one was different. It felt passionate and...innocent. Yes, that was the word. And the amazing thing was that he was not entirely sure if the innocence was coming from her or him.
This was no longer just any other kiss.
He could say, for a rake who claimed and even stolen thousands of kisses in his lifetime, this was his first real kiss.
And his first kiss was stolen from him by this vixen angel in his arms.
He was lost.
And he found himself caught.