Lady Wicked
Copyright: Sabrina Vance
Published: November
2011
Smashwords edition
Lady Wicked
The right of Sabrina Vance to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Also by Sabrina Vance:
Anything She Wants
Her Very Personal Assistant
Chapter One
London, 1816
Amelia fingered the stiff card of the invitation, smiling. Lord Hamilton’s Masquerade ball was the highlight of the social calendar with only a select slice of society invited. She had been on the guest list the past two years but even then she didn’t know what to expect.
This year Lord Hamilton had promised the most exquisite, most exciting evening his guests could possibly have. That, of course, was not hard to believe. The finest wines flowed at each one of the handsome Lord’s parties; there was the best in entertainment, and the most delicious food. Society would gossip about the ball for weeks beforehand, clamouring for a rare invitation. Of course, the gossip would continue for weeks after too, in hushed voices by the favoured few who had been there, and repeated and embellished by the fevered imaginations of those who had not.
Amelia had been somewhat surprised the first year she had been invited to the Masquerade. She had kept a low profile as befitted a single young woman of that time. Though without family, she had considerable funds. It was that which enabled her to enter society graciously, without making any great waves. That had been her intention. Already, she was considered a great beauty, but one with pleasant manners, good breeding and that crucial several thousand a year.
Her past was something of a secret. Through the rumour mill Amelia had seeded her own tragic background: rich parents who had died on the continent and left their beloved daughter everything. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Well, only by a few hundred years, and who was counting?
Everything Amelia did was designed to not draw attention to her, so that when the time came that she had to move on, she would do so quietly, without fanfare, enabling her to re-invent herself in some new city, moving on again when her lack of aging would point her out as something other.
Lately, she had been thinking the New World of would be where she would settle next, once the early pioneers had done the hard work. America sounded like a terrifically exciting place after her years travelling through Europe.
Living quietly was dull, but necessary, and it was part of what made her love the Masquerade so much. Some would call what happened on Hamilton’s estate, beyond the long driveway and the closed doors of his mansion, debauched. Amelia considered it the most freeing night of her life, the only time when a nineteenth century woman could be truly free, without repercussions.
The beauty of the Masquerade was the masks that Hamilton insisted all the guests wore. It was a given that each mask would be beautifully crafted, paired with the finest costumes that would ensure every guest was a true enigma. They were encouraged, nay, it was demanded, that they become a different persona that night, and allow that persona to do what they liked… to whomever they liked.
So on one night a year, Amelia became Lady Wicked.
Reaching for the costume laid across her bed, Amelia fingered the fine material of her costume. The silk had been sent from Paris, created into the exquisite dress by her favourite London dressmaker who had sewn delicate bands of lace around the low cut neck, adding ribbons to the neat capped sleeves. Dispensing with society’s rules on colours, Amelia had selected a deep midnight blue, with gloves to match.
The most important piece of her costume, however, was her mask. It was a delicate gold, perfectly fitted to mask her upper face and trimmed in black brocade with jewels pressed to the edges. She would wear it with a ribbon, tied it over her long near-black hair. Compared to the feathers, lace, filigree metals and grotesque casts, her mask would be a simple thing but it was exactly what she wanted. It was just enough to fit the rules, enough to blend in without attracting too much attention from the other revelers.
Her mind drifted to what Lord Hamilton would wear. The first year she had attended, she had thought he was the man in the peacock feathers, then the man in lion face, and others. It had occurred to her in the second year, that he simply changed costumes throughout the evening to ensure that his guests were never entirely certain which man he was. Perhaps he switched costumes with his brother too. They were a similar build so it would add to the confusion.
And that was all part of the fun. If no one knew who they were, the guests could do almost anything they liked, to anyone they liked, behind closed doors where there were so many secrets that no one would dare reveal what went on. It was a self-perpetuating secrecy act. No one would confess because no one wanted to be shunned… and everyone loved the illicit nature of their partying.
As Lady Wicked, Amelia would play her part. She would eat, drink and make merry. And if she saw someone she chose to know a little more intimately, there would be no society rules telling her she could not be forward. She had seen many intriguing, lurid, things at Hamilton’s Masquerades. She couldn’t help wonder how often the handsome and enigmatic Hamilton brothers participated. Perhaps, she mused, this would be the night she would take one to her bed, providing she could identify him.
A knock at the door made Amelia start. “M’lady?” called her maid, a young, solid-looking girl called Beth. “Your carriage will arrive in one hour. May I help you dress?”
“No, Beth. Return in a ten minutes to attend to my hair.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Amelia listened for obedient Beth’s footsteps fade away before she approached the bed. Stripping her simple blue day dress and undergarments, she laid them over the velvet chair, changing into her specially commissioned evening petticoats. The silk gown slipped over her body easily. Cut low on the bosom as was the fashion and skimming over her hips, it was demure and elegant but still whispered expensive.
Opening an exquisitely decorated box, Amelia fingered the jewels she’d collected over the years. Rubies, emeralds, pearls… ah, these were the ones she wanted. A glittering diamond necklace and matching drop earrings would be her only adornments other than the mask. They were far too precious for general wear, but the Masquerade was far from general. Hamilton expected the best, and he was going to get it.
The senior Hamilton brother was a fixture at various functions Amelia attended but he’d barely spoken to her over the few years she had lived in London. She often found him looking at her intently, his piercing blue eyes seeming to bore into her very soul. His dark hair was cut in waves, but that was the only gentle thing about him. Everything else about him spoke of raw masculinity, from his square jaw to the powerful set of his shoulders.
His brother was like a copy punched from the same mould, with similar brooding eyes and commanding body, but he seemed more outgoing than the older, brooding Hamilton. She had even spoken with the younger Hamilton a few times and found he had a quick humour that made him enjoyable to verbally spar with. She found them both strangely captivating and they made her heart race whenever she was fortunate to catch a glimpse of either. It was strange; she hadn’t been this attracted to any man in decades, never mind two.
Trying to glean information about the brothers was a different matter entirely. Everyone seemed to have a slightly different tale to tell about the brothers, and Amelia had soon given up trying to fathom what was truth and what was rumour. It was almost like they didn’t want anyone to know their true selves. She knew the feeling.
When the maid knocked again, Amelia admitted her and waited patiently while Beth’s nimble fingers wound their way through her air, creating pretty curls that would hang down her back, long and loose in defiance against current styles which favoured short curls and buns.
By the time the carriage arrived, Amelia was tapping her silk slipper on the parlour floor, black velvet cloak tied about her shoulders, the mask concealed in her reticule. That was another instruction of Hamilton’s. No guest would reveal their mask until they were in the confines of the carriage, away from public view. Even Beth hadn’t seen it. It was just another measure of how tightly Hamilton held the privacy of his guests. Scandal could wreck lives, and Amelia preferred to move on only when she was ready. Not when someone else decided for her. She hoped that one day, society would move on from such scandal.
The Hamiltons’ estate was a twenty minute ride through the bustling streets. Amelia kept herself concealed in the dark recesses of the carriage counting down the minutes until she heard the call of the gatekeeper. Only then did she peek through the curtained window, breathing deeply. The Hamilton’s house sprawled in the distance, torches flaming as carriages circled. Her heart pounded in anticipation.
Fiddling with the ribbons of the mask, she placed it carefully over her face, adjusting it until it was comfortable then tied it firmly in a knot, then a bow with trailing ends over her long curls. As the carriage rolled up the long driveway, she checked her reflection in the window and Lady Wicked smiled back.
The masquerade was about to begin.
Chapter Two
Lord Jeremy Hamilton paced the length of his library while his brother reclined in a larger leather chair and looked on in amusement. Finally Jeremy stopped, swiveled on his heel and aimed for the decanter of whiskey, pouring himself three stiff fingers.
“She’ll come,” said James, leaning forward to reach for his own tumbler.
“She’s late,” was Jeremy’s curt answer. “Why are women always late? They’ve had centuries to learn how to be on time.”
“Not every woman has had centuries to learn,” James chastised his brother. “Besides, I believe it is called ‘fashionably late’. No woman wants to be seen as so eager that she is first to the party.”
Jeremy tossed the amber liquid back and resumed his pacing. “She’s not the first. There were four and twenty at my last count.”