That Night on Thistle Lane. Carla Neggers

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      With a deliberate smile, she raised her champagne glass in a flirtatious toast, hoping the man couldn’t tell that her heart was hammering in her chest.

      Next thing she knew, he was at her side, an arm around her waist. “Dance with me,” he said, his voice low, deep and impossibly sexy.

      Phoebe nodded without saying a word. He took her glass and set it on the table, then swept her onto the dance floor. His movements were sure, fluid and strong. He’d obviously known what he’d do the second he reached her.

      She stifled a jolt of panic. A real princess would know how to dance better than she did. At least she had on strappy sandals that had seen her through several weddings and library events, and she managed not to stumble.

      “Just follow my lead,” he whispered into her ear.

      She licked her lips. “All right.”

      Somehow he got her arm in position on his shoulder before she realized she had moved. She felt the ripple of lean muscle under his black cape and noticed the stubble of tawny beard around the edges of his mask. She had no idea who he was and expected it was the same for him with her. She’d followed the instructions her younger sisters had given to Olivia and Maggie in applying her makeup, but she’d had to figure out her hat and wig on her own. They felt secure, and she refused to consider what would happen if they flew off, revealing her pinned-up strawberry-blond curls.

      The room spun as her dance partner whirled her among the hundreds of guests in costumes and masks in various shapes and colors. The feel of his palm on her lower back, the way he held her right arm—the way he moved with her—made dancing easy. He was confident, physical and strong, and Phoebe let herself pretend that he really could fight off bandits and scoundrels.

      “Do you know how to use that sword?” she asked.

      “I do, but it’s a fake.”

      “You’re a fencer?”

      He smiled but didn’t answer. The music switched to a faster tune. Phoebe barely paid attention to the actual music as her swashbuckler spun her across the dance floor. She was glad her dress was a good fit. If not, she’d have been bursting buttons and hooks-and-eyes. As it was, the dress revealed more cleavage than was her custom.

      She felt sexy, lithe, wanted.

      Not herself at all.

      When the music ended, Phoebe realized they were on the opposite side of the ballroom. She gave her hat and mask a quick, subtle check to make sure they weren’t about to fall off while her dance partner accepted two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to her.

      “Nice dancing with you, Princess,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

      “That was wonderful. Thank you. You’re quite a dancer.”

      He laughed. “I watch a lot of movies. You’re not so bad yourself.”

      “That’s kind of you to say. What should I call you? D’Artagnan? Are you a king’s musketeer?”

      “That works for me.”

      Phoebe sipped her champagne, wondering if their dancing had loosened a strawberry curl or two from under her wig. Would her musketeer care that she didn’t really have raven-black hair?

      What does it matter? None of this is real.

      She shut her eyes a moment, bringing herself back to reality. This was her secret night out on the town. She would be Phoebe O’Dunn again before dawn. Probably before the stroke of midnight.

      “What brought you here tonight?” her swashbuckler asked.

      Phoebe quickly reminded herself she was playing a part. Flirtatious, confident, rich. An Edwardian princess could afford to pay her own way to a charity masquerade ball and wouldn’t feel bad if she hadn’t. “It’s a great cause,” she said, settling on a vague answer.

      “That it is.”

      “And you? What brings you here?”

      He shrugged. “I owed a friend a favor.” His so-blue eyes narrowed on her as he drank some of his champagne. “And it’s a good cause.”

      The music started again, a slow, romantic song. He took her champagne glass from her and set it and his glass on a small table, then drew her into his arms and back onto the dance floor.

      Phoebe laughed, feeling light-headed and free. She didn’t want the night to end and yet she knew it would. Her swordfighter would go back to being whatever he was—a pediatrician, a hospital administrator, a lawyer, a Boston businessman, a professor at one of the local colleges. She would go back to Knights Bridge. They lived in the real world. He wasn’t a musketeer and she wasn’t a princess.

      Just for tonight...

      His hand eased lower, subtly, over the curve of her hip. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

      Phoebe did as he asked as he held her even closer. She had one arm around his middle and one on his shoulder, could feel the warmth of his skin through the black fabric of his costume. He wasn’t a man she’d conjured up on a lazy, hot, quiet afternoon at the library. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

      As they danced, she heard only the music, felt as if they were floating together, as one. When the music finally stopped, he kept her close as she caught her breath and opened her eyes. “That was amazing,” she said with a smile.

      His lips brushed hers. “You’re amazing, Princess.”

      Phoebe started to tell him that she was no princess, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want the fantasy to end. For a while longer she wanted to be a princess. She lowered her hand from his shoulder and opened her palm on his chest. Who was he, really? Did she even want to know?

      Then she saw Dylan, dressed as a cross between Zorro and the Scarlet Pimpernel, standing with Olivia in her Audrey Hepburn dress. They gave no indication they recognized her or even were moving toward her. Phoebe glanced around for Maggie but didn’t see her.

      Her swashbuckler released her and stood back a few inches, the muscles in his jaw visibly tensed as his eyes narrowed on something—or someone—behind Phoebe. “Excuse me, I have something I need to do,” he said, shifting back to her. He was enigmatic, decisive. “Will you wait for me?”

      “I will. Yes, of course.”

      “Do you have friends with you?”

      “I’ll be fine. Please, do what you have to do.”

      He touched a fingertip to her lips, then was gone in an instant. Phoebe watched him as he headed quickly through the crowd, his black cape flowing, his movements smooth and controlled.

      She hoped he would come back but wasn’t at all sure what she would do if he did.

      She dipped out of Dylan and Olivia’s line of sight and stopped at an hors d’oeuvres table. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her sister at the far end of the table in her gorgeous Grace Kelly gown. As a professional caterer, СКАЧАТЬ