Jo Beverley - [Malloren] by Secrets of the Night

worn for the masquerade. She looked at it and grimaced, wishing she’d not played with it. She’d taken the plain, full face mask of shaped silk that Diana had provided, and amused herself by adding archedeyebrows, pinkened cheeks and a couple of fashionable black patches high on the cheekbone. It had seemed appropriate for a decadent, wicked masquerade, but now … ?
    She put it on, and saw what she’d feared: a grotesque doll’s face.
    She shrugged. It couldn’t be helped, and it must be done. She carried the tray to his room, balancing it on her hip as she unlocked the door.
    The room was bright and the bed was empty!
    Almost at the same moment she saw him, turning sharply from the window, a towel wrapped around his hips. It wasn’t a terribly large towel.
    Rosamunde didn’t drop the tea and toast, but it was a close thing.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, clearly wickedly amused. “Should I plunge back into the bed?”
    Eyes firmly turned away, Rosamunde said, “Yes, please.”
    Oh dear. So much for Lady Gillsett!
    She made herself look boldly at him, watch him as he strolled to the bed and slipped under the covers, discreetly shedding the towel. Lady Gillsett would appreciate every inch, and Rosamunde had to admit that she did, too. She’d thought him well-made when unconscious, but awake and mobile he was remarkable. By the time he covered himself to halfway up his chest, she felt a Gillsettian pang of regret.
    Only then did she marvel at how relaxed he seemed, and a knot of worry started. Between his first waking and his second, he’d forgotten the name of the place where he supposedly was. What if this time he’d forgotten his nighttime promise?
    Would she have to go through the whole thing again?
    Steadying her nerves, she carried the tray over and set it on his knees.
    He put a hand to it, smiling up at her. “Better?” He was teasing, yes, but perhaps a little puzzled. Did that mean he
did
remember?
    “You startled me.”
    “I couldn’t find my clothes.”
    “They’re in the kitchen being dried and cleaned—as best we can.” She couldn’t stop her hands fiddling with her skirt. “You were found in a muddy ditch.”
    He studied the tray, then picked up a triangle of honeyed bread. “I wish I could remember how or why. But clearly I could have drowned if I’d ended up facedown, and without that, I’d likely have died of cold. You have my eternal gratitude, Mrs. Gillsett.”
    Did that refer to their wicked arrangement? She wasn’t sure she
could
start all over again, particularly in daylight. “I brought tea and bread, but if you want, we can provide something more substantial.”
    He added sugar to the tea and stirred it. “I’ll admit to being hungry, but I’d better test my innards on this first.” He glanced up. “I do most sincerely apologize for being so foully ill in the night.”
    He meant it. He was, she thought, embarrassed, too.
    About being sick? Or other things.
    “You remember?”
    “I think so.”
    Rosamunde gripped her hands together. “All?”
    He was sipping the tea, but watching her. “I think I remember everything, yes.”
    It was clearly a very subtle question. After a moment to gather courage, she answered it. “Good.”
    With the slightest twitch of his brows, he settled back to tea and bread.
    Was that all he was going to say? Rosamunde wanted to ask if he was
really
going to do it. And when. And how—
    “Is the mask necessary?” he asked.
    She touched it, strange beneath her fingers. “I don’t want you to see my face.”
    “Then I assume you’re not Mrs. Gillsett of Gillsett.”
    Rosamunde’s heart missed a few crucial beats. “Why would you think that?”
    “If I have your name and direction, what point in hiding your features?”
    He was right! She should have known she’d make a pig’s dinner of this. She tried to recover. “I never imagined you’d come seeking me.”
    “Even less reason for a mask.”
    Scrabbling for an explanation, she came