A Heart's Masquerade by Deborah Simmons Page A

know how they are, the ton . They can snub you dreadfully."
    Cat bit back a reply when she saw Marie approaching. The maid spoke softly to Amelia, who dusted off her hands and rose to her feet. "Finish cutting your gladioli, dear. I think they’ll make a lovely arrangement for the foyer," she said. Patting her white hair distractedly, she walked back to the house.
    Cat sat back on her heels and looked unseeing at the cloudless sky, her mind returning to Ransom. She had never thought to see him again, and suddenly she had been dancing with the man.
    Resolutely, she stifled the tendency of her heart to soar at the memory. She would not see him again. There were few enough balls on the island, so she would avoid them until the Reckless left the harbor.
    She simply could not risk recognition. The captain had the devil’s own temper when roused, and she could not imagine him being pleased to find she had shared his cabin and confidences under false pretenses. She had fooled him, and that would not sit well with Ransom, not well at all.
    But he seemed deep in deception himself, for wasn’t he posing as a duke? Cat shook her head at such arrogance. And he’d treated her as though she were one of his tarts, gazing at her with those dark eyes...
    Cat shivered despite the heat. Annoyed at her reaction, she gave an especially vigorous clip to the stem between her fingers.
    She might have reacted even more violently had she known the object of her thoughts was but a stone’s throw away, examining a piece of porcelain in Amelia’s foyer. Officially, he had been shown into the morning room, but had wandered out in an effort to escape the stifling warmth there. He returned the vase to the side table and paused to study a portrait.
    A middling work, the painting depicted two golden-haired beauties, obviously related, although one appeared dainty and frail, while her taller counterpart held herself with more confidence. Leaning closer, Ransom noted more than a passing resemblance between that lovely and the intriguing Catherine Amberly. He turned from his perusal just as the other subject came to life, as a wispy woman with hair now white as snow.
    "Oh, dear. I hope you weren’t expecting the girl in the portrait, your grace," she said, waving a delicate hand at the painting. "Goodness, but that was done a long time ago." She smiled tremulously at the picture and for a moment appeared to be lost in her own thoughts. Then she looked up at him, as if seeing him for the first time, and smiled.
    "Good day, Mrs. Molesworth," Random said, bowing his head graciously. "I hope I have not called at an inconvenient time. I met your niece last night at the Grayson ball."
    "You have my leave to call whenever you wish, your grace," she answered before eyeing him curiously. "I suppose the morning room was a bit close. Aptly named, but most uncomfortable. We’ll go into the parlor, where it’s a bit cooler."
    Ransom’s attention was caught by a movement behind her, and he saw that her niece was approaching. Turning slowly, Ransom felt the air pulse with more than its usual heat as he faced her.
    "Ah, here is Catherine. I’ll leave you in her capable hands," Mrs. Molesworth said, her eyes twinkling, "while I see to some lemonade for us." She must have exited, but Ransom only had eyes for the young woman standing stock-still only a few feet away.
    The sun lit her golden hair, lending an ethereal cast to her beauty. His gaze took in the charming disarray of her tresses and traveled down the slim column of her throat to where the heat had dampened her bodice, leaving a triangle of material clinging provocatively to her breasts. The puffed sleeves of her white gauze gown revealed slender arms carrying a huge basket of gladioli and greenery. She could have stepped out of a painting except for...
    "You’ve neglected to wash your face this time, Miss Amberly," he said, surprising himself by the softness of his voice. He stepped toward her until he was