Fairchild's Lady (Culper Ring Series) by Roseanna M. White

Prologue
    Versailles, France
    April 1789
    A mask provided no anonymity. Not for her. Remi would know her by her eyes if she let him look into them, know her and hold her close to his side all evening. The way he did at every other dinner, every other ball.
    But not tonight. The desperation she felt inside had been growing so long, and now it nearly choked her. She would escape, must escape, if only for an hour. Keep her eyes down and live behind layers of powder, feathers, and silks. Live, for once, behind the mask.
    She glanced up only long enough to assure herself that Remi was on the other side of the room, engaged in a conversation with Grandpère. Then she spun the opposite way—directly into a solid chest. “ Pardonnez-moi .”
    Hands gripped her shoulders to steady her, warm and large, and a chuckle brought her gaze up. “ Bien sûr , mademoiselle.”
    The baritone voice sent a strange trill along her nerves. Pleasant…mostly. Her brow furrowed as her mind flitted through all the men she knew at Versailles, all the nobles she had met over the years. She tried in vain to light upon who stood so tall. Had shoulders so broad, a chinso strong. A smile so charming, with eyes such a lively brown behind his mask.
    Coming up blank, all she could do was smile in response. “I am sorry. I was not watching where I was going.”
    “I shall forgive it.” He released her shoulders and bowed as the orchestra struck up a new song. “For the price of a dance?”
    Caution made her want to glance over her shoulder again, but she refused. She would take this one dance, this one ineffectual grasp at freedom. “ Oui .”
    The music she had heard a thousand times before. The dance she had performed too often to count. But these past years, only with Remi. Remi, with his possessive gaze. Remi, with his dangerous smile. Remi, with his crushing whispers. Demanding what she could not, would not give. Not until the shackles were firmly around her wrists.
    “You say ‘ oui ,’ mademoiselle, yet your mind does not seem to be following your feet to the dance floor.”
    That equaled a victory for Remi, too, did it not? That her every move, every thought must revolve around him. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and gave the stranger her most charming smile. “I am here, monsieur.”
    Again his chuckle thrummed over her. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
    Never before had her knees gone weak at such a move as they did now. Her fingers felt so warm in his, so…safe.
    As if safety were ever anything but an illusion. Like freedom.
    The stranger’s eyes sparkled. “I hope you are. The evening suddenly looked so much brighter with the light of your gaze upon it.”
    Flattery and charm—no strangers to anyone at Versailles. Yet the way he said it…she drew in a deep breath and let herself think, if only for a heartbeat, that he meant it.
    He led her through the minuet, his every motion fluid grace. Every female gaze, it seemed, was upon him. But despite the beguiling grin that remained on his lips, his eyes were frank. Without deceit. Confident, seeking, inviting.
    Was it possible?
    For the first time in three years, she dared to want. A conversation, nothing more. A conversation with a man who didn’t try to devourher with every sweep of his gaze. And so, when the set ended and the tall stranger led her off the dance floor and cocked his head toward a door, she made no objection.
    She left. Without a glance over her shoulder, without acknowledging that frisson of fear that clawed its way up her spine. She left. Left Mére, left Grandpère.
    Left Remi.
    The feeling of safety next to the stranger was surely deception, the desire to tuck herself to his side pure madness. But with the moonlight shimmering its silver magic down upon the gardens, she couldn’t help but think that a sip of insanity might be exactly what she needed most.
    Perhaps it would be enough to see her through the bleak forever before