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listen to her speculations and those of her guests the whole evening. He would be fighting blushes and sweating hands just hearing it, and he was certain he would make one mistake after another at cards because of it.
    Parsifal thought half wistfully of how the highwayman had shot at him. If only the man had not missed!

Chapter 3
     
    Annabella opened her eyes, and the events of the night before flooded her mind. She sat up in her bed and hugged her knees, absently staring at the streams of sunlight peeking through her bedroom curtains. A delicious thrill of guilty pleasure ran through her at the memories of dancing and flirting, and at the very last, the Cavalier's kiss.
    She should not have done it.
    Definitely should not have. Annabella sighed. The actions of Sir Quentin had showed her that. Her parents had been right—masquerades were best attended if one had a chaperone—or not at all, as the Duke of Stratton had told her.
    A frown turned down her lips. In a way, it was His Grace's words that had made her feel rebellious and want to go to the masquerade. She did not know what it was about the duke that made her want to do exactly the opposite of what he thought was right and proper. He was a widower, his lineage was impeccable and old, his reputation stainless. No whisper of scandal had ever touched his name, and his demeanor was always pleasant. He was handsome, too, with light brown hair and light blue eyes set in a strong, manly face. She had even fancied him when she first spied him at a ball, and when he had come to her side for a dance some months ago, she was glad to find him such a graceful dancer and good conversationalist.
    But though he was pleasant and proper, though her parents were ecstatic at his interest, she could feel no more than a mild liking for him, if that.
    Annabella shook her head, rose from her bed, and rang for her maid. There was no real reason why she should not fall in love with him—he'd make an ideal husband, surely.
    A touch of resentment crept past her very practical and proper thoughts. She tried to suppress it and failed. She did not want to marry yet, but she well knew one could not go through two seasons refusing all proposals of marriage without seeming a terrible flirt. Her parents were conscious of this, too, though they did not say it in so many words. Their increased admonitions as to proper demeanor and their obvious hope and delight at the duke's attentions told her clearly enough how they felt.
    A knock sounded on her door, and Annabella's maid, Mary, came in. "Oh, miss!" the girl said, an uneasy expression on her face. "Sir Robert and her ladyship wishes to speak to you."
    Annabella bit her lip and looked at her maid. "Do they know, do you think?"
    "I don't know, miss. They did seem a little put out. But I can't think they saw you leave last night. I was watching real good, I was, and didn't see a soul when we left or when we came back."
    Annabella hesitated, and her sense of guilt became heavier. She would have to reveal everything to her parents in time, she knew. It was better she tell them now than later; she disliked falsehoods. Sometimes she wished she hadn't such loving and sensible parents. There was little cause to rebel against anything they said or did, and she always felt guilty when she did something they forbade her to do. What was worse, they were usually right.
    She nodded decisively. "Very well, Mary. Do tell them I shall be down presently. I fear I shall have to tell them of my adventure." Not all of it, though, or not all at once, she thought. One never knew how parents would react to a great deal of information when given all in one piece.
    When Annabella entered the drawing room, her father smiled and nodded to her, and her mother held out her hands to her. Annabella took her mother's hands and kissed her cheek.
    "I trust you are well this morning, Mama, Papa?"
    Lady Smith, a trim and comfortable woman, with hair still as dark as Annabella's touched