late, her heart would be racing with excitement. She found it difficult to keep from yawning, though. Her mask itched and her feet hurt and she yearned to be between the cool linens of her bed.
She should leave.
Phillipa walked out of the room and cashed in her counters with the cashier. She’d lost money, but it hardly signified since the money simply went back to her family. She made her way to the hall to collect her cape and gloves. The same taciturn hall servant stood there.
And so did Xavier.
When the servant walked off to get her things, she faced him. ‘Making sure that I leave, Xavier?’
‘No.’ He did not look pleased. ‘I will walk you home.’
‘That is not necessary, I assure you,’ she responded. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking by myself.’
‘Regardless, I will walk you home.’
The servant brought her cloak and Xavier took it from him. He stepped towards Phillipa and placed it around her shoulders. The touch of his hands on her shoulders caused a frisson of sensation down her back.
She disliked being so affected by Xavier Campion. It made her think of how she’d felt dancing with him. The thrill of coming close to him, of touching him.
The servant opened the door and the cool evening air revived her.
Phillipa crossed over the threshold with Xavier right behind her. ‘I do not need an escort.’
He fell in step with her. ‘Nevertheless, I need to do this.’
She scoffed. ‘Do not be absurd. You can have the company of any woman you like. One of the gentlemen told me so.’
His step slowed for a moment. ‘Phillipa, if any danger should befall you on this walk home, I would never forgive myself for not preventing it.’
He sounded so serious.
‘So dramatic, Xavier. I am not your responsibility.’
His voice turned low. ‘At this moment, you are.’
It was very late. Three in the morning, at least, and she had never walked the streets of Mayfair at such an hour. Certainly not with a man at her side.
A man like Xavier.
But she must not think of him like that.
They crossed Piccadilly and as they headed towards Berkeley Square, their footsteps sounded a rhythm broken only by the echoing of a carriage or hackney coach somewhere in the distance. Other sounds—voices, music—wafted to her ears, only to fade quickly. She concentrated on the sounds, searching for a melody she might recreate on her pianoforte, a melody that would sound like the night felt. Cool, peaceful, empty.
‘Are you talking to yourself, Phillipa?’ Xavier asked.
She’d been lost in her music. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your lips were moving.’
She’d been playing the music to herself. How daft she must appear. ‘I—I hear music in the sounds of the night. I try to remember them.’
‘Music?’ He could not hear the music, obviously.
‘In our footsteps. The carriages.’ She shrugged. ‘The other sounds.’
He paused before responding. ‘I see.’
Her mask irritated her face. She untied it and pulled it off, rubbing her scar before concealing her face with the hood of her cloak.
‘I like music,’ she explained. ‘I have studied music and the pianoforte a great deal over the last few years.’ Since that ball when she’d first danced with him. Of course, she’d never played ‘The Nonesuch’ again, though it had once been a favourite of hers. ‘It is my greatest pleasure.’
‘Is it?’ He acted as if interested. ‘I should like to hear you play.’
Such a polite thing to say. The sort of thing one says when pretending an interest that doesn’t truly exist. Like choosing a dance partner as a favour to one’s mother’s friend.
‘I play the pianoforte alone. It consumes my time.’ She made it seem as if she preferred not to have an audience when she really longed to play for others, to discover if her compositions and her technique had any merit.
He stopped speaking for a half a street.
She regretted snapping at him. ‘I think I spend too much time with my music. I think that is why I did not notice that my family was in distress.’
‘You isolated yourself.’ He sounded as if that would be a sad thing.
‘Too much, perhaps,’ she admitted. ‘That is the main reason I decided to visit the Masquerade Club.’
‘Could you not simply decide to attend balls and routs and musicales instead?’ His tone disapproved.
She was invisible in such places. No one looked at her if they could help it. No one spoke to her if they could avoid it.
When she donned the mask this night all that changed. ‘Perhaps balls and routs and musciales are not exciting enough for me.’
His fingers closed around her arm and he stopped walking. ‘Too much excitement can be dangerous. You must not play with fire, Phillipa.’
‘Fire?’ She laughed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that men will notice you at the gaming house. They will not expect you to be an innocent young girl.’
‘Innocent girl? Young? I am three and twenty. Quite on the shelf.’ But devoid of any experience, of that he was correct.
They walked again. ‘You have had your excitement,’ he went on. ‘Go back to playing your music now.’
She was eager to return to her music room, to write down the notes she’d heard in the sounds of the street at three in the morning, the sounds of a gaming hell, of his voice.
But she could not be done with the Masquerade Club. She wished to see and hear more; she wished to experience more.
Too bad for him. ‘I plan to return.’
‘No!’ he growled.
She lifted her chin. ‘I fully realise you do not wish me around you, Xavier, but it is you who have insinuated yourself into my company, not the reverse.’
‘You wrong me again.’ He sounded angry. ‘We are old friends, Phillipa. I owe you my protection as sure as if you were one of my sisters.’
‘Once, perhaps, you were under an obligation to do me a kindness.’ Her chest ached in memory. ‘Not any more.’
A carriage clattered by and she forced herself to listen to the horses’ hooves clapping against the cobbles, the wheels turning, the springs creaking.
She made it into music inside her head so she would not have to speak more to him, nor think about the thrill of him walking beside her, a sensation distracting in the extreme.
Would her old school friends still envy her as they’d once done when she’d danced with him all those years ago? Her friends were all married now. Some very well. Some very happily. She’d lost touch with most of them, although on the rare occasion her mother convinced her to attend some society event, she often saw some of them. Her most regular correspondence was with Felicia, who moved to Ireland when she married and never returned to England. Felicia’s letters were all about her children, her worries about the poor and her fears of typhus. Felicia would probably not even remember when Phillipa had danced with the most handsome man at the ball. How trivial it would seem to her if she did.
They reached Davies Street and the Westleigh town house.
‘Will someone let you in?’ Xavier asked, walking her directly to the door.
She