Unmasked by the Duke’s Love (Preview)

Chapter One

Lady Arabella Darrow pushed the coop door open with her shoulder, the hinges moaning in protest. The morning air smelled of damp straw and the sharp tang of chicken droppings, and she lifted her skirts just enough to keep the hem from dragging through the mess. The rake scraped across the packed earth as she worked, each pull steady and precise. She had done this task a hundred times, though it had never ceased to sting. An earl’s daughter should not have been ankle‑deep in feathers and filth, yet here she was, pretending the discomfort she felt was only from the cold.

A hen clucked indignantly as she swept past.

“You are not the only one who is upset,” Bella muttered under her breath.

Footsteps rustled behind her. Beatrice Harrow appeared at the edge of the coop, her apron dusted with flour and her dark curls pinned in their usual hurried fashion. Her expression tightened the moment she saw Bella kneeling in the straw, a look that held both affection and worry.

At thirty-nine, Beatrice had become far more than the household cook. She was Bella’s dearest friend and a steady, motherly presence who had chosen to remain in the household despite her wages being cut. She was determined to stay by Bella’s side and guide her through a life that had grown far harsher than either of them deserved.

“You should not be doing this,” Beatrice said softly. “Let me take over. The Countess will not notice.”

Bella shook her head and kept working. “She will notice everything. Besides, you have the bread to finish.”

Beatrice stepped closer, her voice dropping. “It is not right. Each time I find you working like this, it troubles me.”

Bella forced a smile, though her hands trembled slightly on the rake. “I am quite capable of clearing a coop. It is only dirt.”

“It is not only dirt,” Beatrice whispered. “You also have to sweep the passages before the household is awake, lay the fires, and carry water up and down the stairs until your arms ache. There are floors to scrub, windows to wash, and all the linens to beat and hang. The stillroom must be kept in order, the lamps trimmed, the ashes emptied, and half a dozen errands run besides.”

She shook her head faintly.

“It is a great deal more than anyone sees.”

Bella looked away before the warmth in her friend’s eyes could break through her facade. Beatrice’s kindness always had a way of slipping past the walls Bella had spent the past two years building. She had learned long ago that pride was easier to hold than hope, since pride asked nothing of her, while hope had a way of breaking her heart when she least expected it.

“I am quite well, truly. And I would never let you take on my chores when you have the kitchen to run, the bread to set, and half the household depending on your hands.”

A distant bell rang from the main house. Beatrice startled. “I do not have time to argue with you about this. I must go. Lady Whitmore will want the kitchen prepared for the midday meal.”

Bella nodded, smiling. “There is nothing to argue about. This proves I am right. Go. I will finish here.”

Beatrice hesitated, then touched Bella’s arm with a fleeting squeeze before hurrying back toward the house. Bella watched her disappear through the orchard gate, wishing she could follow. Instead, she set the rake aside and wiped her hands on her apron. There was still plenty of work to do around the estate, and Lady Whitmore would not tolerate any delay.

She crossed the small farmland that bordered the main grounds, the grass brushing against her skirts. The early spring sun filtered through the bare branches overhead, casting long shadows across the path. Her dark red hair, usually bright as copper in the right light, was tucked beneath her cap, though a few loose strands had escaped to frame her freckled cheeks.

At twenty-three, she had grown into her prettiness in a quiet, unassuming way. Her dark green eyes were steady as she walked, and her cap sat low on her brow, hiding the birthmark that had once drawn whispers in drawing rooms. The cap hid her entirely, and perhaps that was for the best.

The path carried her along the edges of the estate that had once been her father’s pride, every field and hedgerow interwoven with memories of laughter and easy affection. In those days, the house had felt alive with windows thrown open, music drifting through the halls, and her father’s voice warm and certain. Now it seemed to watch her with shuttered eyes, the weight of her aunt and uncle’s rule pressing down on every stone.

It was home once. It still should be.

But since his death two years ago, the estate had felt smaller and less welcoming, each space marked by expectations she could not escape.

I cannot stay here forever. I will not.

Out beneath the open sky, she could almost breathe again. The air felt free here, unclaimed by anyone, and for a few precious minutes, she allowed herself to imagine a life where she could walk as far as she wished without being noticed or questioned. She pictured mornings spent wandering the fields with no one calling her back, afternoons in the village where she was simply another face, and evenings where she could sit by the fire without listening for footsteps or waiting for someone to summon her. She envisioned a life where she could choose her own hours, her own company, and her own silence. It would be a life where anonymity was a choice, not a burden.

As she rounded a bend near the old stone wall, the daydream slipped from her grasp. She stopped short.

A man stood half‑hidden among the trees, his coat far too fine for a laborer and his posture far too alert for a gentleman out on a stroll. He leaned forward slightly, studying the house with a focus that made her heart pound.

He should not have been there.

Bella stepped forward. “You there. What are you doing?”

The man turned sharply. He was tall, with dark hair that curled slightly at the ends and piercing blue eyes that flicked over her with quick calculation. He recovered fast, offering a smile that seemed more practiced than sincere.

“I was merely admiring the grounds,” he said. “A pleasant estate. Peaceful.”

Bella folded her arms. “No one admires the grounds from behind a wall, sir. You were hiding.”

He gave a mild smile. “Hiding is rather a forceful term. I prefer to think of myself as observing.”

“Observing what, precisely?”

He paused, then gestured toward the orchard with studied casualness. “Birds.”

Bella regarded him steadily. “Birds,” she repeated, as though testing the word. “How unfortunate that you chose the one corner of the estate where they are least inclined to gather.”

“A rare species,” he said, stroking his chin as if deep in scholarly thought.

“Indeed? Then you will be disappointed. We have only crows and sparrows.”

He inclined his head. “Then perhaps I was mistaken.”

“Or perhaps,” Bella said, lifting her brows, “your rare bird prefers hedgerows to orchards.”

He met her raised brows without flinching. “If this rare bird prefers hedgerows, then I shall look elsewhere,” he said lightly. “I meant no disturbance.”

Bella did not soften. “You should not be on this part of the estate,” she said, her voice cool and steady. “If you have business with the house, you may present yourself at the front door. Guests do not linger in the orchards unannounced.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden rustle in the undergrowth cut him off. Bella glanced down and froze.

An adder slid across the path, its patterned body catching the sunlight in a cold, sinuous ripple. For a moment, she could not move. A sharp cry escaped her before she could stop it, and she stepped back instinctively. Her heel caught on a root, the earth tilting beneath her as her balance gave way.

Before she could fall, strong hands closed around her waist. The world lurched, blurred, then steadied as he pulled her clear of the serpent’s path. Her shoulder brushed his chest, and her head came to rest against him, the faint warmth of his breath stirring the loose strands of hair near her cheek.

Her heart thudded hard, a bit too hard, and to her astonishment, his matched it. It was a firm, rapid beat she could feel through the fine wool of his coat. For a quick moment, neither of them moved.

Then, as if the realization struck them at the same instant, they sprang apart, each retreating a step as though the contact had burned.

Bella’s cheeks flamed. She smoothed her apron with shaking hands, trying to gather her thoughts.

The man cleared his throat, his gaze shifting past her rather than meeting her eyes. “You should be more careful. Adders are dangerous.”

“I am aware,” she said. Her voice was quieter than she intended, but she stood up straight.

He nodded once. “I should go. I have taken more of your time than I meant to.”

“You never explained why you are really here,” she said. Her tone was firmer now, her composure almost intact.

He paused, the faintest hint of a guarded smile touching his mouth. “My reason is not easily explained.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”

She took a step forward, refusing to let him slip away without some measure of accountability. “As I said before, you should not be on this part of the estate. If you have business with the house, you may present yourself at the front door.”

His expression shifted. It portrayed not quite amusement and yet not quite annoyance. “Another day, perhaps.”

Before she could speak again, he tipped his head in a brief, formal gesture and turned away. His steps were quick and deliberate, and within moments, he had vanished into the trees, leaving the path empty and still.

Bella stood alone on the path, her pulse still unsteady. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her breath to become calm.

He was hiding something. I will get to the bottom of this.

She gathered her skirts and continued toward the estate, though her thoughts remained tangled behind her, caught in the memory of a stranger’s hands and the warmth she had not expected to feel.

Chapter Two

Benedict Sinclair, the Duke of Ravenswood, strode through the trees with hurried steps, his boots snapping twigs as he put distance between himself and the young woman he had just rescued. The sunlight flickered through the branches, catching on the edges of his coat, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were too tangled.

He had come for a simple reconnaissance. He wanted to take a quiet survey of the estate before the ball tomorrow evening. He wanted the chance to observe without being observed and to determine whether Arabella Darrow could possibly be hidden here. His father had trusted him with this mission, and Benedict intended to honor it.

You are here to gather information, not to lose your composure over a stranger, he thought, but the reminder did little to settle him. The memory of the maid’s startled cry and the feel of her in his arms returned with unwelcome clarity. Her breath had caught against him, and his own had answered it before he could stop himself.

You should have stepped back sooner.

You should not have touched her at all.

You are not here for this.

He pushed aside a low branch, trying to regain the focus he had brought with him. The estate was quiet, the house visible through the gaps in the trees, and he should have been studying its windows, its entrances, its patterns of movement. Instead, his mind circled the moment he had pulled her away from the adder, the way she had steadied herself, and the way she had looked at him.

You are wasting time. You came for answers, not distractions.

You cannot afford to be careless.

He took a deep breath and forced his attention back to the house. He needed to finish what he had come to do. He needed to learn something of value. He needed to remember why he was here.

You will not let a moment of foolishness undo your purpose.

But the sound of her voice lingered all the same. It had been steady, direct, and entirely unafraid. He replayed the way she had folded her arms and questioned him without hesitation, the way she had lifted her brow when he offered a poor excuse, and the way she had told him where he ought to present himself. There had been no meekness in her manner, and no deference beyond what courtesy required.

Servants do not speak like that.

She did not lower her eyes. She did not wait for permission to speak. She challenged you as if she had every right to do so.

He tried to dismiss the thought, but it returned with even more clarity. Her wit had been quick, her tone was composed, and her confidence was unmistakable. He had never encountered a servant who carried herself in that way. Most kept their distance and avoided notice, yet she had met him head‑on. He knew he should have been appalled at her brashness, but he was impressed.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. “Fool,” he muttered. “You are here for a purpose.”

The path sloped downward toward the small stretch of farmland, giving him a better view of the house. It was modest and quiet, the sort of place that drew no attention at all. Nothing suggested that a young woman of noble birth might be living here in secret. There was no indication that the Earl of Whitmore’s missing daughter could be concealed within its walls. He had hoped for some sign, even the smallest detail that might justify the journey and point him toward the truth, but the scene offered nothing.

Nothing except a maid with sharp green eyes and a sharper tongue, he thought.

He reached the edge of the grounds and paused, glancing back. The orchard lay still behind him, the branches swaying gently in the breeze. She would be gone by now, having returned to her duties. He should not be thinking of her at all.

She is a servant. You are a duke. This is not a complication you can afford.

The reminder brought him back to reality. It pushed his thoughts back to the life that waited for him beyond these trees. It was a life that allowed no room for distraction.

Benedict had felt the weight of the dukedom long before the title was formally his, but inheriting it had made the pressure unmistakable. Every morning brought a new stack of correspondence from the steward, and every afternoon brought another matter requiring his judgment. Tenants depended on him now, and he was determined not to fail them. The work did not pause. It did not bend to his convenience. It demanded attention, consistency, and a clear mind.

He also had to take care of Oliver.

His younger brother had always been spirited, but lately that spirit had taken on a reckless edge. There were too many nights spent in town and too many companions who smiled easily but vanished when responsibility appeared. Benedict had seen young men lose themselves that way, and he would not let Oliver become one of them. Not while he still had any influence left.

Benedict sighed as he remembered again why he was standing where he was.

Three months earlier, when his father’s strength was nearly gone, he had spoken with unexpected clarity. Orwell Sinclair had taken Benedict’s hand and told him of his dear friend, the Earl of Whitmore. In the months following the Earl’s passing, his daughter, Arabella Darrow, withdrew from society without a word. There was no scandal attached to her name, no hint of an elopement, and no trace of her movements. Orwell had believed something was terribly wrong and that the girl’s life was in danger, but this was something no one else wished to acknowledge. He had asked Benedict to find her. It had been his last request, spoken with the gravity of a man who knew he would not have another chance.

“Find her, Benedict,” he had said. “She must not be left to chance.”

Benedict remembered Arabella only faintly. She was six years younger than him, and had been a girl with quick eyes and a shy smile, always a little apart from the older children. He remembered the small birthmark near her brow, the one she tried to hide behind her hair when she noticed anyone looking at her. She had spoken softly, but she had listened closely, and there had been a composure in her that he had not understood at the time.

He doubted she would know him now. Not only was he older, but the years spent abroad on his grand tour through Europe had changed him in many ways. He had returned with broader knowledge, sharper judgment, and was no longer the boy he had once been. He suspected she had changed just as much, having been shaped by experiences he could not guess at.

Whatever girl he remembered existed only in memory. The woman she had become would be someone entirely different.

It does not matter whether we remember each other, he thought. What matters is the promise I gave my father. He trusted me to see this through, and I will not fail him. And if no one else is looking for her, then I must.

He turned toward the road, adjusting the collar of his coat. The cool air helped settle him, and he forced his thoughts back to the plan for the next night. Tomorrow there would be a ball at this very estate, and he would attend it as the Marquess of Shrewsbury. The borrowed title would allow him to move through the gathering without drawing notice, and it would give him the freedom to observe what he needed to see.

He would watch the arrivals, listen to the conversations that drifted through the rooms, and look for any sign that Arabella had been here. He would speak to those who might know something, ask the questions that did not sound like questions, and follow any thread that might lead to her. His father had entrusted him with this task, and he intended to carry it forward with a clear purpose.

Whatever confusion the afternoon had brought, tomorrow required his full attention.

Yet as he walked away from the estate, he could not shake the faint, unwelcome thought that tugged at him.

He had come seeking one missing woman.

And instead, he had found another who lingered in his mind far more than she should.

He quickened his pace, as if distance alone could silence the memory of her voice.

It did not.

Chapter Three

“Do not look at me like that,” Bella said as she set the basket down. A plump brown hen blinked at her from the doorway of the henhouse, her head tilted in mild suspicion. “I am only here to tidy your nest, not to steal your dignity.”

The hen gave a low, indignant cluck and shuffled aside. Bella let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Yes, yes. I know. You prefer to be left alone. So do I, most days.”

She spread the fresh straw with practiced movements, the scent of it clean and familiar. Another hen strutted past her boot, muttering as if offering commentary on Bella’s technique. “You are all very free with your opinions this morning,” Bella murmured. “If only people spoke so plainly.”

She reached into the nesting box and lifted the warm eggs one by one, placing them gently in her apron. The simple work steadied her hands, but her thoughts refused to settle. A rooster crowed from the far side of the yard, sharp and insistent, and the sound reminded her of the bustle she had left behind at the house.

“Everything is in a hurry today,” she said to the hens, who continued their clucking without concern. “Even you can feel it, I think.”

She paused, fingers resting on the rim of the basket. The estate had been restless since dawn. Footmen carried crates through the halls, maids hurried with linens, and the housekeeper had been barking orders before the sun had fully risen. Bella did not need anyone to explain the reason.

Tonight, the house would be full of guests. And she would have to keep her head down and her thoughts to herself.

The hens offered no reply, only the soft rustle of feathers as they settled back into their nests. Bella wished she could do the same.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. She turned, expecting Beatrice, but instead found Lady Whitmore Ashford, the Countess of Whitmore, sweeping toward her with a determined stride, her skirts swaying like a banner of authority.

“There you are,” Lady Whitmore said. “I wondered where you had gone.”

She stopped several paces from the coop, eyeing the straw and scattered feathers with clear distaste. With a small flick of her fingers, she beckoned for Bella to come to her, unwilling to step any closer.

Bella obeyed at once, brushing straw from her apron as she rose. “I was collecting the eggs.”

Lady Whitmore clasped her hands together with a bright, false smile. “I came to remind you about the ball tonight. The first of the Season. We shall host another next month, but this one is particularly important. You will help prepare the drawing room and assist Mrs. Harrow in the kitchens.”

Bella nodded, though her stomach tightened. “Of course.”

Lady Whitmore tilted her head, studying her with a cool, assessing look that made Bella feel out of place. “You understand that you cannot attend.”

Bella swallowed. “I know. I only thought …” She shifted the basket in her hands, unsure of how to continue. “Perhaps I might watch from the gallery. Only for a moment. I used to enjoy such evenings before …” Her voice faltered. The memory of her father’s laughter rose in her mind, warm and careless, the way it had been before the world she knew slipped away. “Before everything changed.”

Lady Whitmore’s expression softened, though the softness felt carefully arranged. “My dear, we must think of your reputation. Entering society after your father’s debts would be unthinkable. People can be cruel. I only wish to protect you.”

Bella felt the sting of humiliation rise in her throat. Her mother had died when she was very young, and after her father’s death, she had been told that the truth of their situation had come to light. The estate had passed to her father’s younger brother, leaving her with nothing but the debts said to be her father’s doing. She had been told often enough that her father’s gambling had ruined them, that his losses had left her with no choice but to work as a servant to repay what he owed. Whether every detail was true or not, it was the explanation she had been given, and it had shaped the life she lived now. Yet, even with all of it, something in her still longed to observe the ball, even from a distance.

“I would not speak to anyone,” she said quietly. “I would only watch.”

Lady Whitmore shook her head. “It is better this way. Tonight is for Lord Whitmore to strengthen his connections and for Eliza to meet suitable suitors. We cannot risk any confusion.”

She dismissed Bella with a pat on the arm. “Now, do finish with the eggs. There is much to be done.”

Without waiting for a reply, Lady Whitmore swept back toward the house, her voice already calling for a footman before she reached the steps.

Bella stood still for a moment, the basket hanging loosely from her hand. A tight ache gathered in her chest, spreading until it felt difficult to take a deep breath. She had once stood in glittering rooms with confidence, her mother’s warm hand guiding her and her father’s proud smile following her as she watched the dancers move beneath the chandeliers. Now she was not even permitted to stand at the edge of such a room, let alone look down from a gallery. She was not allowed to watch at all.

She turned back toward the henhouse, where a few hens scratched at the straw as if nothing in the world had changed. “You would not understand any of this,” she murmured, setting the basket down again. One of the hens looked up at her with a slow blink, unimpressed.

“No, I suppose you would not,” Bella said. “You have your place, and no one questions it.” She brushed a bit of straw from the hen’s feathers. “I had a place once. Or I thought I did.”

Another hen clucked sharply, as if offering a comment. Bella let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yes, I know. It is foolish to think about such things. I should be grateful for what I have.”

She paused, fingers curling around the handle of the basket. “But it is only one night,” she said softly. “Only a glimpse. It should not matter so much.”

“What should not matter so much?”

Bella looked up sharply. Beatrice stood beside her, hands folded neatly, her expression caught somewhere between concern and quiet amusement.

Heat rushed to Bella’s cheeks. “Oh. I did not hear you,” she said. “I was only … talking.”

Beatrice’s gaze shifted to the hens, who were watching the two of them with mild curiosity. “To them again?”

Bella let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-mortification. “They are very patient listeners.”

“I imagine they are.” Beatrice’s expression softened. “I saw her ladyship come out here a few minutes ago. I wondered what she wanted.”

Bella forced a smile. “To remind me that I am not to attend the ball.”

Beatrice’s eyes softened. “Do you wish you could go?”

Bella looked down at the eggs nestled in the basket. “Yes. I do. I know it is foolish.”

“It is not foolish,” Beatrice said firmly. “And you should go.”

Bella blinked. “I cannot. Lady Whitmore would never allow it.”

Beatrice gave her a long, thoughtful look, then nodded toward the low stone wall near the henhouse. “Come. Sit with me for a moment.”

Bella hesitated, but followed. They crossed the small patch of yard, the hens trailing after them with hopeful clucks. Beatrice settled on the wall first, smoothing her apron, and Bella sat beside her, the basket resting between them.

“You would like to go,” Beatrice said quietly.

Bella stared at her hands. “I would,” she admitted, the words barely above a whisper. “Only to see it. Only to remember what it felt like to be near such things.”

“There is no harm in wanting that.”

“There is if her ladyship hears of it,” Bella said. “She already said no. And she would think me ungrateful. Or foolish.”

“You are neither.”

Bella tried to smile, but it wavered. “Even if I wished for it, I could not go. I have no place there.”

Beatrice was quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the distant windows of the great house where servants hurried past in preparation. Then a spark lit in her eyes, small at first, then brightening.

“It is a masquerade ball,” she said slowly, as if the idea were forming even as she spoke. “Everyone will be in disguise. No one will know who is who.”

Bella turned to her, startled. “Beatrice …”

“You could hide your identity,” Beatrice went on, her voice gaining a hint of mischief. “You could be anyone.”

Bella stared at her, torn between disbelief and a sudden, dangerous flicker of hope. “I have no gown. And no mask.”

Beatrice’s smile deepened, the kind that meant she was already thinking three steps ahead. “Those are problems,” she said, “but not impossible ones. We shall make both. Your mother’s old dresses are still in the trunk. There is one she wore when she was young. It is far too old for your aunt to recognize. And I can fashion a mask from the lace scraps in the sewing room.”

Bella’s breath caught. “It is too much to do in such a short amount of time.”

“No arguments,” Beatrice said, taking her arm. “You deserve one night. One moment of joy.” A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Eliza cannot have all the suitors.”

Bella laughed despite herself. “I am not looking for a suitor.”

Beatrice tilted her head, her eyes bright with mischief. “Perhaps not. But perhaps one will still find you.”

Bella took in in a steady breath. “All right. Those are only the practical issues. What about the more serious matters?”

Beatrice’s smile faded a little, and Bella continued before she could interrupt.

“If Lady Whitmore recognizes me, she will not simply scold me. She will send me to my quarters at once, and she will make certain I never leave the estate again without her permission. She may even dismiss me from her household entirely.”

She folded her hands, trying to keep her voice even.

“And if anyone else realizes who I am, the gossip will spread before the night is over. People will say I tried to deceive them. They will say I overstepped my place. It could harm my aunt’s reputation, and Eliza’s as well.”

Her throat tightened, but she pressed on.

“And if I am caught speaking to someone I should not be speaking to, the consequences could be worse. I could be questioned. I could be sent away. I could lose everything I have left.”

She looked down for a moment, then lifted her chin.

“So yes, I have no gown and no mask. But those are not the true risks. The true risks are what will happen if I am seen, if I am recognized, or if I make even the smallest mistake.”

Beatrice listened closely, and then gave Bella’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“You are right to think of the consequences,” she said. “But you will be dressed in a way your aunt has never seen. Your hair will be arranged differently. Your posture will be different. You will be surrounded by dozens of young women in fine gowns, and you will look like one of them. Lady Whitmore will not expect to find you here, so she will not look for you.”

The tension in Bella’s shoulders eased a little as she took a deep breath.

“And you will be wearing a mask,” Beatrice added. “It’s not a full disguise, but it’s enough to make her glance past you without a second thought. She will be searching for a maid in a plain dress, not a young woman in silk.”

Bella nodded slowly, though worry still lingered in her eyes.

“As for gossip,” Beatrice continued, “you are not there to draw attention. You know how to move quietly. You know how to listen. And you know how to keep your head down when you must. You have done it for years, and tonight will be no different.”

Bella let out the breath she had been holding.

“And if someone speaks to you,” Beatrice said, “you will answer with the same courtesy you show every day. You know how to behave better than half the people in that ballroom. You will not give anyone cause to question you.”

Bella looked up and smiled, her eyes holding a flicker of something stirring beneath the fear.

Beatrice saw it and smiled. “That’s my girl. You have spent your whole life doing only what others expect. Tonight, you get to choose something for yourself. You get to see a world you have only watched from the doorway for years. You get to step inside it, even if only for a few hours.”

Bella’s breath caught, but this time with a quiet thrill she could not quite hide. She was looking forward to the adventure.

“You have already come this far,” Beatrice said softly. “Why not see what the rest of the night holds?”

The spark in Bella’s eyes grew until it reached her entire countenance.

“All right,” she said. “I want to try.”

They hurried to the small servants’ quarters, their skirts brushing the narrow walls as they slipped inside. Beatrice crossed to the old trunk in the corner and knelt beside it. The hinges creaked softly as she lifted the lid. A faint scent of lavender sachets drifted out, mingling with the dust and the cool air of the room. Bella felt something tighten in her chest. She had not opened that trunk in years, and the memories it held were ones she had tried to set aside.

Beatrice sifted through the neatly folded layers until her fingers brushed a gown of soft blue silk. She took it out with care, letting the fabric spill over her hands. The hem was slightly frayed, but the color still caught the light in a way that made Bella’s breath catch.

“Try it,” Beatrice urged, her voice soft but certain.

Bella slipped behind the screen and stepped into the dress. The silk felt cool against her skin as she pulled it into place. It felt strange and familiar all at once, as if she were stepping into a life she had once imagined but never lived. She smoothed the skirt with trembling hands, then took a deep breath before stepping out.

Beatrice turned, and her hand flew to her mouth. Tears gathered in her eyes, bright and unashamed. “You look so much like your mother,” she said. “It suits you perfectly.”

Bella turned toward the small mirror on the wall. For a moment, she hardly recognized the girl reflected there. The blue silk softened her features, and the faint flush in her cheeks made her look almost luminous. She looked like someone who belonged in a ballroom, someone who might laugh and dance and be seen. Someone she had once hoped she might become.

Beatrice reached into the pocket of her apron and drew out a simple mask, its edges neatly trimmed but plainly made. “I had this left from last year’s harvest festivities,” she said. “The kitchen staff wore them for the children’s games, and I kept one in case it was needed again.”

She placed the mask in Bella’s hands with gentle certainty. “Tonight, you will be whoever you wish.”

Bella held the mask gently, her heart fluttering with a mixture of fear and longing. She knew no man would sweep her away from this life. She knew fairy tales were not real. Yet as she looked at her reflection, she allowed herself one small, impossible thought.

What if, just for one night, I could pretend they were?