Dearest Lady Weis,

Adams School for Young Gentlemen treated me fairly. I was admitted in advance by my father, thus I was the youngest amongst my friends. The best of them, I must say, was Levi Everard. He did help me escape school on numerous occasions to venture out into town, to experience how it is to be a man.

He also saved me a lot when I was too frail to fight for myself. I remember how we battled five grown men, waking up in the infirmary hours later. My father never learned of it as did Levi's parents.

My friendship with the Lord of Standbury, is perhaps one of the most essential things I treasure. It did break my heart when he decided to hide in his estate for years, and quite a little when he chose to finally find a wife.

I am hoping to visit him soon as he and his wife had sent me a gracious invitation to their estate.

Yours,

William

*****

She wanted to live in that moment and never wake up, Ysabella thought.

His lips were gentle yet demanding, his hands tender yet gripping.

So many emotions, so many feelings rushed through her veins and she clung to them as long as she could, as long as she could let herself do so.

Because it has to end, a part of her whispered in her ear. The part that wanted to live this dream tried to brush the thought aside, but the whisper persisted, ringing inside her head until it was stronger than her body's will.

She could not do this.

Fear started to eat her inside.

What if he'd hate her?

She had been silent all this time, allowing him not to hear her voice, because of this fear.

He'd hate me. He'd hate Lady Weis.

So Ysabella pushed him away with a gasp, her body feeling suddenly empty at the loss of his touch.

"What is the matter?" he asked, voice confused.

Ysabella bent down to grab her mask from the floor and ran to the door.

"Stay," he begged, watching but not coming after her. "Please."

He could not call her by her name because he did not know who she was. And it hurt the most.

She replaced her mask over her face with shaking hands and reached for the doorknob. Careful not to let the light from the corridor shine upon her, Ysabella threw Wakefield one last glance. His silhouette was simply standing there, helpless and determined at the same time.

With not a word spoken, with naught but a stolen kiss, Ysabella slipped out into of the door as fast as she could, closing it behind her.

And then she ran.

Oh, God, what had she done? She had merely made things much worse. She came to tell him the truth but it never happened. It never did because deep inside she did not want it to happen.

She was afraid he could only love Lady Weis.

She burst inside the ballroom, finally safe and protected by the crowd.

Yet why did she feel she had to escape and run even further?

That, she did, crossing the ballroom to find her family.

*****

Wakefield ran after her. He did not mean to, but the moment she left him alone in that empty library, he knew he had to find her.

He cared not that she did not want him. He cared not if he was to ruin someone in the process.

He had to get to her, force her to tell him why she appeared only to leave him without a word. For that was what she did. She did not utter a single word. Not one. And he was desperate for any, even a 'no'.

He ran toward the ballroom, entered the festivities, and frantically searched for any sign of her.

Heads turned in his direction for he was not wearing a mask. Whispers surrounded him, Wakefield quite certain he was the topic of their conversations.

He did not care.

He pushed his way through the crowd, across the dance floor, disturbing dancers at his wake, and out into the grand hallway.

"Bloody tarnation!" he shouted, making a woman and her companions jump in surprise. They glared at him when he showed no remorse.

He made a sharp turn to make his way back inside the ballroom, walking around it, mindless of the stares and attention he drew. When he was certain that it was a hopeless case, that she was gone, he exited the ballroom and retraced his steps to the library.

Once inside, he flicked on the lights and let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, staring at the empty room. Everything was quiet, as if the most altering moment of his life never took place there.

His steps were muffled by the ornate carpet, his legs taking him closer to where he had held her in his arms moments ago.

How long had it been? He did not know, really, for he could care less. He'd trade a lifetime to experience her lips against his again for the same short lapse of time.

He walked to the window and drew the curtains aside, letting the light from outside filter fully into the room. He looked outside in the garden, half-hoping he'd find a woman in a heavy gown and white mask to appear down below.

There were none but a few lovers having a tryst.

With a bitter taste in his tongue, he whirled to face the opposite side of the library, glaring at the books as though he knew they were mocking him.

Was this his price for having taken women to his bed in mindless passion? For having a dozen or more cry when he chose to leave after realizing he'd had his fill?

Mayhap it was, he bitterly thought.

He bent his head, thinking of the next course of action. Where to find her? How?

Something glinted beside his right foot and he frowned. Bending low, he picked up the small object that caught the light. He raised it to eye level with his eyes.

The deep blue stone shone between his fingers.

Sapphire.

Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, and his heart racing inside his chest, Wakefield began to plan.

He took out his handkerchief and carefully placed the stone between its folds.

"I'll find you," he whispered, storming out of the room.

*****

Aurora would not stop her inquiries. Ysabella was starting to feel irked at her friend's insistence, but she understood Aurora's anxiety. She would have felt the same should she be in her shoes.

She and Emma had done so many things in the past that made them anxious for the results.

"I left," she curtly offered to Aurora, making certain that Emma did not hear. She pretended to be busy checking her dance card which was full.

"So he now knows that—"

"No, he does not," she sighed.

"But why?"

"Because I am afraid he'd hate me," she almost snapped. "But no matter," she said, her voice cheerful as she smiled. "I shall win his heart all over again as Ysabella Everard. I did so as Lady Weis, I could very well do so again as Ysabella. I simply have to show him that there is more in me he ought to see."

Aurora looked doubtful but Ysabella did not let that dampen her mood.

She lifted her head when the guests once more collectively stopped and turned to one direction. She followed it and her heart skipped.

Wakefield.

He was not wearing a mask and he looked as if he did not care. He had a determined look on his face as he crossed the ballroom.

She watched with longing as he disappeared into the grand hallway outside.

At the corner of her eye, she saw Emma watching her. She bit her lip and sighed.

*****

"You and Aurora seem to be keeping a secret," Emma asked much later when they were inside their bedchamber.

"It is nothing," she said with a shrug. "We were merely talking about Wakefield. And since you seem to get quite ill hearing his name from my lips, I chose not to involve you."

Emma frowned. "You told her about Lady Weis?"

Ysabella nodded.

"I do not believe it is wise, Ysa."

"Then who do you think I ought to share my secrets to?" she asked, slipping inside the covers of her bed. "You would not even believe me anymore."

"I am merely saying that you must be careful talking about Lady Weis to just anyone, Ysa."

"But Aurora is our friend. She is tremendous in handling my secret. She does not like it, but she accepts it."

Emma was quiet for a long time, her face looking the same as when she was trying to figure out theories about Mr. Jones during one of her moods.

"What is it?" Ysabella snapped. "You are thinking about something and I know you want to give it voice. You've always been outspoken on many matters, why are you hesitating now?"

Emma's jaw clenched. "I am merely saying that you ought to be careful. Aurora is our friend, yes, but we do not know her fully well."

She gaped at her sister incredulously. "I cannot believe you would think that of her!"

"And I hate myself for saying it!" Emma said. "But I have this feeling that she is hiding something from us, Ysa. I do not want her to use your secrets against you."

"She had never shown any indication that she is capable of such a thing. Your conspiracy theories and readings are getting in your head."

"We do not know about her family. We do not know where she came from or—"

"I do not wish to hear more of it! Aurora is dear to us—to me!"

"Please, Ysa, do not be blinded by her kindness. Consider her our friend if you must, but you have to be wary when disclosing sensitive matters."

"You are merely jealous that I chose to trust her with my secrets. You only want to have them for yourself." She turned away from her sister, tears already blurring her vision.

"I shall always be your sister, Ysa," Emma's quiet, pained voice said behind her. "I love you and that will never change."

"Well, then, if that is true, and if I tell you that I have already truly ended my letters to Wakefield, would you believe me without a doubt?"

"You know very well I always have doubts."

"But never with me."

"You promised the same thing the first time and you failed to do it."

"That is why I do not wish to talk to you right now, Emma."

"Ysa—"

"As someone who is older than you, please do respect my wishes," she sternly said.

She never heard another word from Emma after that. She very rarely imposed her being older by a few months for they had always treated each other as equals. But she was done for tonight.

She had imagined her first kiss with Wakefield to be wonderful. It was more than that. Yet the things she had imagined to happen after such kiss was not happening. She had pictured herself jumping with excitement and glee in front of Emma, her sister happy for her.

It was not happening now. Emma was hurting her more than Wakefield was.

*****

The masked Cinderella ball is no ordinary one. It is a night when everyone could pretend they are equals.

As we have gathered, one lord in particular had finally met his lady. There is one tiny bit of problem though, dear readers. She was wearing a mask and he lost her.

A trusted source witnessed how he chased her across the ballroom from the library.

Who is this lord, you may ask?

Well, of course it is William Wakefield!

The rake is in love!

-GOSSIP SECTION, THE TOWN HERALD

Wakefield frowned at the copy of the paper in his hand. Whoever was behind these articles would someday meet her match.

The door opened and Morris came inside.

"What is it?" Wakefield snapped, throwing the paper to the side.

"My lord, I am here to extend a small concern raised by one of the chamber maids."

He frowned. "Could you not discuss domestic matters to yourselves?"

"We can, my lord," said Morris, looking uncomfortably amused. "But this matter seems to baffle us. We do not know how to proceed."

Wakefield sighed and rolled his eyes. "What is it? Spill it out, man."

Morris's lips twitched a little. Was his butler laughing at his expense? "The books, my lord."

"What books?"

"Your books."

"As you can see, Morris, I have hundreds of books." His impatient hand waved around his study.

"I am talking about nearly a hundred books, my lord."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

Morris drew a breath, grimaced. "The chamber maid discovered that there are dried flowers between the pages—"

He immediately knew what the man was referring to. "Do not touch them."

"They are ruining the pages, my lord," his butler reasoned although the meaningful wayward smile on his face did not dither.

Wakefield scowled. "The blasted flowers stay where they bloody are."

Morris repeatedly nodded.

"Is that all?" he snapped.

The man blinked, was about to nod but changed his mind. "Since we are talking about flowers, my lord, I wish to inform you that tomorrow is Friday and if you wish, I could tuck the next flower into—"

"I'd tuck it deep inside your arse if you do not go out now, Morris," he said, already reaching for a blank piece of paper. "Or would you rather be thrown out the window?"

He shook his head when the door shut close.

Reaching for his pen, Wakefield started writing his very own letter to the Town Herald. He started to smile as the words flowed.

Wickhurst seemed to enjoy its gossip.

He'd give them something to talk about for not merely days but weeks—even months.