Red. The bane of her existence. Her mother had always cursed Cynthia’s ancient Celtic blood, for Cynthia’s locks were a reminder of her bastard of an Irish father, the man who’d abandoned her mother pregnant and unwed. Aye, they were cursed locks indeed and no moment had proven that more than now. “Your mask is crooked,” Lady Hogar said in a hushed whisper. Her ice blue eyes glared at Cynthia through a mask of pure white, the mask an angel would wear. How ironic. Cynthia reached up to her own black lace concoction. With her mask in place, hopefully no one would realize her true identity. But they would guess. Yes, they’d guess she was Helen, Lady Hogar’s daughter. And they’d be wrong. “Stand up straight.” Mrs. Hogar followed the order by pinching Cynthia’s side. She jerked upright, resisting the urge to rub her stinging skin. Her aunt’s long fingers always found the most sensitive of her flesh. How she despised the woman! “Two dances. Don’t look directly at him.
