He was on a discreet and vital mission to obtain a tract of land that was the difference between success and failure for his company. Through great expense, GLNR had obtained the necessary Act of Parliament to run a route from London to Manchester. The ambitious venture had gained instant popularity with the investing public, who couldn’t get enough of the company’s shares, driving up the value.
The project had been poised to become GLNR’s greatest triumph…until the mistake had been uncovered.
While GLNR had been purchasing the necessary territory for the railway for months, a portion of the planned route through Staffordshire had somehow been overlooked. Obtaining that tract of land was turning out to be a surprisingly Herculean challenge. Since Wick handled GLNR’s negotiations—his partner, Adam Garrity, managed the company’s financial concerns while his other partner, Harry Kent, was the scientist in charge of research and development—it was up to Wick to get this last, but critical piece of the puzzle in place.
Wick prided himself on his ability to negotiate outcomes that satisfied both parties. Yet the owner of the land, a prickly and reclusive spinster named Beatrice Brown, was proving to be the most obstinate adversary he’d ever dealt with. He’d sent her multiple generous offers; she’d turned them all down flat. When he’d invited her to London to discuss the matter in person, she’d refused that too and in a decidedly unfriendly manner.
Wick was not one to give up, however. If the mountain would not come to Muhammed…
“’Ello, luv.” A purring voice distracted him from his thoughts. “Looking for company this eve?”
The woman was dressed as a canary, her voluptuous form barely contained by her skimpy frock dripping with yellow feathers. Her smile was about as genuine as her diamonds and thus left Wick cold. There’d been a time in his past when he hadn’t thought twice about paying for his pleasures. Back then, he’d engaged in other vices too, drinking and gambling, spending money as if it flowed as freely as the Thames. His recklessness had led to his disgrace.
To the failures that, even now, caused his chest to tighten in remembered shame.
It had taken him a decade to redeem his honor. He’d gotten out of debt, stopped his bad habits, and dedicated himself to his work. Now, at three-and-thirty, he’d achieved financial success beyond his dreams. From time to time, however, he wanted a respite from his driving ambition. From a life that was busy and rewarding yet also…solitary.
Thus, when the innkeeper of the establishment where he was staying had mentioned this infamous masquerade, hosted by a local libertine couple, he’d decided to see it for himself. He’d hoped to find some diversion, even if it was just for the evening. Someone who might temporarily fill that restless void inside him.
The trouble was that nothing seemed to assuage that strange emptiness. Maybe there was no cure…or maybe he would only know it when he found it. Whatever the case, the canary didn’t fit the bill.
He made his refusal polite. “Alas, I’ve just arrived and yet to gain my bearings.”
“Suit yourself.” She moved on, shedding feathers along the way.
Wick continued his trek around the ballroom, which replicated the ambiance of a Venetian carnival. Canvas trompe d’oeil murals hung on the walls, creating an illusion of colorful buildings, canals, and bridges. Beneath the crisscrossing strings of lanterns, jugglers, sword-eaters, and fire breathers drew oohs and aahs from the guests. Footmen dressed as gondoliers darted through the crowd bearing trays of refreshment.
Yet beneath the gilded novelty lurked a dreary familiarity. The same cloying mix of perfume, sweat, and spirits. The same hungry lust in the eyes behind the masks. The same glittering, meaningless pursuit of pleasure. Even Wick’s own reaction was predictable: surrounded by a throng of people, he had a heightened awareness of being alone.
A practical man, he’d considered solutions to the plaguing restlessness. Since he was rich and blue-blooded, the younger son of a viscount, he’d been hounded by marriage-minded misses for years. The marital union, he’d observed, could lead to happiness: both his business partners were blissfully leg-shackled and his older brother Richard, now Viscount Carlisle, had also made a love match.
Yet no lady had sustained Wick’s interest long enough for him to consider making a proposal. Perhaps he wasn’t built for marriage…or even a long-term affair. Out of habit, he rubbed his thumb against his signet ring. It was a reminder of the woman he’d failed, of the responsibility that came with even casual liaisons.
Wick shut out the past, reminding himself that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He just wanted to distract himself for an evening. To discharge some of his tension so that he would have his full powers of concentration on the morrow, when he would deal with the stubborn Miss Brown. He departed the ballroom, passing through the atrium to a series of candlelit public rooms. Here, he began to appreciate how the masquerade had come to earn its notorious reputation.
Dressing screens had been set up to create intimate nooks for rendezvous. If the undulating shadows behind the silk panels were any indication, the guests were taking full advantage of the quasi-privacy. There was the unmistakable rustling of clothes being shed, accompanied by assorted moans and grunts.
As Wick passed an opening between screens, his gaze met with that of a lady reposing upon an oversized chaise longue. She was striking, her powdered wig and crimson gown capturing the sumptuousness of a bygone era. The tiered diamond necklace dripping over her bosom could have paid for a small London townhouse.
“Well, hello there.” Her husky voice matched her looks, her painted mouth curving with genuine lust beneath her black demi-mask. “Looking for someone?”
Not any longer, he could have said with an easy smile. Or he might have simply sauntered over and run a finger along her bare shoulder in answer. After all, the lady was attractive and available…exactly what he should be looking for. Yet confronted by what he’d thought he wanted, he felt the void deepen inside him.
“I’m previously engaged, I’m afraid,” he heard himself say.
What the bloody hell is the matter with me?
“The more the merrier, darling.” She toyed with her necklace, the glittering web trailing over the generous mounds of her breasts. “Bring your friend. There’s plenty of room here for three…or more.”
He ought to have been tempted. For some reason, he wasn’t.
What he was…was bored.
“As much as I appreciate the offer, my engagement is private,” he said courteously.
If the woman took insult, she did not show it. “If you change your mind, you are welcome to return. Variety is the spice of life, after all.”
“Quite,” he murmured.
With a bow, he continued on. The level of debauchery increased with each passing chamber. In the billiards room, the privacy screens had been pushed aside, the masked guests forming a train of writhing bodies so depraved that even Wick’s brows went up.
That was the only part of his anatomy to do so, however. As provocative as the scene was, he felt no desire to join in. If naught enticed him in that array of licentiousness, he acknowledged ruefully, it was time to call it a night. He went back to the corridor, intending to head out…when raised voices grabbed his attention. They came from an open door at the end of the hallway.
“That is enough, sir!” a woman’s voice commanded.
“You’ve been a dreadful tease, pet,” a male voice said. “Time to pay the piper.”
“Let go of me!”
Wick sprinted to the room, pushed open the door. The study was small, dominated by a desk and book-lined walls, with a small sofa by the fire. A man dressed like a pirate had a woman pressed up against one of the bookshelves, his arms caging her as she struggled.
The despicable bastard. With smoldering fury, Wick stalked over.
“Pick on someone your own size,” he growled.
As he grabbed the cad by the scruff, the man let out a startled shout, stumbling backward into
Wick. With an oath, Wick caught his balance…and found himself staring at the barrel of a pistol.
His gaze travelled beyond the weapon to the lady holding it. A white satin mask covered her face, leaving only her eyes and mouth revealed. Brassy red curls cascaded over her shoulders and back. Her tall, willowy figure was clad in a gown of unrelieved black, her arms encased in matching black satin gloves.
The gloved hands holding the small, pearl-handled pistol were notably steady. As was the gaze the lady aimed at the bastard who’d been accosting her.
“Get out,” she said in cultured tones.
The man, whose face was pale beneath his piratical eye patch, needed no further encouragement, running off like a cur with its tail between its legs. Wick resisted the impulse to go after the bounder and pummel an apology out of him.
Instead, he turned to the woman. “Are you all right, miss?”
Her gaze shifted to him. Her eyes took on the color of the candlelight, mysterious and flickering. A strange awareness stirred his nape.
“I had the situation well in hand.” Her voice was calm, with a pleasing musical lilt.
“That I do not doubt.” Wick offered her a wry smile. “Would you mind lowering the pistol? I give you my word I mean no harm.”
She blinked, as if she’d forgotten she still held the gun. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped it into the folds of her skirts. The way another lady might tuck away a handkerchief.
“My thanks, sir.” She moved to stand behind the desk, putting it between them. “For intervening in that unpleasant situation.”
As she spoke, his gaze was drawn to her mouth. Framed by the edge of her mask, her lips were rosy and plump. He suspected the rest of her face would be equally enticing. The satin mask molded to her delicate bone structure, and if her neck and shoulders were any indication, her skin was as smooth and flawless as porcelain. It was too dim for him to see the color of her eyes—some shade of blue, he reckoned—but they were large and almond-shaped, fringed by the longest lashes he’d ever seen.
She’d opted for a costume not in the current style. The classical column suited her figure which, while slender, was also rounded in his favorite places. Her gown’s scooped neckline revealed the lovely rounded tops of her breasts, medium sized and with a firm jiggle that made his palms itch to test their heft. Her straight skirts flowed over her lush hips, the kind that would cradle a man as he plowed her…
Wick frowned. What was the matter with him? He had no business lusting over the lady, even if she was the first to arouse his senses in longer than he cared to admit. Having just escaped a mauling, the last thing she needed was more male attention.
He cleared his throat. “My intervention, as it were, was quite superfluous. Shall I return you to your friends?”
“I came alone as that would better serve my purpose.”
“Ah.” It was all he could think to say to her frank reply.
There was only one reason a female like her would come alone to a place like this. She was here to partake in wild, anonymous, no-strings-attached tupping.
The lust he’d suppressed licked hot and low in his belly. Yet his honor refused to let him yield to temptation. She was clearly a lady and vulnerable…she could be in some sort of shock.
“Then allow me to escort you to your carriage,” he said. “Or to summon one for you.”
Her gaze fixed on her skirts, the way she smoothed them out a veritable art form.
“I’m not ready to leave,” she said crisply.
“It’s too dangerous for you to be here alone—”
“I am not alone, am I?” She raised her compelling eyes to his again. “I came for a specific reason tonight, and I gather you did as well.”
Her directness affected him like a blow to the chest. His breath shortened, his blood pounding in his veins. What was it about this female that he found so intriguing? Was it her mysterious beauty? The contrast between her physical delicacy and uncommon backbone?
Maybe it’s just her maddeningly delectable tits.
“I would not take advantage,” he said candidly.
“No, I believe you would not.”
She was studying him, one arm beneath her peerless bosom, the other hand propping up her chin. With her head tilted and lips pursed, she looked like an innocent bluestocking…perish the thought. For despite Wick’s worldly attitude about sexual matters, his honor would never permit him to seduce a virgin.
Luckily, neither he nor his honor had grounds for concern this eve. Encountering a maiden at this masquerade was as likely as finding one in a Covent Garden nunnery. This lady, who he guessed to be in her mid-twenties, was probably a widow or married lady out for some fun.
He found he didn’t like the idea of her being married. Not that it was any of his business.
“May I ask you a question, sir?”
“I am at your disposal.” More than I ought to be.
“What do you think I’m dressed as?”
He cocked his head. “Don’t you know your own costume?”
“I do,” she said seriously. “Tonight I am looking for a man who can guess the nature of my disguise. I do not intend to leave until I find him.”
The idea of her rifling through the males in attendance caused an odd tightening in his gut. Jealousy? Surely not. He hadn’t felt possessive over any woman before.
Bemused by his reaction, he lifted his brows. “What do you intend to do when you find this paragon of discernment?”
She looked him in the eye. “I intend to have relations with him, of course.”
2
I did it. I just propositioned a man.
Heart pounding, Bea was grateful for her mask. Not only did it hide her defect, it concealed her furious blush. As she waited with affected insouciance for the stranger’s reaction to her scandalous offer, she took the opportunity to study him further.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he had the lean build of an athlete. His cloak framed his trim torso, narrow hips, and long, muscular legs. His black half-mask underscored his high cheekbones, straight nose, and strong jaw, all of which could have graced a sculpture. Above his noble forehead, his golden-brown hair had a thick, enticing wave. Her hands curled with the instinctive desire to feel that glinting richness between her fingers.
In her entire life, she’d never done anything this forward. This brazen. Clearly, she was no longer the innocent and naïve debutante she’d once been.
Seven years had changed her. Changed everything.
You want this, a voice inside her said. A taste of passion. Not to go to your grave a virgin.
The memory of her only kiss stirred up dregs of longing and pain. She pushed aside the feelings; it was easy to do, for she’d had years of practice. Time enough to rage, mourn, and come to peace with the vagaries of fate.
While I cannot change the past, the present is mine to decide. Resolve swelled inside her. And I’ve made up my mind to experience, just once, a lover’s touch.
Tomorrow, she’d return to her normal life of safety and seclusion. To the life she’d carved out for herself—one that had purpose and meaning, yes, but which always left her alone when darkness fell. For this one night, days shy of her twenty-fifth birthday, she wanted…more.
Taking a lover would be her birthday present to herself.
Excitement shivered through her as she met the gaze of her potential bedpartner on the other side of the desk. She had only three requirements for her lover, the first one concerning physical attraction. Obviously, she wanted to find him desirable…but she hadn’t expected a man to have the effect this fellow had on her. Her heart raced, and her insides felt as quivery as an aspic. She felt like the heroine of a sensation novel rather than the sensible spinster she knew herself to be.
When it came to appearance, the man was faultless, and she was quite certain he met her second requirement as well. She wanted a lover who knew how to please a woman, and this stranger, with his easy charm and gentlemanly compo
rtment, was clearly comfortable with the opposite sex. He exuded a natural, virile confidence that she hoped extended to the bedchamber.
Bea had one final requirement, one that was rather self-indulgent. Yet even disfigured old maids had standards, and she wanted her first, and perhaps only, time to be with someone with a modicum of intelligence: a man with the ability to see beneath the surface. Not of her mask, of course—which she would never remove for she knew that would only open the door to pain and rejection—but to the heart of her.
The living, breathing woman who lived behind the beastly scar.
To that end, she’d devised a simple test.
She didn’t think the challenge was difficult, yet not a single man thus far had succeeded in guessing what she was dressed as. The bastard she’d dispatched with the pistol, for instance, had thought that she was a black cat. Had his eye patch prevented him from noticing her lack of a tail, pointy ears, and whiskers? Sadly, his deduction was better than the other guesses she’d received, which had included a raven (one that was wingless and featherless?), a black sheep (without wool?), and a leopard (don’t even get her started).
In a fit of desperation, she’d ignored her instincts, coming with the piratical cad to the study. When he’d started pawing at her, telling her that he couldn’t wait to drop his “anchor” in her “wet harbor,” she’d known she couldn’t go through with her plan. Not with him.
She was desperate not deranged.
He hadn’t liked being told no. Luckily, she’d come equipped with another deterrent. Not one for self-delusion, she was fully aware that her behavior tonight was risky: she would not add lack of preparation to her sins.
The Adonis before her let out a slow breath…an exhalation that suggested that he’d come to an internal decision. Was it her fanciful imagination, or was that interest flickering in his heavy-lidded eyes? The wobbly feeling spread from her center to her limbs.
The Duke Redemption Page 2
