Would he appear? Would he have found a way? His attendance at the masquerade led her to believe that he was a man of some consequence. A casual introduction to Lady Fairchild would have sufficed to be extended an invitation to tonight’s event. However, she had inquired about him and was answered with a blank stare.
He had not been invited.
That did not mean he would not be here.
If his interest in her was related to St. John, she imagined he would have the knowledge required to gain entry to the house and find the private sitting room. She could not decide if that meant it would be best for him not to come. With the household she lived in and the man she was promised to marry, she could not afford any more trouble. But her heart recklessly ignored the situation as a whole and concentrated solely on what it wanted. She wasn’t certain what she would do if he responded to her invitation; she knew only that she wished he would.
Anticipation and heady expectation filled her at the thought. She had dressed with purpose this evening, choosing a gown made of dark, thick sapphire damask accented with delicate silver lace at the bodice, elbows, and underskirts. With sapphires in her hair, at her throat, and adorning her fingers, she looked older and worldlier.
If only she felt that way inside. Instead she felt as she had as a young girl—breathless with the desire to see Colin and eager to feel the emotions that only he roused in her. She had thought she would never feel similarly again. It was both thrilling and frightening to feel that way about a masked stranger.
Finally, she reached the small sitting room she had specified in the note. Sarah had learned of the room from her cousin who worked in the Fairchild household. The abigail passed the information on to Amelia, wanting her to have a quiet place to retreat if necessary.
Pausing a moment with her hand on the knob, Amelia took a deep breath and attempted to calm her riotous nerves. It was hopeless, so she abandoned the effort. Opening the door, she slipped inside. The drapes were open, allowing a sliver of silver moonlight to slant in through the sash.
She waited just inside the door, giving her eyes the time necessary to adjust to the reduced lighting. She held her breath expectantly, her ears straining to listen above the rushing of blood, hoping that he would be there and call out to her.
But there was nothing more than the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Amelia moved to the window and turned, taking in the contents of the room. Two settees, one chaise, two chairs, tables of various sizes scattered about . . . There was more, but no Montoya.
She sighed, and her hands moved restlessly over her voluminous skirts. Perhaps she had arrived too early, or he was having some difficulty gaining entry. She looked out the window, half frightened by the thought that he might be standing outside. But there was no Montoya there either.
A few minutes. She could spare that much.
As she began to pace, the clock ticked relentlessly. Her heart rate slowed and her breathing settled into a natural rhythm. Disappointment weighed on her shoulders and the corners of her mouth. After ten minutes passed, Amelia knew it was impossible to linger, though she thought she might wait all night if not for those who would seek her out in worry.
She walked toward the door. “Well . . . Now there is nothing to distract from the wedding plans,” she muttered.
“Who was the miniature created for?”
Amelia paused with her hand on the knob, shivering as that dark, deep voice wrapped around her like a warm embrace. Gooseflesh covered her bared skin, and her lips parted on a silent gasp. Wide-eyed, she pivoted slowly to face the room. It was then that she saw the faint glow of the white half mask and cravat in the far corner. Montoya wore black again, enabling him to hide in the shadows of the unlit room.
“Lord Ware,” she answered, slightly dazed by her phantom’s sudden appearance and the realization that he had been there the whole time. Watching her. Why the mask? What was he hiding?
“Why was it created?” he asked gruffly. “It is not a gift commonly given from a virginal bride to her fiancé.”
She took a step toward him.
“Stay there and answer the question.”
Amelia frowned at his curtness. “I wanted him to see me in a different way.”
“He will see you in all ways, in the flesh.” There was bitterness in his tone, and the sound of it softened her apprehension, which enabled her to say what she might not have said otherwise.
“I wanted him to see that I was willing to share that side of myself with him,” she admitted.
The sharp alertness that tensed his frame was palpable. “Why would he doubt it?”
“Must we talk about him?” Her foot tapped impatiently. “We have so little time since you spent all of it hiding in that corner.”
“We are not talking about him,” Montoya said silkily. “We are discussing why an intimate gift meant for your fiancé found its way into my possession. Did you intend for me to see you in a different way as well?”
Amelia caught herself fidgeting nervously and hid her hands behind her back. “I think you see me differently,” she murmured, “regardless.”
His smile flashed white in the darkness. “So if I, a stranger, can see you as a sexual creature, why would your future husband have difficulty doing the same?”
She held her breath, considering his perceptive probing. “What is it that you want me to say? It is inappropriate for me to discuss private matters.”
“Sending me a provocative image of you is appropriate?”
“If it troubles you so, return it.” She held out her hand.
“Never,” he growled. “I will never give it back.”
“Why not?” She raised one brow in challenge. “Do you seek to use it against me?”
“As if I would ever allow anyone else to see it.”
Possessiveness. Clear as day. He was possessive over her. Amelia was both startled and pleased.
“Why does Lord Ware not see you as you wish to be seen?” he asked, finally approaching.
His tall form stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, setting her heart racing. There was something so predatory, yet elegant in the way he moved, his tails swaying gently with his determined stride. Power leashed and clad in a civilized veneer. It made his allure even more seductive, made her want to see him unrestrained and free. His features were austere, his beautifully etched lips enticing her to kiss him.
That is what I want, she realized suddenly. That is why I needed to see him again.
She was willing to be honest with him in order to achieve that aim. “We are longtime companions.”
“Is it not a love match?” he asked, stopping a few feet away.
“I should not answer that.”
“And I should not be here. You should not have lured me.”
“You had me followed.”
He shook his head. “No. Jacques took it upon himself. I am leaving Town. I need distance from you, before this matter progresses any further.”
“How can you leave? Are you not haunted by our dance in the garden?” Her hand lifted to the sapphires at her throat. “Don’t you think about the kiss we shared?”
“I cannot cease thinking of it.” He pounced and caught her hard against him, as if something in him had broken free of its bonds. “Waking. Sleeping.”
She felt his gaze heating her mouth. She licked the lower curve and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled exotic, spicy, purely male animal. Something instinctive inside her stirred in response.
“Do it,” she goaded, her chest moving against his with rapid pants.
Montoya whispered a low curse. “You do not love him.”
“I wish I did.” Tentatively, her hands slipped beneath his coat and settled at his waist. His skin was hot, so feverish, she could feel the heat through his garments.
“Is your heart already taken?”
Her exhale was shaky. “In a fashion.”
“Why me?”
“Why the m
ask?” she retorted, hating the feeling of being stripped bare by his questions.
He stared down into her upturned face. “My visage is not one you would wish to see.”
She was deeply disquieted by the finality in his tone. The feeling of incertitude disturbed her to the point that she released him and attempted to step back. He held fast.
“Let us settle this now,” he said, reaching up to brush callused fingertips along her cheekbones. “What do you want from me?”
“Did you approach me because of St. John?”
Montoya shook his head. “My motives were simple. I saw a beautiful woman. I lost all sense of manners and stared, which made her ill at ease. I attempted to apologize. That is all.” His hands cupped her spine and stroked downward, arching her into him.
He was so hard, so solid, Amelia wanted to cling to him and touch him without impediments. Only one man had ever held her this closely. Only a short time ago, she would have said her ability to enjoy such an embrace with every fiber of her being had passed with Colin. Now, she knew that wasn’t true.
How extraordinary to have found Montoya.
Or more aptly, how extraordinary that he had found her.
“That night . . . You recognized that others were coming,” she pointed out.
“I did.” The line of his lips hardened. “I am a man encumbered by a tainted past. It is why you should not send for me.”
“You did not have to come.” A tainted past, one that allowed him to recognize covert signals that most aristocrats would fail to notice. Who was he?
The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, and she touched it with her fingertip. She could not see any deformity through the eyeholes of the mask or around his mouth. What she could see were dark eyes of a slightly exotic slant and a mouth made for sin. The curvature, shape, and firmness were perfection. She could imagine hours of kissing him and never growing bored. Whatever else may be wrong with him, she thought she might be able to bear it.
She touched the edge of the mask. “Let me see you.”
“No!” He pushed her hand away roughly, then caught it again and kissed the back. The press of his lips left tingles, even through her glove. “Trust me. It would be difficult to bear the truth of it.”
“Is that why you will not court me?”
Montoya stilled. “Would you wish me to?”
“Do you feel this way about many women?” Her gaze dropped to his throat where she watched him swallow hard. “I have felt this way about only one other man, and he is lost to me, as your love is to you.”
Suddenly his embrace tightened, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You have mentioned a lost loved one before,” he rasped.
“Sometimes it feels as if a piece of me is missing. It is unbearable. I do not understand why I feel so vividly about him after all these years, as if he might return, as if some part of me expects him to.” Her hands fisted in his coat. “But when I am with you, I think only of you.”
“Do I remind you of him?”
She shook her head. “He was vital and unrestrained; you are more subdued, but in a . . . primitive way.” Her smile was sheepish. “That sounds silly.”
“The primitiveness comes in response to you,” he said, nuzzling his jaw against her temple. He was so close, the smell of him inundated her senses and made her giddy. Joy, hot and sweet, filled her. The sensation of being alive after years of numbness. She felt guilty for that, burdened by a sense of betraying Ware, but she could not fight the attraction to Montoya. It was too strong, too heady and intoxicating.
“I would be willing to explore it . . .” she offered shyly.
“Are you propositioning me, Miss Benbridge?” he asked with a low laugh that she adored from the moment she heard it. It was the kind of laugh one worked to hear again. Already her mind was sifting through anecdotes she could share that might make him merry.
“I want to see you again.”
“No.” He cupped her nape and held her cheek to his chest, wrapping his big body around her. It was safe in his embrace. Warm. Delightful. Could two people spend hours hugging? A derisive snort escaped her. Hours of kissing and hugging. She was deranged.
“Was that a snort?” he teased.
She flushed. “Do not attempt to change the subject.”
“We should part,” he said, sighing with what sounded like regret. “You have already been absent from the festivities too long.”
“Why did you not say something when I first arrived?”
Montoya tried to retreat, but she held him to her. There was power in her proximity, she thought. The two halves warring within him—the part that wanted to hold her and the part that wanted to push her away—seemed stalemated when she was near.
Amelia smiled a woman’s smile. “You could not allow me to walk away, could you?”
“Is that vanity I hear?”
“Is that evasion?”
The flash of a rakish dimple made her stomach flutter. “If my circumstances were different, nothing could keep me from making you mine.”
“Oh?” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Would you come bearing honorable intentions, or would you seduce me as you are doing now?”
“Sweet . . .” He laughed again. “The only seduction at work here is yours.”
“Truly?” Her breasts were full and heavy, pressing uncomfortably against her corset. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp. She felt seduced. Could it be that his body was responding to her as well? “What am I doing to you?”
“Why?” His smile was charming. “So you can do more of it?”
“I might. Would you like that?”
“When did you become so flirtatious?”
“Perhaps I have always been so,” she rejoined, batting her lashes coyly.
Montoya turned pensive. “Can Ware manage you?” He caught her wrists and pulled her hands away from his waist.
“I beg your pardon?” Amelia frowned as he evaded her and moved toward the door.
“You are mischievous baggage.” His gaze narrowed as his hand wrapped around the knob.
“I am not baggage.” She set her hands atop her pannier.
“You will forever land into trouble if not watched carefully.”
She arched a haughty brow. “I have been watched my entire life.”
“And yet here you are, luring strangers with tantalizing miniatures and holding a highly inappropriate assignation.”
“You did not have to come!” She stomped one slippered foot, irritated by his condescending tone.
“True. And I shan’t come again.”
His tone was too familiar. He had asked her if he reminded her of Colin. Up until this moment, he had not. They were built differently, their voices were inflected with dissimilar accents, and their strides boasted different kinds of confidence. Colin had a bit of a stomp, as if to forcibly establish his presence. Montoya had sultriness to his gait, a more understated way of defining his dominance.
But in their mulish determination to set her aside, they were the same. As a young girl, she’d no choice but to tolerate it. That was not the case now.
“As you wish,” she said, moving toward him with a deliberate swaying of her hips. “If it is so easy for you to walk away and leave me behind, it would be best if you go.”
“I did not say it would be easy,” he bit out.
Amelia set her hand atop his where it gripped the knob. “Good-bye, Count Montoya.”
He turned his head, and she lunged, pressing her lips to his. He froze, and she took the advantage, tilting her head to deepen the contact. His breathing grew labored, his skin hot. Still, he did not move. She was unsure of how to proceed, and without his participation the kiss became awkward. Then she thought perhaps she was overthinking the thing.
Closing her eyes, Amelia allowed instinct to take over. Her hands settled lightly upon his tense shoulders, and he shuddered. She licked his lower lip, and he groaned. Her stomach churned madly with delight and fear. W
hat if they were caught? How would she explain?
Then she did not care because it was too delicious taking him as she wanted. He did nothing to help her, but he did nothing to stop her either. Stretching her arms up, she reached behind him and tugged off her glove; then she curled her fingers around his nape. The moment their bare skin touched she was lost to him. His mouth opened on a gasp, and she pushed her tongue inside, licking the taste of him as she would a favorite treat. She tugged on his queue, and he growled.
His tongue stroked along hers, a practiced, smooth glide that made her moan into his mouth. The tiny sound broke him. He moved so quickly, she barely registered it. The next she knew, she was pinned to the door by over six feet of aroused male, and he was kissing her back, ardently and possessively.
“Damn you,” he cursed in a harsh whisper. “I can’t have you.”
“You will not even try!”
“I have done nothing but try. Nothing. That does not change the fact that my circumstances make me unsuitable and dangerous for you.”
Montoya cupped her nape and slanted his mouth hungrily over hers. It was a dark kiss, rife with sensual intent. Delicious. She sagged into the door and took it, all of it. Every thrust of his tongue, every nibble of his teeth, every caress of his beautiful lips. She took it and begged for more with pleading whimpers that drove his fervency to greater heights.
There was a mask between them and endless secrets. There was the wall that existed between strangers who shared nothing of each other beyond a single moment in time, yet the connection she felt with him was there, threading through all of that.
Was it mere lust? How could it be when she could not see all of him? But this thrumming in her veins, the ache in her breasts, the dampness between her thighs . . . Lust was there, part of the greater whole.
“Amelia,” he breathed roughly, his warm breath gusting across her damp skin. His parted lips drifted across her face, from jaw to cheekbone. Then higher. “I want to strip you bare, lay you on my bed, and kiss you all over.”
She shivered, both at the serrated way he said her name and the images his words invoked in her mind. “Reynaldo.”
“I must leave Town or that will happen, and I cannot lay claim to you if we progress that far. Not now.”
Sylvia Day - [Georgian 03] Page 7
