by Donna Hatch
She pulled out of his grasp. “I’m afraid I cannot. This gentleman has already asked for the supper dance.”
“So sorry, good sir.” The Musketeer held out his arm and waited for Hannah to take it.
The pirate gripped her elbow. “Why are you toying with me?”
More annoyed than alarmed, Hannah turned her head slowly to make eye contact with him and drew from a cool reserve inside her. “Release me.”
The pirate looked down as if only now realizing he’d seized her.
“The lady asked you to release her.” The Musketeer took a step closer to the pirate. “Do so this instant, or I shall be obliged to intervene.”
The pirate let go of Hannah. With a sullen glance at the Musketeer, the pirate affected a bow and left, listing off to one side as he walked.
“Cur,” the Musketeer muttered. “Has he been bothering you all night?”
“He keeps insisting he knows me. He’s harmless.” But her elbow burned where his fingers had dug into her skin.
“Shall I warn him away?”
“No, don’t bother. I’m sure he won’t try that again.” Still, Mr. Hill had never been so rough before; he’d always treated her like glass. He might be emboldened by his costume, or by drink.
The Musketeer’s gaze followed the pirate’s back. “He deserves watching.”
His protectiveness should have been endearing, but all her life, people had tried to manage her. It grew tiresome. Still, the Musketeer was right; Mr. Hill’s behavior suggested he might not be as innocuous as she had believed.
The beginning notes of the supper dance began, and the Musketeer’s mouth curved. “A waltz. Fortunately there are no patronesses who must be begged for permission.”
Hannah returned his smile. “A goddess needs no mortal permission.”
He grinned. “Of course not.” He bowed with a flourish and held out his hand, waiting for her to extend hers.
The pirate had simply grabbed her, but this man waited for her to give her hand to him. She placed her hand into his and stepped into dance position with him. He led her with ease borne from practice and inherent skill. Instinctively she matched his subtle clues, and they moved together as if they’d been partners for years.
His voice wrapped around her with all the warmth of his touch. “There is something very different about you, Aphrodite. You are extremely self-possessed, and you stand apart from the others. It isn’t arrogance or coyness; I can’t pinpoint what it is about you that captures me.”
How could she resist such beautiful words? It had to be the flattery of a roué, but it sounded sincere. Still, they were in costume. He clearly played a role just as she did. “I’m sure every mortal feels this way about a goddess.”
“I’m beginning to believe you are a goddess. It’s refreshing to have found a woman who doesn’t want anything from me.”
“Do women often want things from you?”
“Usually.” His mouth pulled to the side in a mixture of bitterness and resignation.
“Does your Musketeer costume come with a name? I feel rather strange that I don’t know what to call you.”
“You may call me Bennett.”
He smiled, and her insides took on the consistency of pudding. If she weren’t careful, she would be in danger of losing her heart to this charming stranger.
Chapter Four
The goddess in Suttenberg’s arms tilted her head to one side. “Bennett?”
An uncomfortable heat crawled up to his collar. Why in the world he’d told her to call him by his Christian name, he couldn’t imagine. Not even his mother called him Bennett. Was this a sign of his ancestors’ blood coming to haunt him?
“Is that your given Christian or your surname?”
He gave one of his signature mysterious smiles. “It is a name by which you may call me.”
“Then I shall assume it is a family name, and not a given name, or people would be scandalized.”
“You’re a goddess; mortals’ opinions shouldn’t matter.”
The smile she gave him in return suggested a host of secrets.
“Besides,” he continued, “for all they know, we might be married.”
“We might be married to other people.” She turned a searching gaze on him, her golden-brown eyes leaving him mildly exposed. “You aren’t, though, are you? Married?”
“No.”
“Truly?” For the first time all evening, vulnerability crept into her tone.
So, the goddess of love wasn’t quite as impenetrable as she’d led him to believe. That crack in her cool, regal perfection warmed him, gave him hope. Strange, but he’d never wondered if a woman desired him; it had always been a safe assumption that women wanted him for something—his money or his title or some sort of favor they wanted him to bestow. A few less virtuous women wanted him for more pleasurable, but less honorable reasons. All seemed to have their own agendas.
“I give you my word, I am not married.” He’d never been so glad to utter those words.
Her expression took on an intensity he hadn’t seen all evening. “I do not speak to Monsieur Bennett of the French Musketeers. I speak to you, the man behind the mask.”
He gazed directly into her eyes. “I give you my word as a gentleman, I am not married.” He paused, relishing the almost imperceptible relaxing of her shoulders that suggested she cared. “And you?”
She smiled and glanced away, suddenly demure. “No.”
Demure. Odd, she hadn’t exhibited that quality all evening, not even as she’d danced with other partners. Yes, he’d been watching her. Closely. To the point of almost ignoring his other partners. He hoped the casual observer would remain ignorant of his interest in the goddess.
Unlike other balls, when practically every eligible female and her mother stalked him in attempts to capture a duke, he hadn’t caught her looking at him at all. He should have found a way to hide his identity years ago. Tonight none of his partners stalked him, a refreshing change, but none of them intrigued him like this Aphrodite. He’d danced with many ladies in mask, but she alone occupied his thoughts.
He led her through the steps, holding her closely. For the first time, he agreed that waltzing was, indeed, an extremely intimate dance. Who was the woman behind the mask? What were her secrets?
He peered at her. “If I cannot ask you any personal questions while you are in the persona of Aphrodite, how can I possibly get to know you—the real you?”
“You seem resourceful.” Her head took on a pert angle.
He huffed his amusement at the polite thwarting that bordered on encouragement. “Very well. Tell me something about yourself that doesn’t reveal your identity, but discloses an aspect of your true self.”
She tilted her head elegantly to look into his eyes. “Today is my birthday.”
“Is it?” Too bad he couldn’t give her an appropriate gift. Or a birthday kiss.
“My favorite color used to be lavender, but after years of mourning, I now detest it. My new favorite color is pink.”
Before he could express his condolences that she’d been in mourning, she pursed her lips into a tiny pout, so irresistible that he could hardly prevent himself from leaning in and kissing her. Right there. On the dance floor. In front of the entire assembly.
Her voice refocused his thoughts. “I detest blood pudding. I love the smell of lilacs. I put cream and sugar in my chocolate. I adore strawberries. I have never been outside of England, but I want very much to see all of the British Isles. And France. And maybe Germany someday—I’ve been studying German. And I like Shakespeare’s comedies. I’ve read them all.” She smiled. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“It’s a start.”
Her mouth curved deeply, surpassing amusement and traveling into genuine, unrehearsed pleasure. How refreshing not to find a practiced smile. “And you?”
He thought back, trying to bring forward similar personal details that wouldn’t give away his identity. “I don’t b
elieve I have a favorite color, but I’m partial to both green and blue. I hate bread pudding. I love the smell of books. I put cream and sugar in my coffee. Eating strawberries makes my neck develop red marks and itch. I like Shakespeare’s comedies, too, but I haven’t read them all. I have a desire to see Italy, but I don’t speak Italian. My mother’s mother was German; she insisted I speak German when I conversed with her. I called her Oma. But after she died, I forgot most of the language.”
Strange, but everyone of his acquaintance, including his family, probably had little to no knowledge of the trivial facts—except the strawberry reaction—that he’d revealed to this mystery woman.
She grew more fluid in his arms. “It’s a pity you don’t remember the German language. While it sounds harsh to our ears, it is imagery-rich and poetic.” Her smile faded, and her golden-brown gaze fixed on him. “Do you think it improper for women to read and learn?”
“No, I applaud it. I enjoy reading and learning, and encourage others to do so.”
Her smile was both relieved and delighted. How charming to find a woman who revealed her emotions instead of playing coy.
His gaze focused on her lips again, and the desire to kiss her struck with more force than before. He’d certainly seen his share of attractive women, and he’d lost count of the number of them who had offered themselves to him—with various implied stipulations and prices, of course—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d suffered such acute desire. Artlessly elegant, mysteriously genuine, her contradictory traits fed his fascination.
The waltz ended, and his arms practically refused to release her. Still, he took himself in hand and stepped away before he carried her off to a dark corner to thoroughly kiss her. He couldn’t do that. He refused to abandon his gentlemanly duty to satisfy a primal instinct that was quickly getting harder to control, probably thanks to his tainted bloodline.
As she stepped away, she smiled a genuine display of dazzling joy that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Thank you for the lovely dance. My dance master was not nearly so skilled.”
He studied her more closely, searching for clues to her identity, her age. Though she followed his lead with more grace and skill than most, her comment made him wonder. Her mouth and the lower half of her face suggested youth, but with the upper part of her face and her eye area covered, he could only place her somewhere between sixteen and forty. “That was your first waltz since, wasn’t it? You are newly out.”
Again that mysterious smile. “My, you are getting personal. I don’t mind telling you that I write with my left hand and that my hair color comes from my mother, but I won’t give you any clues to my age. Besides, a goddess does not come out. If you must know, my dance master was the most skilled dancer who partnered me in the waltz, so I naturally compare all others to him.”
A pertness touched the angle of her head, and she brushed lovely, long fingers over her gold necklace. The gesture drew attention to that hollow between her collarbone that his mouth ached to kiss.
She couldn’t be more than thirty. Could she? No. Probably close to twenty. She said she wasn’t married, but she could be a widow. That would explain her mourning comment. But it might be a parent or a sibling she mourned. Not knowing was about to drive him mad. Yet not knowing filled him with exhilaration.
He could be patient. He’d enjoy this guessing game until he took off her mask. And kissed her thoroughly. Not necessarily in that order.
He bowed low and offered his arm. “Dinner, I believe, my goddess.”
She wound her arm around his, an innocent gesture he’d experienced hundreds of times, but tonight it became a sensual experience that sped the current of his blood into something more closely resembling a raging river after a storm. How could he eat in this condition?
With the intriguing lady at his side, he puffed out his chest as he led her to dinner. As liveried footmen brought dozens of dishes for the first course, he smirked and gestured to a nearby bowl. “I believe it’s blood pudding. Shall I pass it to you?”
She grimaced. “I’ll be sure to give you an extra helping of strawberries, sir.”
He shivered exaggeratedly. “Greek mythology should have taught me never to anger a god, or in this case, a goddess.”
“Anger, no, but tease gently? Perhaps. I suppose men cannot help themselves. My brother certainly took great delight in teasing me.”
“Older or younger brother?”
Her smile dimmed. “Older.”
Very gently, he asked, “The reason you wore mourning and then half mourning long enough to dislike lavender?”
She nodded and sipped her wine, not meeting his gaze.
“I’m very sorry.”
She stirred her soup, staring into it as if her appetite had fled. “Thank you.”
So, she had mourned a brother, not a husband. The knowledge shouldn’t relieve him so much. He changed the subject to bring back her smile. “You said you like the smell of lilacs; do you prefer them over roses?”
Her mouth curved upward a little. “For smell? Yes. For pure beauty? Hmm. Roses look and smell lovely, as do camellias, but lilacs have more character. And roses are given so often they’ve become cliché.”
“Noted.”
She smiled as if he’d passed some kind of test. “Do you believe ladies are too fragile to do anything more than lift a teacup?”
He blinked, trying to find a direction she might be headed. He finally settled with honesty. “No, I believe ladies, at least some ladies, have strength most men underappreciate. But if a gentleman is taking proper care of her, she shouldn’t have to do anything strenuous. However, according to my mother, childbirth was assigned to women because the Almighty knew men weren’t strong enough to handle it. She says men have no tolerance for pain and turn into great babies.”
She laughed softly. “An interesting point of view.”
“It’s true. I cry real tears when I get a hangnail,” he jested.
A full-bodied, husky laugh burst out of her. He stared, amazed at the rich, sultry sound. A few men nearby turned their heads. She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, and took another bite of soup.
“I like to go for long walks,” she said. “Some people of my acquaintance feel I’m too delicate to get any exercize.”
“Because you are so petite?”
“I was frequently ill as a child but I am seldom ill now. Still, everyone watches me as if I’ll break. Sometimes I go for long walks when they think I’m napping. I feel alive when I walking outdoors.”
“I enjoy walking, as well. I also love to ride.”
Her expression clouded over. “I don’t like to ride.”
“No?”
“Horses frighten me—perhaps another reason I’m treated as if I’m made of glass.”
Her confessions evoked a protective instinct inside. He pictured himself accompanying her on her rambles, listening to the husky sweetness of her voice, watching the sunlight glisten in her hair. Did she wear a wig or was that golden mass all that hers? She had said her hair color came from her mother, but was what he saw real? He studied the top of her head but could not be certain if it were genuine or an expertly crafted wig.
“I promise not to treat you as if you are made of glass.” He looked into her soft brown eyes.
Hmm. Brown eyes and blond hair was an unusual combination. Still, his steward was colored thusly, so the possibility existed that she was a true blond. Had he met any blond, brown-eyed ladies recently?
The corners of her mouth lifted. “I would very much appreciate you treating me like a person and not a glass ornament.”
They fell silent as the servants took away the first course and brought the second. He sifted through everything she’d told him, looking for clues as to her name. Clearly, he hadn’t learned enough about her.
“You mentioned not liking horses; did you never learn to ride, then?”
She shook her head slightly. “I haven’t tried in years. Every time I go ne
ar them I’m so nervous that the horses always get jittery.”
“They can sense it.”
“I doubt anything frightens you.”
He paused. “Dark water. I dislike swimming in water so murky that I can’t see the bottom. I have an irrational fear that a monster will swim up from the depths, grab me, and drag me under. Childish, isn’t it?”
“No, not childish; it suggests a good imagination.” She lowered her voice. “I can swim. My mother said it was an unladylike activity. When we went to the seashore, we used bathing machines, but sometimes my friends and I snuck out and swam freely. It was glorious.”
He chuckled at the rebellious gleam in her eye. Would she trust him with such information if they were unmasked? Probably not. He’d certainly never told others much of what he had revealed to her. Was it their masks or something about her that encouraged him to disclose personal details? Perhaps it was that sense of home that enfolded him in its embrace in her presence.
He steered the conversation to other topics. He tossed out casual comments about national events, and her views on social reform, the poor, the roles of landowners, and other subjects he didn’t normally discuss with ladies. She met him head on with thoughtful, intelligent replies. When she didn’t have an answer, she simply stated that before she could comment, she’d have to do some more reading on the matter.
He quirked a brow. “Do you like the smell of books?”
“Love it. A library is always my favorite room in a house.”
Convinced she was quite possibly the most perfect woman he’d ever met, he probed further, discovering a thoughtful, insightful lady who surprised him on every level. He was tempted to fall down on his knees and beg her that moment to marry him.
How quickly could he purchase a marriage license?
No, he couldn’t spring such a life-changing question on her. She deserved to know him better. But surely she’d be pleased to marry the Duke of Suttenberg.
Wouldn’t she? He’d never worried if a lady would accept his proposal as a duke, but now that he’d met one who didn’t know of his title, he had to win her on his own merit. Was it enough? An uncharacteristic uncertainty edged into his confidence. This was his chance to learn if he, Bennett, the man, deserved the love of a woman like his Aphrodite.
