“No?” Alexandra looked rather pointedly at Emma’s shoes. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re rather intent on destroying the walkway.”
Emma winced when she realized the path was marked with scattered rocks from each kick. The well-dressed, elderly couple who passed them gawked at her unladylike behavior. Emma sighed. “I’m not good company today.”
Alexandra linked arms with her as they resumed their stroll. “What shall I do? Chastise you? Take it out of your salary?” At Emma’s look, Alexandra grinned. “I’m not going to punish you for having a bad day. You’ve certainly seen more than your share of mine.”
At twenty-three, Alexandra and Emma were the same age. Where Emma was slightly plainer in appearance, Alexandra had inherited the same beauty both of her brothers possessed.
Her beauty managed to fool men, at first. How angelic she appeared, how graceful.
Oh, how many men had fallen for that first impression. The truth was, Alexandra had the uncanny ability to eviscerate a man with a few words. And she did just that — in writing.
It also made her an undesirable wife to gentlemen seeking a biddable woman to marry. Fools, the lot of them. Emma did not understand Englishmen.
“It’s not my day that's the problem. It's an —” Emma carefully thought about her next words — “an exceedingly awful idea I’ve had that may or may not have something to do with a family curse.”
More like a terrible lack of judgement, passed through the Dumont women.
“Pardon?”
“Never mind. It’s ridiculous.”
Alexandra smiled. “As you can see, I have plenty of time. Dites-moi en français s'il vous plaît.”
Emma hesitated, then after a moment asked in French, “Have you heard of the Masquerade? It’s a—”
“I knew it!” Alexandra’s shout made Emma jump about a foot in the bloody air. “Well, I didn’t know it exactly — I figured it was a man — but I guessed it had something to do with a shag.”
“Alexandra!” She looked around to make certain no one was about. “Why don’t you announce it a bit more conspicuously, I don’t think they heard you back in Belgravia.”
Oh, good lord, she was still grinning. “They don't all speak fluent French.”
“The word shag might have given them something of an idea. Where on earth did you hear that?”
“Don’t change the subject. You want to sneak into the Masquerade, don’t you?”
Emma flushed, as if she were a damned virgin. She hadn’t taken a lover since before she became a lady’s maid, but she wasn’t exactly an innocent society miss, either.
For that matter, neither was Alexandra. She left the house often enough after hours that Emma wagered she had taken lovers of her own. Alexandra kept her indiscretions discreet enough to avoid ruin.
“I might have considered it.”
Her friend leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a secret: every lady in the ton has.”
“How do you know?”
Alexandra’s voice was low as she murmured, “You have no idea how many of them long to seduce a man of their choice.” She shrugged. “Or a woman. Sometimes both at the same time.”
Having a French mother, Emma was no stranger to rumors of women being intimate with one another, but the secrets of the English ton surprised her. She supposed talk in Paris about the English being cold, passionless lovers couldn’t be all true. She’d heard enough about Lord Kent, after all. She’d fantasized about them for hours while touching herself.
“Seduction is certainly part of it, yes.”
The other part has to do with desiring intimate relations with your brother and I’m a complete fool for entertaining the notion.
“And the rest is—” Alexandra’s lip curved into a knowing smile — “curiosity?”
They both went silent as another lady and her maid passed them on the path. “The Dumont curse,” she whispered to Alexandra once it was clear again.
“The what?”
Emma sighed. “A silly notion I have.” At Alexandra’s expectant look, Emma explained, “Every woman in my family were mistresses abandoned by their lovers. I thought this would be a way to become intimate without . . .”
“Attachments? Risk of abandonment?”
Without falling in love.
But she didn’t say that. Emma didn’t wish to explain that it wasn't being a mistress she feared. After all, it was a valid social position for many.
No, the Dumont women always had their heart broken by titled gentlemen.
Emma herself was the result of her mother’s elicit affaire d'amour with the Duke of Southampton during his frequent visits to Paris. That is, until he abandoned them, stopped paying for their apartment, and moved on. Just like that.
Easy.
The Masquerade was Emma's chance to indulge in her desire for Lord Kent without consequence. He wouldn’t know who she was. She’d be someone else, someone mysterious. One night would leave no risk of falling in love with him and ending up like her mother.
She'd be the one to leave this time.
Easy.
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma said. “I don’t have a mask.”
Alexandra leaned in with a wicked smile. “I know someone who does.”
Chapter 3
James stood outside the white bricked building in Mayfair as his hired hack pulled away.
From the outside, it looked completely inconspicuous — quiet, even. There was no hint to what went on inside. If James didn’t know any better, he would have said the place looked empty. The curtains were drawn shut, and not a sliver of light penetrated to the outside.
Mask in hand, James crossed the empty, dark street and went around back as the invitation had directed him.
There it was: the heavy double doors that lead inside. James made certain he'd arrived fashionably late — well after midnight — so no one would be on the street by the time he entered. There was still a battle occurring between his brain and his arousal and frankly, the fantasies he envisioned were too erotic to ignore.
This gives you the opportunity to bed a woman in complete anonymity, no attachments. Hell, go bed several. Just make sure it’s enough to last a lifetime.
Damn it to hell, his fantasies won.
James slid the mask over his face and knotted the ribbons tightly at the back. Then he knocked on the heavy wooden door.
A small panel in the middle of the door slid open, but he could see no one’s face. A man’s deep voice asked, “Yes?”
James cleared his throat. “Tu peux garder un secret?”
The panel slid shut and not a moment later the heavy wooden door opened. It led to a small, dark receiving room with only flickering candles for light.
The man at the door came into view, wearing a mask and dark clothes. “New member?”
“How can you tell?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You’ve got an uncertain look about you. You’ll find other members in the sitting room at the end of the hall. If you like to be watched—” the man gave him a meaningful look — “the three observation rooms are clearly marked. All others are private; you’ll find the key on the outside of the door. Stay until morning if you like. Questions?”
James had to admit that the man’s candidness set him more at ease. “Did you have that speech memorized?”
He smiled and winked. “Indeed,” he said, opening the door beside him. “Welcome to the Masquerade.”
James entered a long hallway with dozens of doors on either side. He’d intended to visit in the sitting room and meet with the other members, but slowed as he passed an open door.
Christ.
The sight before him was . . . erotic. Arousing. A handful of people in the same room, in various states of undress. Flickering candlelight illuminated their bodies. A masked woman was bent over a desk as a man thrust into her from behind. On the couch were two more women enjoying the attentions of the men on their knees between their legs. The last couple made love agai
nst the wall; both were completely, unabashedly naked.
Watching them, listening to their screams and moans of pleasure, James hardened. He had never been more hard in his life. He lingered longer than he ought to have, letting the sounds of their lovemaking fill his ears.
And he wanted.
God, he wanted.
This was everything he needed.
One of the women on the couch glanced up and caught James looking. She smiled a devil’s smile and crooked a finger at him. She wanted him to join them.
James’s breath caught. His fingers went to his coat, unbuttoning — until he heard a beautiful, breathless voice whisper French in his ear, “Viens avec moi.”
Come with me.
Chapter 4
Emma became a different woman when she wore her mask and borrowed clothes.
The dress Alexandra lent her hugged every curve and left enough of her breasts visible that any man would ogle to get a better look. If she had worn such a garment as herself, she would have flushed all over and immediately traded it for another.
It was anonymity that gave Emma a confidence she had never felt before. When she saw a masked James stroll into the Masquerade, she’d walked up to him and boldly whispered in his ear in French. Her fingertips had brushed his own in a clear invitation: yours if you want it.
He’d shivered at her touch and grasped her hand.
Yes, he wanted it.
As James lead them into one of the empty rooms, she felt a keen sense of triumph.
Finally.
Finally.
James grasped the key from where it hung around the handle and locked them in with a decisive click.
Emma tried not to let her nervousness show as she took in the room where she was to conduct her deception. She wanted to commit it to memory. Those recollections would serve her for many lonely nights after this, long after she had said goodbye.
The bedchamber was lush, with crimson velvet curtains and red, textured wallpaper. The furniture was all dark and gleaming, certainly fitting for a room of seduction. They appeared sturdy enough to withstand enthusiastic lovemaking — leaving little doubt of their primary purpose.
For the more discerning lovers, the four poster bed was large enough for several people. At once.
Emma kept her back to James. She felt his hungry gaze track her movements as she unbuttoned her cloak. “Parlez-vous français?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer.
If she wanted to keep this secret, she couldn’t speak the way she did in his household. It was too obvious. That proper English accent her tutors had forced her to use lacked any trace of a Parisian lilt. No, this would be part of her disguise. Her mystery.
“Oui,” he replied. “Are you French?”
She gave him a soft, chastising smile as she slid the cloak from her shoulders. The heavy velvet material pooled on the Turkey carpet at her feet.
When Emma’s gaze rose to meet James’s, she trembled at how dark his expression was. The blatant desire as his eyes traced the bared curve of her throat, the low cut of the gown. The modiste made it for a smaller busted Alexandra; on Emma, the garment looked made for seduction.
Made to be taken off.
James’s breathing was heavy as she approached. It made Emma feel powerful, siren-like. Luring a man to destruction.
“Does it matter where I’m from?” she asked in French. “Who I am?”
He seemed to pause at that. “No,” he said firmly. “No, it doesn’t.”
Good, Emma thought. Don’t make this into something it isn’t. It’s better that way.
“Just this,” she murmured, sliding her hands beneath his overcoat to push it off. “Just us. We’re all that matters.” Emma turned her back to him and brushed her thick, wavy hair off her neck. “Now undress me.”
Emma held her breath as he started to unbutton the back of her dress. About halfway down he groaned. “You’re not wearing anything underneath this.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “That makes this much easier, doesn’t it?” Emma’s voice was unfamiliar to her own ears, a low rolling purr in her native tongue. “I didn’t expect to wear it for long.”
James finished unbuttoning. His breath was at the curve of her shoulder, lips to her ear as he pushed the dress off her shoulders. “What did you come here for?”
Emma let the garment fall. Then she was standing naked before him, her skin illuminated only by candlelight.
She turned in his arms, pressed her lips to his and whispered, “For you. For this.”
Chapter 5
She tasted of fine Madeira and something sweet.
Decadent, James thought. Sinful.
Her lips explored his own, tentative at first, as if she were savoring the taste of him, too. When her tongue darted between his lips, James smothered a rough groan by kissing her harder. He backed her toward the bed. His cock was hard and ready, but James was in control. He wanted this to last. He wanted to see her in the light, touch her flesh until the memory of her skin was imprinted in his mind.
James wanted to hear her scream when he made her come.
“Touch me,” she whispered, nipping at his lower lip.
The low, rolling accent of her French brushed across James’s skin like silk. She took his hand in hers and slid it down to the fullness of her breast, using his fingers to circle her nipple. To his surprise, she didn’t stop there. She guided his hand to the heated skin of her waist. Lower. His fingers moved across her flesh like the stroke of a paintbrush on canvas.
There. She held his hand between her legs.
“Christ, you’re wet,” he murmured, stroking her with a deft, exploring touch.
She threw back her head with a gasp when he slid in a finger. Only one, and he felt how it made her tremble. He couldn’t wait to bury his cock inside of her so, so deeply.
“This is what I want to do to you,” he said, thrusting his finger in and out, slowly at first. He added another finger, and another, moving faster. With every movement, her breath shook, coming in short, quick exhales that only made him want her more. “I’m going to make you feel so good when I’m inside you. Do you want it like this?”
“Harder,” she breathed. “Faster.”
James’s lips curved into a smile. “I admire a woman who knows what she wants.”
“Do you?” Her lips slid down to his neck where she bit him once, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark.
Yes. He didn’t know if he said the word aloud. Yes.
James drew back in surprise — both at the action and his own response. She immediately looked concerned. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“No.” He reached for her, placing his hand at her nape to draw her back. “I liked it.”
She relaxed and kissed the spot on his throat beside her teeth marks. “Really?” she sounded relieved.
When her tongue darted out to touch his skin, he tightened his hold, his free hand sliding down to squeeze her arse. “God, yes. More, please.”
“You’re still wearing too many clothes.” She looked up at him with an eyebrow raised and a sly smile playing on her lips. “Unless you’d like to keep them on? We can be as creative as you’d like.”
Jesus. He’d have to remember that for another time.
Another time?
James shook his head to clear the thought. When he started unbuttoning his waistcoat, she moved in to help him. “Let me.”
The speed at which she undid buttons and removed clothes was impressive — better than his valet. Did she have many lovers, then?
“Are you here often?” James couldn’t help but ask. He couldn't explain why the thought unnerved him.
Then his own cold, rational mind interrupted: You came here for this. Why does it matter if she’s had one lover or fifty?
She had his shirt off and on the floor, then flashed another smile, wider this time. There was a dimple in her cheek that he adored instantly. “This is my first night,” she said. “Why?”
&nb
sp; Her hands had moved to the button of his trousers and he cleared his throat. “You’re very . . . adept at removing clothes.”
And you know exactly what you want.
“One of several talents,” she said — damn dimple flashing again — before she slid down his trousers and freed his cock.
The sight of her naked and on her knees was the most arousing thing James had ever seen in his entire bloody life.
He wanted to voice a command, tell her his every desire in the most vulgar terms. Put my cock in your mouth, he almost said. I want to watch you suck me.
But he didn't; he was certain this woman could read every thought. She stared up at him with eyes half-lidded with desire, and a jolt of heat went through him. Men would have risked death for such a look.
Then she leaned forward and took him into her mouth.
James’s head fell back. “Yes,” he breathed, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Suck me.”
She began to move, taking him to the base and then retreating. She used her hand, her tongue, the smallest scrape of her teeth. She tickled and teased and made him shiver.
All for one very clear intention: to drive James over the edge.
And she was succeeding.
“Like that.” His words came out in a single gasp, barely coherent. “Just. Like. That.”
James swore he felt her smile again, but when he looked down at her, her gaze collided with his. The air crackled between them, hot and thick. He watched the slow, teasing way she slid her lips across the tip of him, sucking gently as her hand worked him. And he wanted her.
“Stop,” James whispered, drawing her up until her entire body pressed against his. Warm and soft and pliable. “I need to have more of you.”
She seemed amused by that. “Need? Is that right?”
“Need,” James confirmed. “To fuck you. Will you let me?”
He was aware that he could have worded that more delicately. His past lovers preferred the phrase make love, because it implied something more intimate than fucking. But somehow he sensed this woman appreciated honesty, and that his frank words only aroused her more. She shivered against him. James bet that if he were to touch her quim again, he would find her even wetter.
A Touch Wicked (Private Arrangements) Page 2
