The words felt as dry as ash in her mouth.
Chapter 13
James's sister accepted Lord and Lady Ashby’s invitation to their annual ball, and he was obliged to accompany her.
He tapped his gloves against his trousers and paced the foyer, waiting for Alexandra. He should have been thankful for tonight’s distraction, but he’d never felt more unsettled in his life.
Go confront your inevitable.
Selene admitted she was married. Rather than accept it, James was more tempted than ever to find out her identity. She’d said that behind the mask, she was forgettable — did that mean her husband neglected her, just as her father did? What about her someone?
Christ, this was an obsession.
He needed a drink.
God knew liquor would help him endure the inevitable onslaught of debutantes and mothers. It had been an age since he'd gone to a ball and he intended to show up foxed enough not to look for the object of his obsession.
Besotted. He’d take besotted over obsession.
As James headed down the hall to his office, he heard someone singing in the library. James paused at the open door and peered inside to see Miss Dumont atop the ladder, reaching for a book on a high shelf.
Her voice was low and lovely, surprisingly sensual for such a guileless looking woman. How old was she again? He didn’t think she could be older than Alexandra.
She stopped singing and stared down at the book. “Stop,” she murmured to herself, flipping through the pages. “Stop thinking about it, Emma.”
Emma. Such a lovely name; it suited her. James found himself staring at her, at the way her pale yellow dress hugged the lean, delicate lines of her body.
When his sister had first asked him to hire Miss Dumont, he hadn’t thought much on her. She wasn’t plain, of course, but James had met many alluring women in his life.
But at this moment, with the lamplight just behind her, she looked magnificent. Beautiful. The shape of her reminded him of—
Enough, James. Put Selene out of your mind for one bloody night.
James heard Miss Dumont speak again. “Oh, for god’s sake,” she said in irritation, shutting the book with a hard thump. “It’s going to end eventually, you great ninny.”
“That must be some book,” James found himself saying as he came into the room.
Startled, Miss Dumont turned with a gasp. “Lord Kent!” Then, as she took a step down a ladder, she lost her footing.
James lunged to catch her. He bit back a groan as her body came flush against his, every delicate curve against him. He hoped those petticoats women wore did something to mask his sudden raging arousal. It didn’t help that they were both breathing hard, and her breasts were pressed to his bicep and—
“Oh,” she was saying as she found her bearings. “Oh, dear.” Then she looked up at him and god help him, he was momentarily lost in her gaze. She visibly swallowed. “Oh,” she sighed again.
“Oh, indeed,” James said softly.
“I’m not usually so clumsy,” she told him.
James raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you implying this is my fault?”
“You’re making a habit of surprising me, it seems. Lurking in doors, around corridors . . .”
“Lurking?” He almost smiled. “I live here.”
“As coincidences would have it, so do I.”
James realized then that he’d made no move to release her, and she’d made no attempt to pull away.
“Yes, you do,” he murmured.
Her lips were close. Unexpectedly, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
As if she’d read his mind, she sucked in a breath and disentangled herself from his grip. “I shall endeavor to be more graceful. Next time, I may break you.”
Now he did smile. “I assure you, I’m not so fragile.”
“Of course you’re not.” He noticed her eyes linger on his body. “Not at all. You’re very—” she cleared her throat “— solid.”
Then she looked away and bent to retrieve her book. He had the distinct impression she was blushing, and that only delighted him further.
James leaned against the ladder. “Now I must know about that book.”
“This one?”
She was refusing to look up at him and he found her . . . well, rather adorable.
“If that’s the one you were chastising yourself about when I came in, then yes. What is it?”
“I don’t think you’d like it.” She glanced up at him. “It’s called, Fantomina; or Love in a Maze.”
“Ah,” he said. “One of my sister’s many romances. Now I understand why she fancies herself a suffragette.” He gestured to the book. “Go on, then, Miss Dumont. Tell me why you don’t think I’d like it.”
“The main character is a very uncommon woman in fiction, you see. She questions the restrictions of her social status — resents them, really — because a woman’s upbringing limits her ability to go after what she wants.”
How was it that her voice could change like that? It was husky, almost seductive. Was she aware of it? He didn’t think so.
“And what does this woman want?”
“A certain gentleman, of course.” Miss Dumont’s smile was secretive. “She disguises herself in several ways with the intent of seducing him.”
James let out a surprised breath. “And does she succeed?”
Her fingertips skated along the back of the settee, the action seemingly designed to draw his attention.
“Oh, yes. Several times.” This time, her sigh was almost wistful, sad. “But he tires of her different disguises. In the end, she simply tries anonymity. She meets him in a mask and sleeps with him in the dark, never revealing to him her face.”
Now he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He wanted to say so many things — ask so many things. Had Selene read this story?
“How does it end?” he found himself inquiring. Of all the things he could have asked. How does it end?
She curled her fingers around the book, still not looking at him. “She becomes with child and her mother sends her to a monastery in France.”
James straightened. Without reason, he found himself irritated. “I think you had it right, Miss Dumont. This doesn’t sound like a book I’d enjoy.” He made a sound of frustration. “All those disguises and she never once considered telling him who she was? Didn’t this woman think of his feelings at all?”
Now Miss Dumont turned to him, and for the first time since knowing her, he saw ire in her gaze. Fire. It was extraordinary.
“That’s where you have it wrong, my lord. This is not a story for men. Men, who are afforded every privilege in society — whose feelings are catered to in every instance — cannot understand what would compel a woman to want something so badly that she would denounce her own identity. Why such a woman would give the name Icognita, because her real one was too much of a risk.”
She stared at him, as if startled by her own outburst. Then, in a low voice, she said, “No, my lord, this is a story only a woman can understand. One where she must choose between her reputation and what she wants most. And in the end, she’s left with neither.” Miss Dumont thrust the book into his hands. “I suggest you read it. You might learn a thing or two.”
When she turned to stride out of the library, he found himself calling her name. “Miss Dumont.”
She stopped. “Yes, my lord?”
“How do you think it should have ended?”
James couldn’t help but notice that her hands shook, as if the question startled her.
“I can’t answer that,” she said.
“Why not?”
He saw her lift her chin, but she still didn’t turn to face him.
“Because,” she replied, “the man in that particular book did nothing to deserve her.”
James stared down at the book long after her footsteps had faded.
Chapter 14
James had been dancing for the better part of an hour, and
his patience — which he typically prided himself on — was wearing thin.
Lord and Lady Ashby invited most families among the ton to their annual ball; it was tradition for the event to start the London season. The ballroom heaved with eligible bachelors, debutantes, and married couples of influence. Many members of the Masquerade would be here without their disguises.
Which meant Selene would be in attendance.
Knowing that, James danced only with debutantes. Still, his gaze strayed to women there with husbands, seeking some familiar feature. Like her wicked smile, or a hint of a French word.
Or, perhaps, a woman more interested in unmarried gentlemen than her own husband. James sought curves of a body made for his hands, a throat that still bore the marks of his kisses, his light nips as he thrust into her.
“You look distracted,” Alexandra said by his side between dances. “Have any ladies caught your fancy?”
James stole a champagne flute from the nearest waiter. “Several were perfectly pleasant.”
Perfectly pleasant was, of course, a kind way of saying dull. Debutantes were taught to rely on their beauty to set them apart, not their quality of discourse. They stuck to the same safe topics: the weather, the season, their families; polite enquiries intended to get a man to talk about himself.
But James didn’t want perfectly pleasant. He wanted that same all-consuming desire he felt when he first heard Selene’s voice. The need to kiss her, to mark her somewhere on her body so she would gaze upon it in the mirror and think of him.
Even Miss Dumont garnered more emotion out of him than every woman he’d danced with. James was beginning to wonder if a part of him was only tempted by women he couldn't have. Servants and those with husbands.
My problem is that I want too much, Selene had said.
James began to suspect he was the same. He desired more than this. So much more. He sought a woman with the eyes of an angel, the body of a goddess, and the smile of a sinner.
Her. Only her.
“Oh,” Alexandra said, “you’re such a poor liar, Kent. Come now, tell me.”
He sighed. “There’s nothing to tell, Alexandra.”
“Fine, if you won’t say anything, then I’ll have to pick her out, won’t I? I’m bored.”
James glanced at her, prickling in irritation. “If you’re bored, then find a husband of your own. Surely there are a few desperate gentlemen seeking an heiress to fund repairs to their crumbling estates, whether she’s considered an insane radical or not.”
He tried to hold back a wince at his own words. You’re a cold-hearted bastard, Kent.
Alexandra straightened and her lips thinned. “If you were any other man, I’d slap you for that. What on earth is wrong with you—”
Richard chose that precise moment to join them, his scowl darker than James. “I need a drink,” he said. “Where’s that goddamn waiter?”
Their sister glanced at Richard. “And you. You have been surly since returning from that house party. Good god, I’m the one dealing with gossip surrounding some newspaper drawing that depicts me as — yes — the literal devil, yet you don’t see me brooding.”
“Shut up, Alexandra,” Richard said, grabbing the flute from James’s hand. He downed the champagne in a single gulp. “For once in your life, stop talking. You’re not the only one with problems.” He was looking over their sister’s shoulder.
James and Alexandra followed his gaze to a woman standing near the perimeter of the ballroom. She was a small and pale, shorter than Alexandra, with wide brown eyes and hair the stark color of copper. When she met Richard’s gaze, she flushed and strode out the door.
“Miss Sheffield,” Alexandra murmured in interest. “I’m rather surprised to see her here; her father usually keeps her close. I heard a rumor years ago that she was promised to the Duke of Kendal.”
“And he’s three decades older than her,” Richard snapped. “I’m aware.”
James had never seen his brother so agitated. Leaning in, he murmured, “If you’ve compromised the damn prime minister’s daughter . . .”
“Oh, sod off, Kent. Just mind your own fucking business for once.”
Richard shoved the champagne flute into a shocked waiter’s hands and stalked off in the direction Miss Sheffield had gone.
“Good god. What was that about?” Alexandra asked James.
A movement in the crowd caught James’s attention. Same height, same build, and perhaps the same dark hair if he were to see it in bright chandelier light. She disappeared into the throng as if she were a specter.
Selene.
James said something to his sister — he’d felt his mouth move — but it might have been random sounds for all the attention he paid. He strode through the crowd with the single intention of finding her, hearing her voice again. At that moment it didn’t matter who she was with; he only needed to see her in the open, without a mask, the mystery lifted. He wanted to see all of her in the light.
There.
She was in a pale pink ballgown, about to walk out onto the terrace. Someone tried to intercept James — a casual acquaintance from his days at Eton — but he murmured some excuse.
He almost called out to her, but tamped down the urge. Selene was not a name used here. It was spoken in the bed — their temple — where he worshipped on the altar of her body. It was private, intimate, a name whispered in the darkness as he buried himself betwixt her thighs.
James had almost caught up with her, close enough to grasp her arm. But they were in a ballroom, and gentlemen did not touch ladies with whom they were not acquainted. He would already be courting gossip for speaking to her without an introduction.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, directly behind her.
She turned, and James swallowed his next words.
Not her.
Even now, the height seemed wrong. Her body, which had looked like Selene’s from afar, was all the wrong angles. Perfectly lovely, but not his. Not places he’d memorized with his hands, his lips, his tongue. This woman, as lovely as she was, stirred nothing in him. She was not the woman in the mask who had stolen his heart.
Christ. His heart.
“My apologies.” James took a step back. “I thought you were someone else.”
She said something, then, in a voice that only confirmed what he knew, but James had already bowed and started away.
He would not find Selene here. Dreams had a habit of fading in the light.
Chapter 15
Emma walked into the room at the Masquerade and found James at the window, staring out at the streets of Mayfair.
He was in his shirtsleeves, leaning against the wall with a hand in his trouser pocket. Something squeezed in Emma’s chest at the domestic sight of it — until she noticed the glass of brandy in his hand. He didn’t turn when she shut the door behind her.
“Rebonjour,” she said. When he didn’t respond, she frowned. “Is everything all right?”
His response was so quiet, she barely heard it. “It’s my birthday.”
Was that cause for such a dark mood? “Happy birthday,” she told him, hesitating to approach.
He seemed too moody there in the darkness. She didn’t fear him, no. But this was a side of him she had yet to experience.
“Is it?” his question cut across the air like a whip.
“Is it what?”
“Happy.” His laugh was like a scrape of a blade over stone. “That is an excellent question.”
Emma’s heart quickened in her chest. “James?”
He lifted the glass and downed his brandy. In his profile, Emma noticed how weary he looked. When was the last time he’d slept?
“Tell me about your husband,” he said quietly. “I need to know why you come. Does he not seek you out?”
Emma sucked in a breath and shut her eyes. She considered lying to him; it should be so simple after all this time. She was a natural at it, wasn’t she? Each falsehood came easily, an intricate web created f
rom past lovers, her father, her life. Every lie had to have solid foundation on which to build.
What they had was like a sandcastle, not constructed to last. The moment a storm hit, it would collapse and wash away, with no trace of it having existed at all. So delicate.
She had this choice to lie and save what they shared, but the foundation would always crumble with time. Nothing stood forever, certainly not structures of sand — built only to be destroyed.
“I lied to you. I have no husband,” Emma whispered. The first hint of the oncoming tide, licking at the base of the castle. “And before you ask, I’m not widowed, either.”
James turned to her, his face expressionless. “I see.”
“What does that mean?” She didn’t like the look he gave her. As if he were coming to a conclusion that was all wrong. “James?”
He didn’t reply as he set his glass down on the table with a hard rap. Then he shocked her by tearing off his mask and tossing it to the carpet.
His expression, unencumbered by the mask, made Emma retreat until her back touched the door. His blue eyes were blazing, blond hair mussed. He looked beautiful and brutal, like an angel readying for battle.
When he reached her, James quietly set about unbuttoning her cloak. His mouth was in a grim line — as if he found it a chore — but when Emma tried to grasp his hands, he shook her off. Her cloak fell to the floor, and he continued with her dress.
Oh, how she both hated and loved how practiced his hands had become, how deft and skillful his fingers.
“Say something,” she breathed when he roughly turned her to unlace her corset. It was easier this way, not facing him. Not seeing his expression.
“What would you like me to say?” His voice was low. How could French sound like that? So cold? So impersonal?
“Anything.” The word almost stuck in her throat. “Yell at me. Demand answers. Ask me why I lied.”
His laugh was darker than before. It stuck her like a blade to the heart. “Why would I do that? This place is built on lies, is it not? Why should I have expected any different from you?”
A Touch Wicked (Private Arrangements) Page 6
