Sophie peeked out from behind the sofa to see who’d shattered her stolen interlude, but the dark cast of the room, illuminated by only a handful of candles, cloaked the stranger in shadows.
She could make out a towering figure. Sophie squinted, trying to bring him into greater focus. The gentleman wore white robes that stood in stark contrast to the midnight black that shrouded Lord Thomas’s library. She edged a bit closer to the edge of the sofa, pressing her back against the velvet fabric. Bits of dust floated off the material and danced about the air.
Sophie wrinkled her nose. Yes, it would appear she’d been correct and the library was not Lord Thomas’s favorite…“Achoo!” She clamped a hand over her mouth.
She held her breath.
“Please don’t feel you must stay there all evening on my account.” She jumped when the stranger’s deep, mellifluous baritone shattered the quiet.
Sophie squeezed herself behind the sofa in search of refuge. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, contemplating her next move.
If she were wise, she’d run as though Hades himself were after her.
Except, she was attired in costume. Liberties not normally afforded young, unmarried ladies could be indulged by the luxury of a mask.
A shriek escaped her when a pair of leather sandals came to a stop in front of her. White robes swirled about the gentleman’s feet.
Her eyes slowly climbed up, up, up his long, powerful legs, a broad, muscular chest, and shoulders to rival Atlas. She tilted her head back to examine the masked stranger, and swallowed.
“Hello.” His voice, gruff and low, washed over her like a hot, summer sun.
She gulped. “Hullo.”
He set a full glass of brandy down on the dark mahogany table beside the sofa, and fell to a knee beside her.
Before she knew what he’d intended, the gentleman edged up her skirts to inspect her ankles. He captured first one foot in his hand, rolling it delicately, as though he were holding the finest Spanish lace, and then moved to the next.
His fingertip trailed along the heart-shaped birthmark at the inset of her ankle. He lingered a moment, as though transfixed, and then removed his hand. “Are you hurt?”
Sophie swallowed and managed a nod. Until she realized his attention was still directed down toward her ankle. “Just my pride,” she said on a husky whisper. Never before had she felt a man’s hands upon her bare skin. It was headier than the finest French champagne. Her gaze roved a path over his tall, commanding figure clad in long, white robes. She loathed the gold helmet that covered his head and the mask that concealed the better part of his face. Her fingers twitched with a sudden urge to tug his disguise free.
He dropped her skirts back into place and stood, holding a hand out to her. Sophie stared at his long fingers, then placed her hand in his. The mysterious gentleman guided her to her feet.
Shivers of awareness tingled along her spine as she studied him.
In his white robes and sandaled feet, he resembled a Greek god. She squinted into the dark of the room. She would wager her smallest finger that underneath his helmet, he possessed a thick crop of golden hair…silken strands to rival a Greek god.
“Odysseus,” he said, in answer to her unspoken question. He continued to speak in a gruff, husky tone so that she wondered whether it was in fact his speaking voice or an attempt at concealment.
Sophie’s spine stiffened. She looked over to the forgotten copy of The Odyssey and then back to this gentleman who’d burst into her solitude.
Fate.
The word breathed to life inside her; it slipped around her mind like the whisper of fog at the break of dawn.
Sophie gave her head a clearing shake. Don’t be silly, Sophie.
The stranger seemed unaware of the foolish thoughts that swept through her. He rescued the fine brandy he’d pilfered from Lord Thomas’s drink cart. “And you are Aphrodite?”
Sophie shook her head.
He picked up his gaze to study her. “Dionysus?”
She fetched her sword and armor and held them up.
Even in the dark shadows of the room, she detected the dawning awareness in his eyes. He held up his glass in salute. “Ahh, Athena.”
“Yes.”
Sophie fiddled with her shield and spear. She glanced toward the door, then back at the stranger. “I should leave.” Instead, against all better judgment, she moved deeper into the library. She set her weaponry down upon a round, oak table. At the feel of his hot gaze upon her person, she shuffled back and forth on her feet. Unaccustomed to such frank masculine appreciation, she found herself grateful for her concealed identity.
From behind his golden mask, the stranger’s eyes sparkled. “Ahh, but you are Athena, a veritable warrior undaunted by any challenge.”
Sophie paused several steps away from the towering figure. What she wouldn’t give to gauge the color of his eyes. She peered at him. They appeared to be either blue or green. If he angled slightly toward the faint candlelight she might be able to make out…
He took a sip and then set his glass down. “Do I pass your inspection, Athena? Or will you need to see my teeth as well?”
Sophie’s skin heated with the sting of embarrassment. Giving a toss of her head, she said, “That’s a splendid idea. Why don’t you smile so I might inspect?”
A burst of laughter escaped the stranger and her lips twitched in response. In more than two Seasons, she’d not found enjoyment such as this. Where had this stranger been since she’d made her come out?
Odysseus smiled. “Well?”
Sophie folded her arms and caught her chin between her thumb and forefinger. She made a show of studying him. “Hmm. I suppose they will do.”
“Which is very good,” he said with solemnity, “because the alternative is no teeth or wooden teeth.”
Sophie giggled. “Really? Wood teeth? Is there such a thing?”
He nodded. “Oh, certainly.”
They exchanged a smile and Sophie’s breath froze, suspended in her chest. Goodness, she wasn’t a debutante in her first Season but she wanted this moment to go on forever. She’d met gentleman after gentleman for many Seasons and none had managed to make her laugh as this stranger did. None of them had wanted to make her laugh.
Odysseus stepped closer. “I would love to know what thoughts are swirling through your mind.”
Oddly, she believed him. Her own mother and brother could give a fig for what she thought about. The only one to truly care was her dear friend, Lady Emmaline. Emmaline, however, recently wed to the Marquess of Drake had retired to Kent awaiting the birth of their first child. A pang of envy tugged at Sophie’s heart, a longing for a loving husband and family of her own.
“What have I said to drive away your smile, sweet Athena?”
She gave her head a shake to drive off melancholy thoughts. “You asked to know what I was thinking.”
He inclined his head. “And?”
“No. I was saying that is what drove away my smile.”
Odysseus blinked several times, as though he’d spun around in dizzying circles.
Sophie sighed. “I’ve confused you. My brother says I have that effect on people. He says I’m rather difficult to understand.”
The gentleman frowned. “Your brother sounds like a pompous ass.”
A thrill coursed through her at his rapid defense. Goodness, she could grow very well accustomed to his sweet words and masculine possessiveness. She scrunched up her mouth and tried to make out the details of his face without much success. The likelihood was that she very well knew him, that their paths had crossed.
“Do you believe we’ve met?” she blurted.
The stranger captured her hands in his. He turned them over and studied her palms. “Surely we would know.”
Sophie managed a nod. Because she agreed with him. There was no way she would have ever met a man like him and not remembered that smile, that depth of emotion.
From atop the fireplace mantl
e, the steady tick-tock-tick-tock of the ormolu clock punctuated the silence. It reinforced the length of time Sophie had been gone from the ballroom. This man might not know her identity, but her mother and brother would most assuredly note her absence. As loathe as she was to leave their host’s library, propriety demanded she go. She could ill-afford to give Lady Ackerly’s Tattle Sheet further gossip. “I should leave,” she said.
His response was instantaneous. “You should stay.”
She craned her neck to look up at him. At several inches past six feet, he would easily stand taller than the average gentleman. “And are you issuing a challenge, Odysseus?”
“I am. Stay.”
***
Christopher, Earl of Waxham, released the young lady’s hands and fetched himself another brandy from Lord Thomas’ collection of fine spirits. From over the rim of his glass, he studied the winsome creature with the first real interest he’d felt that evening.
The young lady was indeed correct. Propriety demanded she return to the evening’s festivities.
The irrational part of him so thoroughly bewitched, however, wanted to keep her at his side until Lady Thomas’s orchestra had strummed the last chords for the evening’s festivities.
He took a sip. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening, Athena?”
She eyed the drink in his hand. “Oh, immensely, Odysseus.”
“So much so that you are hiding away in Lord Thomas’s library?”
She reached up and adjusted her helmet that had fallen too far forward on her face. “If you remember, I was trying to return to the ballroom.”
Touché.
“And what of you? Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”
Christopher’s lips twitched and he slid into the folds of a nearby sofa. Cheeky thing. “Not at all. Just the opposite really. That is, until now.”
“Oh.” At his honesty, the woman’s indistinguishable eyes went wide. He peered close. He ventured they were a blend of greens and blues. Her gaze alternated between the door and the empty seat beside him.
Clearly the voluptuous goddess had no more of a desire to return to the ballroom than he did. It made little sense. He’d come into the library to steal a moment of quiet, and forget his family’s financial situation…and his father’s urging that he wed Sophie Winters. His jaw hardened.
If his father had his way, Christopher would wed the termagant who’d tormented him as a child. He frowned. She hadn’t been remarkably different from his father in that regard and the last person he cared to spend the rest of his life with was someone who put him in mind of his father. Or the incident in the stables.
Christopher gave his head a shake. He didn’t want to ruin this meeting with thoughts of his father or Sophie Winters.
His gaze honed in on the lush Athena, her fingers fidgeting with the folds of her robes. She seemed as nervous as a bird about to take flight. Then, she took a step toward him, and he knew the stunning beauty had tossed aside propriety for the pleasure of a few stolen minutes away from the ton.
She nodded to the brandy in his hand. “What is it about that brew that so entices men?”
He held out his glass in a silent challenge.
The woman’s brow furrowed. She took several steps toward him, and stopped. Her pleated, red Grecian skirts danced about her ankles. His gaze traveled up her legs, to the gently flared hips, ever higher to the daringly low décolletage as her chest moved up and down.
She took the glass and their fingers brushed. A tingle of awareness, like the jolting shock one feels when walking barefoot on a carpet, raced through him.
Christ, whatever is wrong with me?
Athena stole a glance at him from beneath lowered lids and then downed half the contents of the drink.
Tears flooded her eyes. She proceeded to choke.
Laughter shook his frame.
She glared. “That was neither appropriate nor amusing.” Then as if to save face, she tentatively tried another sip. This time her only outer reaction was a grimace.
Christopher smiled as she continued to drink his brandy. Who would have imagined that teasing this young lady could be so vastly entertaining?
Or seductive, he thought as she trailed the tip of her tongue along her plump lower lip.
Her husky alto interrupted his dangerous musings. “Truth be told, the second sip wasn’t all bad.”
He quirked a brow. “How about the third and fourth?”
“Oh, the third and fourth were divine. But the fourth and fifth were vastly better.”
“You’ve accounted for the fourth sip, twice now.”
She frowned. “Have I?”
“You have,” he said with mock solemnity.
“Then the fourth sip must have been absolutely divine.”
A laugh rumbled from deep within his chest.
It would be better for the both of them if she returned to the ballroom. The last thing he cared to risk was being discovered with a masked lady, especially in light of his father’s plans for him.
But he was having too much fun. He motioned to the empty seat beside him, fully expecting the young lady to come to her senses and realize the impropriety of being alone with him.
Alas, sips four and five appeared to have clouded her judgment.
Athena sat on the sofa, the delicate fabric of her skirts fluttering about them, and he stole a downward peek.
Trim, dainty ankles.
His blood heated. God, he was mad for trim, dainty ankles, especially upon a buxom, luscious creature like her.
“What brings you here this evening? Are you, perhaps, avoiding your husband?”
A husky laugh spilled past her lips. “I’m not wed.”
Christopher released a breath he’d not realized he was holding. Good, he preferred his Athena unattached. His eyes went to the full set of perfect, bow shaped lips and his groin tightened uncomfortably. Yes, he preferred her without a husband. Granted it made their clandestine meeting that much more scandalous, the threat of discovery that much greater…but then, at masquerades, certain liberties were granted to staid Society members.
Athena finished her brandy and held the glass out for a refill. Christopher hesitated. It would hardly do to get the lady soused, though she appeared nearly there. He fetched the decanter of brandy from Lord Thomas’ drink cart and returned to her side. He poured several fingerfuls.
She downed it in a single swallow. A slight grimace twisted her lips.
Hell, he was going to send the intriguing young lady back to the ballroom, thoroughly steeped.
“So again, sweet Athena. What is the reason of your visit?”
She tapped a finger against her chin. “Well, I was invited.”
Christopher grinned. What a fetching thing. “You were invited to Lord Thomas’s library?”
She held out her now empty glass. She’d had quite enough for the evening. He took it, deliberately brushing his fingers against hers.
The young woman appeared wholly unaffected by his touch. She closed her eyes and slumped against the back of the sofa, her neck arched as if she planned on a nap.
“I should go,” she murmured.
He tamped down a swell of disappointment. This was the most enjoyable part of his evening thus far. “You should.”
She nibbled at her plump, lower lip. “It is rather inappropriate for us to be alone,” she said.
Christopher imagined all manner of inappropriate things involving those lips. He grinned. “Yes.” He had the distinct impression that his Greek goddess had little intention of leaving. “You never answered my question,” he pointed out.
Her lids fluttered. “I didn’t?”
“No.” What he wouldn’t give to tear the gold helmet from her head and reveal the mane she concealed underneath. Did she possess honey blond locks? Dark gold curls?
“What was the question, my lord?”
Christopher angled his head closer to hers. “What has you hiding away in Lord Thomas’s library? A cl
andestine meeting?” An overwhelming urge filled him, to reach out and stroke the silken curve of her cheek, to test if her skin was as smooth as it appeared.
She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Hardly, Odysseus.” Then, as if it weren’t just the two of them present, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I wanted a moment away from Polite Society and knew I’d not find anyone here.” She blinked. “Well, you’re here, so not everyone. What of you? Are you avoiding someone?”
He was avoiding the reality of his circumstances. “I needed a break from the…” Plans my father has for me.
“Cloying debutantes?” She winked saucily up at him.
He grinned.
Athena leveled herself upright and leaned closer to him. “And how do you know that I’m not one of those cloying debutantes.”
Christopher studied her too-full, lower lip, battling the urge to claim her lips under his. “Debutantes don’t wear red.”
Her smile grew; it highlighted a faint dimple in her right cheek.
His fingers fairly itched with the urge to reach out and caress that spot.
Then her smile dipped. “You aren’t…married?”
“No.” Not yet.
She must have detected the pause in his words for she nodded slowly. “I see.”
His mouth hardened. “If my father would have his way then I’ll be wed to a…particular woman.”
From atop her mask, her brow furrowed. “Ahh. That is the way of our society, isn’t it? My brother will see me betrothed as well.”
It was irrational. It defied logic. But God how he hated the nameless bastard who would claim her. Suddenly he didn’t want the intrusion of reality to suck the enchantment from this room. Christopher was not a romantic by nature; mayhap it was the masquerade, mayhap it was the magic of their costumes…but he was lost in the moment. “I don’t think you’d care to discuss your impending betrothal any more than I do.”
“No, you’re correct on that score.” There was a trace of dryness to her words. “So then what should we talk about? The costumes of the evening?”
“Never anything that dull,” he said, with a hand to his chest.
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed Page 2
