Beneath the Mask

by Margaret McGaffey Fisk

  He stretched his fingers, deliberately forcing them to relax while he focused on letting a breeze caress his face and savored the crisp air. He had no need for this stress and would not let women drive him to a lunatic asylum. There was no need to give them that sort of power.

  Revived by the fresh air, Jasper managed a smile. He couldn’t really blame the dancer for her fall any more than he should have expected a warm welcome at his fiancée’s home. After all, he’d dropped in unexpectedly. She’d most likely been unnerved by his presence.

  Even knowing his thoughts a poor attempt at cheering himself up, he refused to let a bad mood spoil what remained of the night. Jasper half turned to go back in then remembered the warning. “White’s it is,” he declared with a shrug, stepping off the bottom step. “A good hand at cards will banish all women from my mind.”

  He made it almost to the other side of the building before some slight movement in the corner of his eye pulled his attention back. Jasper spun around, falling into a defensive pose he’d learned at Oxford. No footpad would make a victim out of him.

  The empty street stretched before him.

  Jasper laughed, relaxing his posture. “Must have been a rat.”

  Then a foot scraped against the pavement, and he jerked to attention, glancing in all directions before his gaze settled on a figure moving in the opposite direction.

  He almost dismissed the stranger, but something about the movement pulled at him. Despite an odd limp, he realized this person was none other than his dancer. Jasper thought for a bare heartbeat before charging after her, struggling to catch up. She managed a quick pace even with her obvious injury, and he wondered why he’d ever considered himself fit as he panted from the effort.

  DAPHNE’S LEG BURNED WITH EACH step, the tight muscle refusing her efforts to stretch it out. As much as she wanted to rail at the man who’d thrown her balance off, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from tossing up images she hadn’t known she’d seen. His face intrigued her, offering a wide variety of expressions despite their short conversation. She’d seen humor in his eyes, anger tightening his lip, frustration, and even disdain.

  A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she wondered if he ever played cards. With such an expressive face, surely he wouldn’t have any success. She laughed, the sound pulling her back to her circumstances. The businesses along Drury Lane were busy with customers, but she didn’t see any hackneys along the street, darkness broken only by the light spilling out of the various venues.

  Daphne slowed, reining in her thoughts to focus on getting a conveyance. Should she move to another street, or continue along this one?

  The sound of feet hitting the pavement made her tense, and she increased her pace, suddenly aware of her vulnerability. With the noise gaining, Daphne forgot her injury and pushed for more speed. A desperate desire to turn back time until she’d stayed to bear Monsieur Henre’s lecture filled her. No matter how much his words would have hurt, they’d serve her better than a footpad would.

  Daphne pushed aside the possibility of someone other than a simple footpad. She’d give up her purse without a qualm even if it meant walking back home. Anything else—

  She shuddered, refusing even to let the thought form as she looked for the nearest opening. She’d prefer to stumble into a brothel than be captured on the street by a villain.

  Light shined above a door not so many paces in front of her. Daphne pushed forward, using up the last of her energy. Her foot hit the pavement harder than expected, twisting on an uneven paving stone, and her bad leg crumpled. She fell with a shriek, anticipating the hard ground beneath her.

  Instead, her pursuer caught her arm in a bruising grip, jerking her against his broad chest.

  Daphne drew in a breath to scream, wondering if anyone would hear her.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her mouth hanging open, she froze at the sound of a familiar voice, though she couldn’t place its soft tones.

  Daphne tilted her head back to look at him, squinting in the dark to make out his features.

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said. “I’m Lord Pendleton, Jasper. Your sponsor.”

  Her mouth opened again, a deep moan issuing from her throat. She pushed away from him, trying too late to protect her face before he could recognize her. What would her father say? And her mother? In this moment of weakness, she’d cost them everything.

  He released her, but she could tell from his stare that he searched her features, the light from above the door that had signaled sanctuary now spelling the end of her family’s hopes.

  “Please,” she whispered, not even sure what she asked of him.

  He smiled, the expression startling.

  She almost believed it would all be all right.

  Then he reached up to touch her face, brushing his fingers down her cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know you.”

  His velvet voice sent shivers through her body and set her blood to pulsing, making her feel hot even in the chilly night. Daphne shook her head, whether to diffuse the tension that gripped her or to reveal her confusion she couldn’t tell.

  This tender man, with his soft voice and gentle touch marred only by the roughness of his fingertips, seemed as much unlike the man she’d met in her own parlor as night was from day. She licked her lips, struggling to understand her reactions even as she wanted to lean into his arms and rest herself against his broad chest.

  He groaned, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

  Unable to stop herself, Daphne wet her lips again, feeling his reaction as his hands tensed where they now rested on her shoulders. He pulled her toward him and she couldn’t find the strength or desire to resist.

  Her breasts touched his waistcoat, the movement shifting them against her stays until she felt dizzy with the surge of emotion racing through her. She clutched at him, the rough fabric abrading her fingers until every nerve seemed on fire.

  A groan issued from her own lips, her body beset with unfamiliar but welcome emotions.

  He laughed, the sound rumbling up from inside him, his chest moving against her hands.

  Daphne pressed closer, knowing nothing but that she wanted to feel his warmth around her. After first the scare and then the power of his gaze, she’d lost the ability to think, wanting only to feel.

  Lord Pendleton slipped a calloused finger under her chin and tilted her face up to look at him. Daphne tried to pull away, wanting to nuzzle against him, but he resisted her need, instead bringing his lips down to claim hers.

  Daphne froze, the touch unexpected. A moment of clarity flared and then faded, leaving only the thought that this must be what the maids sometimes spoke of.

  The pressure from his lips increased and his hand at her waist pulled her hips up to his. Daphne’s satchel fell to the ground beside her, the quiet thump barely impinging on her consciousness. Her lips opened of their own accord and she sucked in his breath, hot and wet against her tongue.

  Her knees buckled, but his arm held her up as he leaned in closer. When they moved, she didn’t know, but suddenly her shoulders touched the rough brick of a wall.

  His hands roamed up her back and down her sides, melting her with their caresses. They moved higher, stroking the curves of her breasts.

  Daphne moaned, the sound swallowed by his lips as he feasted greedily on hers. Sensations swept over her, making her head spin when he traced the gently dip at the base of her throat, then rose to sketch her ears.

  “We need no barriers between us,” he murmured against her lips, pressing hard once then moving to trail kisses across her cheek and then down to her neck.

  His words made no sense to Daphne. She let them slide away as her blood pounded in response to his gentle nibble on her ear. How could she worry about words when he touched her?

  Daphne came awake as though someone dumped a bucket of water on her head when she felt his fingers trace the ribbon of her mask. Suddenly, his words made perfect sense. He didn
’t know her, could not know her, because she had forgotten to remove her mask.

  She clapped her hands over her ears hard enough to make them ring and him to remove his hands with a startled cry. Twisting, she pulled almost out of his grasp before his hand gripped her shoulder, preventing her escape.

  “Let me go,” she cried, fighting him.

  “Why? A moment ago, you were ripe for the taking. Why should I stop now?”

  Daphne quailed from both the command and anger in his voice. With his words, she understood what she’d been feeling, what they’d been about to do. Shame filled her, and she barely managed to convince her fumbling hands to secure her mask again.

  “I didn’t mean—I didn’t—I can’t!” The panic in her voice came through clearly, and she saw him take a step back, giving her a leveling look.

  “It’s the mask, isn’t it? What do you hide beneath there, dear heart? Whatever it may be, I swear to you no matter how marred your face is, nothing can diminish my regard.”

  He reached for her face again, and she turned away, desperate to protect her family’s virtue when she’d been so careless with her own. “It’s not that,” she said, her voice an anguished whisper. “I don’t want this.” She added the last even though her still-heated cheeks and pounding heart made the words a lie, hoping only to quiet his ardor.

  When he pulled away, she felt grateful until the light cast its glow on his haughty features, the softness of desire replaced by an aristocrat’s mask, one her father wore more often than not. “I guess you’re right,” he said, his voice sharp. “A tumble in a darkened street is not much to my tastes either. What will it be? An apartment on Regent Street? A cottage on the outskirts? A carriage? What is the bargain you demand?”

  She stared at him, unable to follow his mental paths at first until suddenly comprehension dawned. With a churning in her gut, Daphne faced the man who would be her husband and wanted nothing but to spit in his face.

  JASPER LOOKED DOWN AT HIS dancer, frustrated by the inability to see her features and the inability to curb his temper. Somehow, he’d never imagined her so mercenary. What harm would it have done to show him her face, to give him a hint of the delights he’d have to give over for?

  Through the holes cut in her mask, her eyes widened then narrowed, a frown pulling at the mouth that showed beneath her covering. Jasper wanted to caress the expression away, to soothe whatever caused it.

  She stepped back, rejecting his touch before he’d made more than a half movement to raise his hand. “I don’t want your help,” she said, her voice a study in resistance.

  Jasper shook his head, a frown forming on his face as well. Had he misjudged her? Did she think he only wanted some quick tussle? “Wait. I didn’t mean—”

  “So your intentions are honorable?” she cut in, her inflection showing she’d spent time in the home of a noble, whether as a mistress or servant. “You mean to take me away from all this and make a real woman of me?” Her hand swept out to indicate the street with its subtle lighting and unsubtle establishments.

  He laughed, the sound bursting free unexpectedly. “Surely you know that’s not possible,” he said, surprise stripping his words of kindness. “When I marry, it will be for my family, for my name, and my children. As much as you have entranced my soul, marriage has other purposes.”

  She froze, her pose almost birdlike as if an artist captured her at the moment before launching into flight. “And you see nothing wrong in this?” This time her voice came out an odd mix of contempt and hope.

  Jasper stepped forward, pulling her into his arms despite a slight resistance. “Is there any marriage where the heart and mind meld? Is it not better to ease your emotions without the sanctity of the church than betray all for your selfish desires?”

  Even as he asked the last question, his arms tensed around her, thinking of another who threw away her family’s loyalty and expectations, making a mockery of his choices. Would he ever consider the same? Would he give up everything just to see this woman’s face across the pillow?

  She didn’t pull away, and warmth poured from where her body connected with his. An odd sympathy for the woman who had thrown him over for another rose within him. He had an easy enough time, sharing his heart with a mistress while securing a wife to bear his progeny, but would he think the same if he had to choose between them?

  Jasper pushed away his confusion and focused again on his purpose. Whispering into her ear, he repeated his offer without either the arrogance or anger of his earlier attempt. “I’ll keep you safe in a nice apartment. You’ll have everything you need, and I swear to be with you whenever I can. I need to know you’ll wait for me, that you dance only for me. Don’t deny me.” He could feel her soften against him, his words of need striking some chord in her own heart. “Don’t leave me to the cold mercies of the shrew my position requires I marry,” he pleaded, desperate to secure her promise.

  DAPHNE FELT ALMOST DRUGGED BY his warmth, the cool night air making her nuzzle closer. In his arms, everything else melted away, all her worries and strains. She’d never felt this way before with anyone, not even her father.

  His last words filtered in through the sensation of warm, wet air caressing her earlobe and making her shiver. It took a moment for the meaning to penetrate her mind then she sucked in a breath on a gasp, pushing hard against his chest.

  “How could you?” she demanded, stunned at the judgment he’d made with so little time to know her. “Do you think so little of me that you’d believe me willing to break some poor woman’s heart? Is that all we are to you? Chess pieces to be arranged to suit your fancy?”

  She slammed the flat of her hand against the very spot she’d found comforting only a heartbeat before. He’d taken no time to get to know his wife-to-be and yet found it easy to condemn her. Daphne, on the other hand, knew his thoughts only too well.

  “I pity the poor woman condemned to keep your house,” she bit out, remembering only after the words passed her lips that she was that very woman. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away angrily as she met his stunned look.

  Before he could muster a word, Daphne jerked free, grabbed her satchel, and marched off, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll not be your whore for all the jewels in the King’s treasury. I’d not sink so low.”

  Though her tone held anger, she couldn’t quite convince herself the sheen of water blocking her vision came from pride as she marched off into the street. She’d find better protection at a seaside pub than in his arms.

  He shouted something, but the sound barely penetrated her emotion-wrought mind before another took its place. Blinking, Daphne pulled out a handkerchief to signal the carriage she could hear coming her way, the firm clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone offering escape from the man who would have broken her heart if she’d ever been so foolish as to offer it.

  Daphne cleared her vision in time to realize her mistake. Instead of halting to pick her up, the coachman seemed oblivious to her presence. She stared in horror as the horses bore down on her, moving at a fast clip.

  Something hard and unyielding slammed into her side, shoving her out of the path. Before she could respond to the arms holding her, the carriage passed, its wood groaning and its speed generating a breeze.

  Her savior grunted suddenly, and she twisted, jerked by his hold. Daphne felt herself fall, tensing against the expected crack of stone.

  Instead, she hit hard on a yielding surface, lying splayed across the man who had saved her from the carriage. Her heart raced from the terror of the moment, and a sudden fear that he’d taken injury in rescuing her first from the carriage and then again as he took the impact of cobblestones to protect her from their fall.

  “Kind sir,” she said, her tone frantic, “have you injury?”

  The gentleman moaned, and she ran her fingers through his hair, seeking a lump or cut.

  “As much as your touch does my spirits good,” a familiar voice murmured, “I think o
ur position is far from seemly.”

  “You!” A blush heated Daphne’s face as her fear faded. She became all too aware of their position. She could feel the pulse of his heart against her own and warmth invaded her body, making her limbs melt against him. A hard pressure against the join of her thighs made her gasp.

  “Unless you wish to take back your worry about a public coupling, I’d suggest you move off me and give me the space to restore my dignity. I’ll be happy to receive the full force of your gratitude in a more hospitable location.”

  Even sprawled on the road, Lord Pendleton maintained a commanding tone that at the same time seemed to be laughing at her. Anger returned, wiping out both her gratitude and any lingering fear for his health.

  “You, sir, are a brute,” she declared, slapping him across the face with enough force that her blow echoed between the nearby buildings. Daphne refused to let embarrassment at the sound deter her. “If not for you, I wouldn’t have needed your tender mercies. You bring trouble upon your head and drag others with you. I’ll thank you to mind your own business and leave me to see to my own.”

  She shoved off him, ignoring his oomph at the pressure, and stumbled to her feet to the sound of his fitful laughter. He hadn’t even the decency to recognize his own boorish nature or apologize for dragging her down to his depths.

  With a pause to check for oncoming carriages, Daphne marched off down the street, ignoring the twinge from her leg with every other step.

  Much to her relief, a hire coach soon stopped to let off some passengers. Though she usually waited for a better specimen, right now, the most rickety coach in all of London would seem a grand transport.

  She gathered her skirts in one fist and ran, raising her other hand to wave her now mud-stained handkerchief. Her satchel slid up to her shoulder, and Daphne jerked at the pressure, surprised but happy to find it still slung over her arm.