by Candice Hern
What remained of her reason, her dignity, her sanity, evaporated in that moment. Yielding to her body's urgent demands, she brazenly pressed herself against him, adjusting her weight to take him inside her. She was wet and throbbing and ready for him. Impatient. Eager.
"Steady," he said. "Like this."
He reached down and grasped her behind one knee, lifting her leg and guiding it around his waist. Her sex was now boldly open to him, but he did not invade it yet. Instead, he teased it and fondled it, first with deft fingers and then with the head of his penis, until she was slick and aching and mad with wanting him. She let out a plaintive cry, and he moved his hand behind her and lifted her buttocks. And with a single swift stroke, he was suddenly deep inside her.
Desire tore away reason, dragging her down beneath shame, beneath propriety, beneath intellect. She squirmed against the wall and wrapped her leg more tightly around him. He set up a slow rhythm, pulling almost completely out of her before pushing all the way in again, and she arched up into the ecstasy he gave her.
Involuntary coos of pleasure escaped her with each breath, little moans of pure bliss that matched the cadence of his thrusts.
She felt his mouth smile against hers. Then he said something, a word she did not understand or could not quite hear over the rasp and pace of her own breathing. "What?" she asked between breaths, not really caring if he answered.
"Jataveshtitaka," he said, and increased the tempo of their rhythm. "The twining of a creeper."
She had no idea what he was talking about, but it did not matter. She lifted to meet every thrust and the faster the rhythm, the harder her spine was slammed against the wall. Apparently realizing she was being bruised, he reached both hands behind her and cupped her buttocks, holding her away from the wall.
The faster he moved, the more tension built inside her until she thought she would break into pieces. She would die of pleasure, surely she would die. And yet it drove her, this impending demise, for she knew where it led and, dear God, she wanted it. All thought, all awareness, was cast aside in an effort to end this unbearable ache. Her inner muscles gripped him tightly and he let out a moan. She pushed up against him, harder and harder, in search of completion.
And it came. In an explosion of sensation so powerful her entire body shook with it. Beatrice threw her head back and was about to scream when his mouth covered hers and muffled the sound. A few seconds later his frenzied thrusts came to a halt and he pulled out of her. She felt hot liquid dribble down her thigh.
Dazed and disoriented, she fell limp against the wall, her sex still pulsing. One tiny, lucid corner of her brain was grateful that at least one of them had the sense to consider the consequences of what they did. She had been too far gone to think so rationally.
"Dear God," he said, his breath coming in pants and puffs as he leaned over her, arms bracketed against the wall. "Or should I say 'dear goddess'? My sweet Artemis, you have killed me after all."
He kissed her softly, then stepped away. Beatrice closed her eyes and tried to make sense of what had just happened, what she'd allowed to happen.
She began to tremble a little in the aftermath. Or was it the cool night air? Or the sudden realization that she'd lost all sense of decency and been sexually intimate with a perfect stranger? Though her body still thrummed with the aftereffects of sexual release, her mind found clarity at last and understood the outrageousness of her behavior.
How could she have done such a thing?
How had she let it go so far? She knew when they went outside that she would be soundly kissed by the dark stranger, but had she expected . . . this? No, she had not. Had she? Heavens, she was so confused. She had enjoyed his obvious interest, wanted him to kiss her. But had she truly imagined it would lead to anonymous coupling up against a wall, for God's sake?
One thing was certain. She knew when a line had been crossed and the ultimate intimacy was about to occur. She could have stopped it; she could have said she did not want it. But she had not done so. Because she had wanted it. There was no denying she had wanted it. But to have given in to her desire, to have shown no self-restraint whatsoever, to have allowed a strange man access to her body, suddenly made her feel off-balance, stupefied and stupid.
She did not know whether she was overwrought with outrage, or outrageously thrilled. Should she feel shamefully disgusted, or deliciously wicked?
Yes, she had been intrigued by his interest, and attracted to him. And the masks, the music, the revealing costume, had all made her feel quite daring. The anonymity of the encounter, the sheer boldness of it, had excited her even more and had given her an odd sort of courage.
Courage to behave like a wanton. To allow herself to be seduced in a garden outside a ballroom with hundreds of people inside. People who knew her, respected her, even admired her for her work with the Benevolent Widows Fund. People who would be beyond astonished to know what she'd just done.
If Beatrice had ever imagined herself taking a lover, and such thoughts had indeed teased her of late, she had assumed it would be a discreet affair that took place in the privacy of a bedroom. But this . . . this rough, unbridled passion in the dark, against a wall, with people wandering about who might come upon them, with Emily just inside . . . this was not something she could ever have imagined. It seemed so sordid, so dirty.
So exciting.
Deep in her heart, she knew it was wrong. She ought not to have let it happen. The best thing to do would be to walk away. Now, while the entire business was still anonymous. Suddenly, it seemed imperative to protect her identity. She did not want this man to know who it was who'd given her body so willingly, and she did not want to know who he was, either. That would make it easier for her to accept the situation as a moment of madness, an anomaly that was thoroughly out of character. Surely this man would believe her to be a woman of loose morals, a woman who thought nothing of making love in the dark with a stranger. Like a prostitute in Covent Garden. She did not want it known that Lady Somerfield was such a woman.
Because she was not. She had never done anything disgraceful or improper in her entire life. She had never been with a man other than Somerfield.
All of these thoughts flew through her mind in an instant, jumbled and confused, before she could even stir herself from the wall. She was ready to move away when she felt his hand lift her skirt again and she jumped back with a shriek. No! She would not allow him to importune her again. She would not allow the moment of madness to stretch into two moments, or more.
But he did not press against her again to initiate further intimacies. Instead he used a piece of silky fabric to wipe her legs. "Let me help you, Artemis."
But she squirmed against his touch. The thought of his seed spilling down her legs, a sticky reminder of what she'd done, only made her feel more acutely aware of the coarseness of the encounter. She tried to get away, but the stranger rose again and pinned her to the wall. "Don't run away, my huntress." He kissed her again and she pulled back, fighting her body's treasonous attraction to him in an attempt to end the situation.
"Let me go," she said, trying to sound steady and controlled but fearing she sounded quite the opposite.
His hands immediately released her, and in that moment she knew he would have done so at any time if she'd only asked. He would not have forced her. He had not forced her. She could not use that as an excuse.
"Don't leave yet," he said. "I don't even know your name."
And Beatrice intended to keep it that way. She wanted to flee back inside the ballroom, collect Emily, and make a quick exit. She was determined that he should not know her identity. "I have to go." She straightened her skirts and pulled up the shoulder of the chiton. Her hands went to her hair, securing the combs that had come loose and tucking a few wayward locks into place. She remembered his hands in her hair and hoped to heaven it did not look as messy as she imagined. When she went back inside, would everyone who saw her know precisely what she'd been doing?
&n
bsp; Beatrice frantically brushed her shoulders and the front of her dress, hoping she was not covered in hair powder. At least it was yellow and would not show too badly against the yellow silk. The gold flecks were a different matter. Why had she thought to add that little embellishment to her coiffure? She brushed and brushed her hands over the dress and plucked at the pleats to dislodge any powder and gold flecks that had been shaken loose.
"You will not tell me your name?"
She stopped brushing but did not look up. "No."
"You wound me, Artemis. How can you give me your body so sweetly but not gift me with your name?"
"I'm sorry. I cannot. I must go."
He stood before her, blocking her exit, and she pushed him away so she could pass. He took a step backward. And in that moment, a shaft of moonlight broke through the trees and illuminated the wall beside her. She blinked against the sudden light.
Damnation! He might see her face.
She quickly stepped away from the moonlight and reached for the strings of her mask. Replacing it as she moved deeper into the darkness, she almost tripped over the discarded quiver and bow. She quickly retrieved them and made a mad dash toward the garden.
"But Artemis," he called, "when may I see you again?"
Beatrice lifted her skirts and ran through the dark edges of the garden until she reached an illuminated path, blessedly deserted. She stopped to compose herself as best she could. She wanted to hurry inside, find Emily, and leave the ball before the stranger found her, but she did not want to run inside looking flushed and . . . ravished. Besides, he would have to tie those odd trousers back on and replace his turban, which would surely take several minutes.
She paused a moment to slip the quiver and bow over her shoulder and fluff the chiton into a proper blouson over her waist. Turning her face into the night breeze, she let the air cool her cheeks and calm her spirits. She licked her lips, and the taste of the stranger lingered. Did she only imagine they were a bit swollen? She took one last deep breath before moving onto the path, and inhaled the scent of him still on her skin. Him, and the telltale smell of lovemaking. She recalled the soft fabric on her legs as he cleansed her. A hint of stickiness remained, but no one would know about that. The smell, though . . .
Blast. She looked around her frantically, then hurried down the path when she saw what she needed. One of the herbaceous borders included several large lavender plants. She plucked off a few spikes and rubbed them along her arms and neck, the friction releasing some of the aromatic oil from the tiny blossoms.
The sweet aroma had a calming effect. Her breathing became regular, her pulse slowed, and her clamorous conscience, which had been hammering loud reproof in her head, quieted a bit. Beatrice considered again what had just taken place, and wondered if she had been rash. She had wanted a lover, and had found a willing one. And while it was happening, dear heaven, she had enjoyed it. Should she turn around and go back to him? Remove her mask, stand in the moonlight, and boldly announce her name, then ask if he'd be willing to join her in a discreet affair?
A couple strolled past her and she pretended to be sniffing the sweet-smelling herb. Their presence reanimated her conscience, reminding her of the shame and embarrassment she would feel if anyone guessed what had happened a few yards away in the dark.
No, it was best to go back inside and pretend it had never happened.
If such a thing were possible.
Well, well, well. The evening had certainly taken a different turn than he'd expected. To have found such a woman and to have experienced such a passionate interlude with her quite took Thayne's breath away. He had thought only to have an opportunity to preview the bridal prospects, and instead . . .
Damn. He ought to have run after her, but his salvor trousers were still tangled around his ankles, inhibiting movement. Besides, Thayne did not care to imagine the picture he would make if seen running through the garden with his own arbor vitae on display.
She had wanted to get away, though, and the gentleman in him was forced to allow her to do so. After such a splendid performance, he wondered why she was in such a hurry to leave. Clearly, she had been afraid that the moonlight might reveal her face to him. And she had not wanted to give her name. She did not want him to know who she was.
Why? Was she someone important? Or the wife of someone important? Or just a woman who had become caught up in the passion of the moment and regretted it?
Thayne suspected it was the latter. There had been a touch of shame in the way she'd shrunk away from him as he'd tried to clean her legs, a hint of disgust in her voice as she'd refused her name. She had been a more-than-willing partner, but Thayne was fairly certain she was embarrassed by that very fact.
He had not forced her, but had he taken advantage somehow? Seduced her into more than she had been willing to give?
No, he did not think so. She had had ample opportunity to put a stop to it, but she had not once indicated that she wanted to stop. By God, she had been every bit as aroused as he'd been, and she had given as good as she got. She had seemed shocked at first when he'd lifted her leg, even a bit awkward. She had not been accustomed to such a position; he would swear it. But soon enough she had been pressing her heel against the small of his back, driving him deeper inside her, clenching her inner muscles around him like a fist, as skillfully as a practiced ganika. But Thayne knew in his gut that it was not practiced. It had been natural. And her completion had come too quickly and too powerfully for artifice. He suspected she had surprised herself as much as him. Still, she had known what she was doing and had enjoyed it. Damn, but she had been spectacular.
And beautiful. True, he never saw her face completely in the light and was unlikely to recognize it if he saw it again, but it had felt beautiful. The bones of her cheeks rode elegantly high on her face, and her nose was perfectly straight. The mouth, which he'd had the pleasure of seeing quite clearly in the ballroom, was lush and full-lipped and had taken his breath away when it had moved so sensuously against his own.
She had allowed him to feast on her luscious arms, too. Thayne had a special attraction to a woman's arms, and hers had been sheer perfection. Slender but not too thin; delicate-boned with the merest hint of soft, feminine musculature. Sweet-smelling skin as smooth and silky as gardenia petals; the glint of a ruby-eyed gold serpent coiling up one upper arm. He knew her arms better than her face.
And there was her laugh. When he'd tickled her with the fabric of his turban, when other women might have giggled, she had laughed outright, gleefully and playfully. A clear, musical laugh like the sound of temple bells.
He had to see her again. He had to discover who she was.
He tugged up the salvar over his drawers and quickly tied them in place, then retted the laces of his jama and straightened its skirts. His patka had gone missing at some point and he found it on the ground next to the coiled length of muslin that had been his turban. He retrieved it and wrapped it twice around his waist, then knotted it in the front, making sure the fringed ends fell properly with the ornamental embroidery faced out. Then he set about the complicated business of twisting and tying the turban. Ramesh, his valet, would have fits when he saw it, but the English men and women inside the ballroom would never realize it was not tied correctly.
Finally, he reached for the mask that hung down his chest on long laces, placed it over his eyes and nose, and tied it behind his neck, just below the turban. He was as ready as he would ever be, without a mirror and Ramesh. He'd almost forgotten about the dagger until he stepped on the hilt. He bent to retrieve it when the moonlight glinted off something else in the grass.
A tiny gold arrow. A souvenir from Artemis.
Thayne slid the dagger inside the folds of the patka, and tucked the little arrow behind it. He would keep it as a memento of her passion, and how she had nearly felled him with it.
He made his way back through the garden paths and up the stairway to the terrace. He thought about all those young girls he h
ad planned to dance with, to flirt with, to surreptitiously evaluate as potential brides. He had lost all interest in them. The only thing he wanted to do was find Artemis and coerce, cajole, or seduce her into revealing her identity.
If it turned out that who she was somehow prevented a liaison between them, he would have to accept that. He would be disappointed, to be sure, but he would never impugn or embarrass her in public. If there was any way at all, though, to see her again, to have her again, by God he would move mountains to do so.
Thayne entered the ballroom and made a slow progress around its perimeter. He studied the dancers in their lines, the clusters of young women standing along the walls, and the older ones seated in cozy groups. He dipped his head into the card room, the anteroom set aside for tea, and the salon arranged with long tables laden with covered dishes for the midnight supper. No matter where he looked, there was no sign of powdered yellow hair and slender, white arms.
