As the ball progressed, she found herself courted by gentlemen in all manner of dress. With those of the house party, she guessed their identity quickly, but they were obviously unsure of hers. When Lord Newton, outfitted as a devil, leered at her chest and claimed a dance, she almost refused, but convinced herself she was being unnecessarily rude.
Zel regretted doing the polite the instant she realized the set was a waltz. The unpleasantness of such close proximity to Newton contrasted with the memories of the earlier waltz. The music faded, and before she realized what he was doing, Newton pulled her through the leaded glass doors, out onto the terrace. She tried to break away but he only pulled her closer to his whipcord-slim frame, his grip unbreakable.
“Release me.”
“My dear, I don’t believe you wish to draw unnecessary attention.” His low, breathy tone crept down her spine.
“What do you want?” She held herself completely still.
His harsh laugh held a note of cruelty. “Such an innocent.”
The music had ended, others would be entering the terrace. She pushed at his chest. “Let me go.”
“The lady made a request, Newton.” Zel could have wept with relief. Her puritan-prince. Her rescuer.
Newton released her, a tight smile passing over his face. “And neither of us would ever deny a lady anything.” He pivoted on one foot and was gone.
“Devil’s begotten,” Wolfgang spat, whirling to follow.
Zel grasped his arm. “Let him go. Nothing happened.” She smiled into his tightly drawn face as he turned back to her.
The stiff lines around his mouth eased. “Walk with me a few moments, before we go indoors. I could use a little cool air.”
She nodded, aware of the hardness of his arm beneath her hand, the warmth of his body brushing against her.
He stopped before a carved marble bench and pulled her down beside him. She did not resist when he took her gloved hand, studying its shape with his long, bare fingers. His hands, so slender and perfectly formed, were almost too beautiful to belong to a man, but were clearly masculine in size and strength. He turned her arm, running his fingers up the inner length to the top of her long glove. Zel shivered as his fingers traced their way down, pausing at intervals marked by tiny buttons. Each ivory ball was in turn eased free until the glove rippled from her arm. He swept the silk off, finger by finger, stroking the warm flesh beneath.
“Zel.” Wolfgang’s breath hummed across her palm, lips whispering up her arm. His hand crept over her shoulder, following the line of bare flesh from ruffled collar to sleeve. She moaned as he shifted to face her, hand flowing up her throat, coming to her mask. He pulled at the fastenings, sliding it to his lap. She smiled in tune with his compellingly crooked grin. Of their own volition, her hands brought his mask rustling down to join hers.
His hand returned to her face, cradling her chin, soft as a lullaby. In the pale light from the moon she could feel more than see his eyes on her lips.
“I … should we …”
“Sssh.” His finger pressed lightly against her mouth.
Zel closed her eyes, leaning back into the curve of his shoulder and arm. His lips played across hers, softer than the softest pianissimo, then slid over her cheek to her eyes. She sighed and he returned to claim her mouth, the gentleness spending itself rapidly as demand grew. She sat passively absorbing each new chord as he serenaded her lips, her teeth, and the smooth, sensitive tissue of her inner mouth.
The serenade became a spirited duet as her tongue twined with his. Wolfgang’s hands swept over her body, awakening melodies hitherto unknown. Her hands matched his rhythm as she learned the hard lines of his muscular back. His lips pulled away from hers, leaving both starving for breath as he scaled down her throat and chest, tongue tracing the valley between her breasts. His fingers plucked gently at the silk and chiffon of her bodice, bringing the nipple beneath to taut awareness. Sensation sang through her body, invisible strings strummed by his touch.
Breaking away abruptly, he stood. He clutched her arms, drawing her up to face him, studying her intently. “Not here, not now. Later when the ball is over.”
It was not a question, but she answered with a breath. “Later.”
She walked, clutching his arm, back to the ballroom, the harmony between them still tight, almost palpable.
Zel danced through the night, helplessly caught up in the power of her own masquerade. Her dark puritan-prince, always nearby, took one more dance, a forbidden third dance, but she was beyond worrying about what anyone thought as she swirled around the floor in his arms. When the waltz ended he leaned over and whispered into her ear.
“Later.”
As the ball drew to an end and the guests wandered off, she waited for him to spirit her away for the last few promised kisses, but he did not approach her again, and now with the orchestra closing down he was nowhere in sight.
She tried to ignore the disappointment flooding over her, the night had been enchanted, she had no right to ask for more.
By all the demons in hell, he hadn’t wanted a woman like this in years. Maybe he’d never wanted a woman like this. He’d been close to taking her in the garden, barely able to pull himself away and suggest this rendezvous.
She was not a classic beauty—he’d had his fill of them anyway. But she was surprisingly lovely in that outlandish costume. And his desire for her went deeper than her outward appearance.… No, he wasn’t in a mood for examining the whys and wherefores. He only wanted to continue the sensual magic they had already begun.
Wolfgang pulled the dressing gown over his bare chest and tied the belt. Slipping into the hall, he watched carefully for signs of other nocturnal wanderers.
Empty. He smiled in anticipation, rapidly covering the distance between their rooms.
Should he knock? He paused before her door. No, she was expecting him, and he didn’t wish to risk discovery. He sucked in a breath and tried the handle. It opened easily. He exhaled unevenly and entered the room, closing the door behind him.
One candle burned at the table near the bed. Zel lay asleep, breathing softly, her hair flowing in a loose circle about her head, in stark relief against the white of the pillow. His hand shook as he untied his dressing gown, allowing it to slid off his skin to the floor. Should he wake her now with her name on his lips? No, he’d wake her with his lips, and hands. Pushing back the sheets and counterpane he crawled into her bed.
His weight on the mattress unbalanced her, rolling her against him, her body warm beneath the thin lawn of her night rail. She stirred slightly, then settled back into the bed, her arm, hip, and thigh pressed into his naked length.
Wolfgang ran one hand beneath her head, locking his fingers in the thick, silky mass of hair. His lips sought hers as his other hand found the ties at the front of her night rail. Zel stirred again and he deepened the kiss. Suddenly she came fully awake, thrashing about in his arms.
“Quiet, Zel,” he whispered into her mouth. “It’s me.”
She pushed him roughly away, rearing up to her knees. The night rail tore in one hand, strands of hair ripped off in the other.
“Zel.” He jumped to his knees, facing her across the narrow bed. Their eyes met and held, hers glazed. Was she still half-asleep, did she recognize him? His gaze fell to her rent nightgown, one perfect breast glowed pale in the candlelight. He reached out, reflexively, cupping smooth flesh and puckering tip.
She cried out, clenched her fist, and struck him hard in the stomach. As he doubled over, her other fist met his eye. He howled in pain and outraged surprise, leaping off the bed.
“You bastard.” Her voice rasped, low, gravelly. “Get out.”
“Zel?” His look searched, asked.
“Get out! Now!”
He yanked on his dressing gown and strode from the room.
CHAPTER 4
SOTTO VOCE
Softly, not to be overheard
Damn the woman! Damn her straight to the fiery dept
hs of hell! What kind of game did she play? Wolfgang rubbed his eye, wincing as he marched down the dark hallway. It hurt like the devil. He needed to put a cold cloth on it. Or a beefsteak from the kitchen. Maybe it wouldn’t look so bad by morning.
How in the name of Old Clootie would he explain it? He could claim he fell and struck his head on a piece of furniture. His reputation would take a more severe blow if anyone discovered a supposedly willing bedmate had landed him a facer worthy of the champion boxer, Gentleman Jackson.
What was wrong with the woman? She behaved like a courtesan all evening, even inviting him to her bed, then became a horrified virgin when he accepted her offer. Zel had said yes with body and word, her door was unlocked, a candle lit …
Wolfgang probed again at his eye as he rounded the corner and bounded down the stairs to the kitchen. Time enough to analyze Zel Fleetwood tomorrow. Right now his eye was throbbing and his stomach was queasy from the combination of the champagne and her punch. He needed that beefsteak, then his own bed.
The slam of the door still reverberated through Zel’s shuddering body. Her breathing came in short, fierce gasps. She tried to inhale, deep and slow, but the quick gulps and shaking would not stop.
She massaged her bruised knuckles. What if he came back? Jumping off the bed, she ran to the door. Of course the latch still would not work. She moved a chair against the door—not the most effective barrier, but at least she would hear him coming if he returned.
Zel flopped onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands. The warnings were clear. She chose not to listen. The man had been in her bed, naked, and ready to take her. She rubbed her eyes vigorously but could not erase his shadowed image from her mind. The candle flickered before her. He was a rake of the worst order. Did he think her masquerade as Madame Pompadour real, or was he so accustomed to taking what he wanted that he never considered she would refuse? She pulled the torn nightgown tight around her neck.
A little flirtation! Lord, she was miles out of her league. Northcliffe made an assignation with her, but she had been too naive to recognize it. Now he had ruined everything. Her magic, fairy-tale night lay in shreds. Her fairy-tale prince was a frog at best, more likely an ogre.
Zel pulled the bedclothes up to her chin, tucking them around her shoulders. He was a villain. She twisted onto her side, curling her feet up in her night rail. But in all honesty, she had allowed him unimaginable liberties. He kissed her, touched her, as only a husband should, and she enjoyed it, encouraged it. He must have thought her completely brazen and behaved toward her exactly as she deserved.
Northcliffe would have no interest in her now. He probably thought she was an escapee from Bedlam, kissing him one minute, punching him the next. With the crowds diminished by so many still in Paris, it was inevitable that she would see him in London. But she must find a way to avoid him, as he would surely wish to avoid her. If or when they did meet, she would never let on how his embrace had shaken her.
Wolfgang rolled onto his side, tangling the cover as he gently stroked his aching eye and massaged his tender stomach. Bloody horns of Satan! If he couldn’t have her as a lover, maybe she’d agree to hire on as his sparring partner. His pugilistic skills would improve drastically, but would he survive?
He needed a good, hot soak. Lifting himself gingerly out of bed, he fumbled for the bell pull. Within seconds a timid knock was followed by a wrinkled face peering around the door.
“Fetch me a hot bath, and quickly,” Wolfgang barked.
He surveyed the damage in the glass. Oh, she’d certainly done fine work last night. Luring him like a siren and dashing his head on the rocks. Leaving him with a lovely shiner for remembrance.
He scratched at his hand. Scratched at it again and raised it before his face. Laced tightly through his fingers were several long, dark strands of hair, Zel’s hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Hair, soft and thick, velvet to the touch, suffused with that faint scent of spice. Until last night always pulled back in that disordered but maidenly chignon.
Had he misread that pause, as they faced each other, kneeling on her bed? When her slumberous eyes and full, lustrous breast had beckoned. Had he misread her soft “later” in response to his suggestions earlier in the evening? Had she misread his suggestion, not realizing it was a request for much more than a few kisses on the terrace?
From the first he had been intrigued by her contrasts. Who was Zel Fleetwood? Bold reformer or shy girl, passionate pianist or naive bluestocking, dashing courtesan or frightened virgin? Wolfgang yanked a dark green jacket, striped waistcoat, and buff breeches from the armoire. Where were his damn linens?
By all the denizens of hell! A gnawing in the pit of his stomach told him he had made a mistake of gigantic proportions. The passionate responses to his kisses and touch were certainly real, but they were not the schooled rejoinders of an experienced woman. The dashing courtesan was a role performed for the masquerade with naive enthusiasm. Zel pretended at flirtation, having no inkling what the stakes were. Wolfgang knew this, had known it from the beginning, but had chosen to ignore it last night. He had chosen instead to believe that as a radical thinker and avowed fortune hunter, she must also be a fallen or eager-to-fall woman.
Finding a clean neckcloth and shirt stuffed in the bottom drawer, he shook out the worst of the wrinkles and laid them on the bed. Jenkins would refuse to take another holiday if the efficient valet ever saw the condition of his wardrobe.
Walking to the window, he parted the curtains a sliver. The sun rode high in the sky. He would seek Zel out and declare himself all manner of fools and villains, throwing himself on her mercy. She would have to listen. She would have to agree to remain his friend. His friend? Damnation, what he wanted from her, even after a black eye, had little to do with friendship.
A scratch at the door announced the arrival of his hot water. Wolfgang bathed quickly, ignoring his throbbing eye. He dressed himself, then hurried downstairs, still buttoning the waistcoat under the uselessly dangling cravat.
No sign of her in the breakfast room, music room, or library. He sidled up to the stolid, sour-faced butler.
“Has Miss Fleetwood come down yet?”
“Miss Fleetwood, my lord? She was up and off hours ago.”
“Off?”
“Yes, my lord.” The man looked through him in proper, irritating, butlerish form. “She took a ride with Lady Ashley. She must be halfway to London by now.”
“The devil and his demon spawn!”
“Pardon, my lord?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Satan take the infuriating female. What was she thinking, turning tail and running back to London? Miss Grizelda Amadea Fleetwood couldn’t even stay put long enough to receive his apology. He’d make a proper call, and she’d bloody well allow him in her salon and hear him out. She’d probably glare at him, stiff as all hell, perched on the edge of a chair, her spine never nearing its high back. Wolfgang smiled grimly. Or maybe she’d scream at him and blacken his other eye.
“Late breakfath before the trip back to London?” Melbourne was developing the most aggravating habit of appearing at inopportune moments. “Gadth, man, your eye!”
Wolfgang pushed Melbourne aside, scowling into his stupid, grinning face, then grabbed the butler’s rigid arm.
“Send for my horse. I’m leaving now!”
“Oh dear, it could not have been so horrible.” Aunt Diana nibbled on a cold slice of roast beef, pushing the tray to Zel.
“It was much worse than horrible.” Zel scooted her high-backed chair closer to the sturdy mahogany table and played with a piece of ham. “What am I going to do?” She inhaled deeply, the dining room smelled more of beeswax and lemon than of cold meat. It was one of the most used rooms of the house, and Aunt Diana kept its dark furniture shining, its drapery and carpeting spotless and bright. The silver, crystal, and china were, of course, impeccable. Dinner guests would never reconcile it with the shabby parts of the house only the family s
aw.
“I have already responded to invitations and several gowns are ready. It is not like you to lose your … courage,” Aunt Diana murmured. “What happened?”
“Aunt Diana, I cannot talk about it.” She looked down, slipping a piece of beef to her dog. Remus swallowed it in one unchewed gulp and rewarded her with a wet nose in her palm.
“Zel, what happened?” Zel fell silent a moment, but she knew she was not about to elude her aunt’s questions. “Are you feeding that dog under the table again?”
“No, Aunt Diana.” That dog licked her hand, begging for more. “There was a man. I, ah, had a little flirtation.”
“A little … flirtation? You do not flirt, dear.” Her aunt’s stare caught and held her. “What happened?”
“I allowed him to kiss me. He thought …” Zel paused, remembering clearly what he thought and what he did, then blurted out. “He came to my bed and I hit him, in the eye and stomach.”
“Oh, Lord … for goodness’ sake!” Aunt Diana chewed hard on a piece of meat. “No one saw … did they? Did anyone see?”
“No, I am sure no one saw.” Zel was surprised to hear her aunt sigh loudly.
“Who was it?” Aunt Diana asked, a little too eagerly. “Anyone I know?”
“Do you know the earl of Northcliffe?”
“Northcliffe!” She choked, trying for a delicate swallow, but a grin spread over her face. “You hit Lord Northcliffe?” The grin broke into a chuckle. “You refused Northcliffe … hit him?” The chuckle grew until her aunt clutched her stomach, rivers of tears running down her cheeks.
“This is not funny.” Zel’s voice sharpened in amazement at her aunt’s reaction. “I was nearly assaulted, my reputation may be in tatters, and you are hysterical.”
“Zel, dear, I am so sorry.” Aunt Diana regained a modicum of her composure. “Lord Northcliffe is a rake of legendary proportions. Women throw themselves at him. He must be quite beside himself to be refused … in such a manner. He is not marriage material, but I believe he is not a gossip either, so I doubt you will be ruined. As long as you were discreet.”
The Wedding Chase Page 7
