by Liz Carlyle
Inwardly, Nash groaned. It was definitely not his usual sort of entertainment. But it was Edwina’s birthday—and though she was often silly, and occasionally imprudent, he was fond of her. He was loath to see her hurt. “I shall try to meet you there,” Nash hedged, looking about the ballroom. “Tell me, Tony, where is Jenny now?”
Tony’s expression soured almost imperceptibly. “Lord, how the devil should I know?”
Nash leaned very near. “You should know because you are her husband,” he said firmly. “Think how it looks to your political career if you cannot think of your wife.”
Tony’s expression softened. “You are right,” he admitted.
“What is wrong, Tony?”
Fleetingly, he hesitated. “It is just that fast crowd she runs with,” he finally said. “I saw them last in the cardroom, and God only knows how much she will lose before the night is out. What does she expect me to do, Nash? Cut a vein and bleed gold sovereigns?”
It was one of his stepbrother’s more unguarded moments, and Nash was not without sympathy. “I saw her laughing with the Comtesse de Montignac earlier,” he remarked. “I am quite sure it was Jenny—I have not seen another Queen Elizabeth.”
His stepbrother smiled weakly. “Nor have I.”
“I do not like this friendship, Tony,” Nash warned. “You, of all people, know how dangerous that woman is.”
“You overstate the matter, Nash,” said Tony lightly. “They are acquaintances, no more.”
Nash felt his temper spike. “Good God, Tony, do not lie to me, of all people,” he snapped. “I am your brother. I am on your side. You must order Jenny not to see her.”
“Not to see her?” echoed Tony. “Easier said than done, Nash. We see them socially. Besides, I must remain on good terms with her husband.”
“De Montignac?” spit Nash. “The hell you do! Tony, don’t be a fool. Everyone knows they are conniving, dangerous people.”
“My job requires it,” said Tony coldly. “And I would have a devil of a time explaining to my wife why she must then give up a friendship with the man’s wife.”
Nash felt his temper spike. “I once said I would never meddle in your marriage, Tony,” he snapped. “But in this case I am about to make an exception. Either you tell her—or I shall. Both of you must stay as far from the comtesse and her husband as possible—indeed, so far as you can, stay away from the entire French diplomatic corps.”
Despite his black domino, Tony had lost a noticeable amount of color. “Very well, Nash, if you demand it,” he said stiffly. “I owe you that, I daresay, at the very least.”
“Yes, Tony,” said the marquess, turning to leave him, “I daresay you do.”
Struggling to contain his temper, Nash returned from the terrace just as the supper dance was ending. The girl who he’d thought was Lady Louisa was stepping reluctantly away from a slender blond lad wearing a wreath and toga. Lady Cartselle urged the pair toward a group of equally callow-looking young people and shooed them in the direction of the buffet.
Well. If Xanthia were here, it seemed she was free from her duties for the nonce. Inexplicably, he wished to see her now more than ever. He wanted to escape his own anger and his stepbrother’s stupidity. He wished simply to forget it all—his obligations, his frustrations—and lose himself in something beautiful and bewitching.
He pressed through the crowd, moving against the stream, his eyes searching. Halfway across the ballroom, he spotted her—the woman sheathed in purple and white, making her way through the thinning crowd toward one of the rear doors. Absent the crush of the dance floor, his every instinct told him it was her. The way she moved—her elegant, queenly grace—was somehow unmistakable. And she was alone.
On impulse, Nash set a path for the second entrance. The rear doors of the ballroom opened onto a dimly lit corridor, a more private part of the house. He wondered where she was going.
They entered the passageway within an instant of one another. She turned in his direction, and he stepped from the shadows to block her path. “Looking for your Odysseus, Madame Circe?”
The woman in purple looked him up and down boldly. “Ah, but Odysseus was immune to Circe’s spell, was he not?” she said, her voice sultry. “I should prefer a man who can be entranced by my magic.”
“Very wise, Madame Circe,” said Nash. “Have you someone in mind?”
“Alas, I did have,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “But the man I seek does not attend such foolish entertainments.”
“Then he is unworthy of you, fair sorceress,” Nash replied. “Might another man tempt you in his absence?”
“I daresay the devil could tempt a woman to be quite wicked indeed.” Madame Circe’s eyes swept over his costume again, and a faint half smile curved her lips. “I am impressed by your fine horns, Lord Lucifer, and your flowing black robes. But tell me—have you brought your staff? I should need to see it, of course, as proof of your powers of temptation.”
It was she. No one else could be so witty, and yet so bold.
“Come with me, my sorceress,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm, “and I will show you my staff, so that you may judge its worth for yourself.”
By God, he was tired of being teased. Tired of being honorable when he was nothing of the sort. And tired of seeing to everyone else’s troubles. Perhaps it was time he caused a little trouble for himself.
Xanthia spoke not a word but followed him, her golden bowl in hand. He moved in haste, heated curiosity and thwarted lust churning in his gut. At the end of the corridor lay a plain, narrow staircase. Without hesitation, they descended, her diaphanous robes billowing out like a vapor.
Cool air rose up to meet them as they descended, but it was not enough to cool his strange emotions. At the bottom step, a single sconce burned in a long, flagstone passageway. The servants’ quarters. It would have to do. Nash seized the first door he came to and flung it open.
A narrow sitting room—the housekeeper’s, most likely. Another flickering sconce revealed its tidy chairs covered in chintz, a worn spinning wheel, and a small brick hearth, now cold. On the worktable sat a sewing basket, its wicker lid set to one side. Nash slammed the door and, releasing Madame Circe, snatched a ladder-back chair and wedged it under the doorknob.
“There, by God,” he said. “Let the enchantment begin.”
Circe set down her bowl of herbs and floated toward him. He really could believe her a sorceress. Nash’s eyes swept over the snug sheath of white silk which nearly bared her bosom, and the golden girdle which circled beneath, pushing her breasts up into plump, delectable swells—breasts which were rising a little rapidly from her exertions. Her mask was purple satin dusted with gold. Bangles of gold encircled her wrists, and at her neck she wore a heavy gold chain from which an amethyst drop fell almost to her cleavage. If the ensemble was meant to draw the eye, it was succeeding admirably.
Nash caught her hand and drew her toward him. She came easily against his length, enfolding her body to his and lifting her mouth to be taken. He obliged her, kissing her deeply and languidly for long moments, until at last she drew back a fraction, her breath already rough and fast. “What if the servants should return?”
His mouth had found her throat, and was lingering there. “They are otherwise engaged,” he said, his tongue playing lightly along her pulse point. “And what if they do? The door is blocked, and we are masked. We are…anonymous, Madame Circe. Our identities are a secret—even to one another.”
In his arms, she shivered.
He pressed his lips to her ear. “Do you know who I am?”
For an instant, she hesitated. “Yes,” she rasped.
He drew back and smiled wickedly. “Ah, but what if you are wrong?” he whispered. “Are you still willing?”
Rising onto her tiptoes, Xanthia set one hand to his chest and her lips to the turn of his neck. “Entice me to willingness,” she softly challenged. “Are you not the devil himself?”
He tightene
d his embrace and returned his mouth to hers. He found her mask wildly erotic, her words more so. And yet he had kissed many women, and done far more, without ever having seen their faces, or even knowing their names, for women of the ton preferred to enjoy their saturnalia incognito, and the anonymity served only to heighten the sexual pleasure.
Circe had let her head fall back, exposing her long, slender throat, a pair of delightful collarbones, and a plunging expanse of white flesh below. He circled his hands around the golden girdle and lifted her breasts in his hands. As he suspected, she wore nothing beneath. The creamy swells burst from the white silk like ripe fruit to his greedy mouth, the delicate pink-brown nipples already taut beneath the sheer purple fabric.
He lowered his head and drew one between his teeth, nibbling gently through the purple gauze. With a soft cry, Xanthia speared her fingers through his hair, almost dislodging his horns. On impulse, he pushed the purple tunic off her shoulders, then slid his hands beneath her derrière, moving as if to lift her onto the table.
To his shock, she slipped from his grasp. “Impatient demon,” she chided. “First, you have something to prove, Lord Lucifer. Are you worthy?”
For a moment, her meaning escaped him. She stepped close again, so close he could smell the scent of her skin, then she eased a hand between the folds of his cloak. “Umm,” she said, setting her warm palm fully against his erection. “Very tempting—so far.” At that, her nimble fingers went to the close of his black trousers and deftly slipped one button free.
Good Lord but she was bold! Nash moved as if to help, but she pushed his hand away, and finished the job herself, shoving impatiently at the black wool and white linen until his cock sprang free from the folds of fabric.
She made a low, appreciative sound in the back of her throat, then took him almost reverently into her hands, stroking firmly up his length. “Now that is a staff to incite true wickedness,” she murmured. “I think we may proceed with the enchantment.” And then she shocked him by going down onto one knee and cupping him fully in one palm.
Nash was having a little trouble catching his breath. Circe—Xanthia—turned her face, and set the softness of her cheek against the hot, hardness of his flesh, and he almost came undone. He had been fondled avariciously a thousand times, but this was—this was—intimate. Something shot through him, hot and fierce. Not lust, but something far more disturbing.
She must have sensed it and misunderstood, for she lifted her face to his. “May I…” She faltered. “Would you enjoy it if…”
“I would enjoy anything you chose to do, my sorceress,” he rasped, scarcely daring to hope. “So long as you do only what you wish to do.” But when she took the base of his cock in one hand, and closed her mouth around the tip, Nash’s breath seized. Shuddering like a schoolboy, he lashed out for something to hold on to. In the gloom, his fingertips found some sort of chest.
Her lashes fluttered up at him uncertainly. “Am I…I am doing it right, Lord Lucifer?” she asked. “I fear I am something of a novice at this particular…enchantment.”
“You’re bloody well enchanting me,” he choked, holding tight to the edge of the chest.
She returned to her erotic ministrations, the silken warmth of her mouth devoured him, inch by throbbing inch. With one hand holding fast to the base of his shaft, and the other gently cradling him beneath, Circe worked his length until his breath came hard, and his every muscle was rigid. Until he knew her for a sorceress indeed. And knew himself to be hopelessly lost.
She drew at him, her wide, full mouth suckling him with motions both erotic and tender. He threw back his head, savoring the indescribable pleasure, and praying it would never stop, until his flesh was slick and his ballocks spasmed. Close. Oh, so close.
Gently, he twined his free hand into her hair and drew her up. He kissed her, hot and openmouthed, plunging over and over into the sweetness of her mouth, entwining his tongue with hers. He burned to rip the mask from her face—yet he dared not break the spell.
“I want you,” he said, lifting his mouth but a fraction.
“Yes,” she whispered. The word was hungry. Urgent.
This time she allowed him to lift her onto the edge of the worktable. Her long, dark hair had swung over one shoulder to tease at her areola. He pushed it back and set his mouth to her nipple again. God, but she was beautifully shaped, with high, full breasts which were made for a man’s mouth. He suckled her there on the edge of the table, first one breast, then the other, until time spun away, and there was only the two of them, their breath hot and fast in the dimly lit room.
When he could bear it no more, he drew up the white silk skirts of her gown and slithered her drawers down her long, milky thighs. Good Lord, she had legs which went on forever. Legs which might wrap around a man, enticing him to madness and self-destruction. A sorceress indeed.
He urged her back onto the table, her long hair fanning out across the wooden surface like a mantle of dark silk. Then he set his hands to the inside of her thighs and pushed them wide. She cried out when he took her with his mouth, a tremulous, uncertain sound. Her hand fluttered to her thigh almost apprehensively. He sensed that this was new to her.
“Shush, love,” he whispered, catching her hand, and setting it flat to the tabletop. “Let me enchant you, sweet Circe.”
He delved into her sweet, secret places, tormenting and teasing with a skill honed by years of practice. She cried out again, her whole body trembling. Sensing the risk, he drew his tongue away, and slid one finger into her tight, creamy sheath. She rode down greedily onto his hand, and he slipped another finger inside. She was more than ready.
Unable to wait, he dragged his weight onto the table, crawling over her like some predatory cat. Beneath the mask, her eyes looked wild and uncertain. He kissed her again, stared into her eyes, and told her just what he meant to do next.
“All right.” She choked out the words, and swallowed hard. Then, more certainly, “Yes.”
Nash took himself in hand, and eased his cock into the slick heat of her desire. She gasped at the intrusion but set one purple slipper on the table edge and lifted her hips a little awkwardly, as if to meet his next thrust. He meant, he supposed, to go slowly. But the sweet artlessness of her gesture caught him unaware. And caught his heart in his throat. He could not wait. Could not think. Instinct seized him. He slid deep inside on a triumphant grunt.
Damn. If she was not a virgin, she was close enough to scare the hell out of a man. Beneath him, she had frozen at the intrusion.
“Are you—is it—all right?” he croaked.
She nodded, her hair scrubbing softly on the table. “Yes. Good.”
He held himself perfectly still, biting his lip to still the urge to thrust again. Slowly, he felt her go limp, felt the walls of her womanly sheath begin to relax. And to tempt. He answered, moving gingerly back and forth.
“Ah,” she said, exhaling. “Lord Lucifer, that…ah, that is exquisite.”
He moved again, lifting himself high, and entering her in what he hoped was a perfectly positioned stroke. She met him thrust for thrust, rising eagerly to take him. To take him deep, and to take him into a world of unspeakable bliss. He knew it already.
Her flesh pulled at him, coaxed him, seduced him in every possible way. Her small, capable hands settled on his shoulders, then slid down to his waist. There was an unmistakable urgency to her motions, a hunger he knew and answered. She lifted one leg, and wrapped it around his waist. The sewing basket tumbled from the table onto the floor. The sounds of their lovemaking—the soft sighs and silken wetness—were glorious in the gloom. Then he felt her quiver against him, and knew.
He lost himself then, driving into her with a physical furor he had never known. She cried out, a soft, keening sound, and he held her to him as she trembled and shuddered beneath him. The last thing he felt was like a lightning strike, except the jolt was one of pure joy. A dangerous, almost certainly addictive, emotion.
Speechles
s and gasping, Xanthia lay in her lover’s arms for what seemed to her an eternity and yet an infinitesimal moment all the same. Slowly, their breathing returned to normal, and when at last she had returned fully to the here and now—and to the shocking realization that she had just made love to the man of her dreams on a housekeeper’s worktable—she was compelled to stifle a groan of mortification.
Just then, a clattering of heels arose in the stone stairwell beyond. Servants’ voices echoed down the passageway, shouting out orders about prawns and champagne and pâté; things which were apparently wanted in the dining room above.
He had rolled off the table and drawn her to his feet before the echoes died. “Good God, this was madness,” he muttered, swiftly neatening her clothing. “It is but a matter of time before one of the servants tries to come in, looking for clean tablecloths or some damned thing.”
“Don’t fret,” she whispered, with a neatening tug on his red waistcoat. “As you say, we are still masked.”
His gaze caught hers, fierce and hard. “God, I am such a fool,” he whispered—just before he kissed her again. His mouth hungrily upon hers, he set her back against the doorjamb and kissed her deeply and passionately, as if his need had been in no way slaked by the lovemaking.
They came apart breathless and gasping. For an instant, he hesitated, then, “Go,” he rasped, setting her firmly away. “You must go out without me.” He jerked the chair from beneath the brass knob, gingerly opened the door, and peered out.
“Anyone?” she whispered.
“They must have all gone down to the kitchens,” he said. “Hurry back up to the ballroom. Should anyone see you, you must say you are lost.”
Xanthia looked at him solemnly. “Oh, I rather fear that I might be,” she murmured. “Thank you, Lord Lucifer, for a most wicked evening.”
As if he were embarrassed, he looked away and jerked open the door. “Go,” he rasped. “I shall follow you after a time.”
But he would not, and she knew it.
Xanthia stepped into the passageway, knowing full well she had seen the last of her dark prince this night. The man in black silk would vanish into the gloom as swiftly as he had come—and nothing between them had really changed.
