by Jess Russell
He held out his hand; she hesitated and then slipped hers into its warm curve. His long fingers enfolded hers so completely. A tingling quiver snaked from her elaborate hair, down over her breasts, taking a fluttering loop at her belly and knees, and finally rushing on to her toes, which curled tightly within her slippered feet. And though they wore gloves, and though he did not betray an ounce of emotion, she knew he had experienced the same feeling.
He brought his other hand to rest lightly on the small of her back, just below where the gown met her skin. The sudden warmth made her want to press back into that heat. She swallowed. She lifted her left hand to find his right shoulder, completing their connection. His muscle flexed beneath her fingers. His coat needed no padding.
Then it was time. She looked straight into his eyes.
She shouldn’t have. She should have gazed over his shoulder at the other assembling couples, or perhaps at his chin, but she didn’t. She met his eyes square on.
Dear Saint Anne, she was in deep.
He shifted the hand at her waist, his thumb softly grazing her bare skin. Such a small gesture but it felt as shocking and decadent as if he had bent her back on her heels and kissed her for all to see. His jaw tightened, and his thumb settled in its new position, the pressure now stronger. Instinctively, she curled her own thumb more tightly around his hand.
Surely she was allowed this bit of sin? Surely she was allowed to forget herself in his arms and pretend he was her love, if only for these brief minutes?
And so, she pretended.
Bubbles of small talk popped around them, but it did not touch their world—their cocoon. Then the music began and she smiled.
There were no false starts, no mismatched steps and murmured apologies. Their heights were well matched and their long limbs graceful, but their synergy was beyond mere symmetry and grace of movement. They were one. They moved as one. It was as if the air between them was a tangible thing with mass and weight. As they moved, it moved with them, pressing into each of their bodies, merely an extension of their oneness. For this moment, as they glided in looping circles around the ballroom to the strains of Vivaldi, time stopped.
There was no need to squint to make out the horror before her. Daria had been secretly tracking the couple since they arrived, but now she watched helplessly as Roydan escorted Olivia Weston out onto the dance floor.
“No-o-o-o!” She could not have said that out loud, could she? She glanced around; sure everyone was looking at her, tittering behind their fans, or worse, looking at her with pity. She should not have bothered. Absolutely no one was remotely interested in her. Her gaze went back to the couple just as Roydan took the chit in his arms. But this was all wrong. Roydan never danced! In all the years Daria had been in his company, she had never danced with him or seen him dance a single step.
It would be a waltz, of course.
Something snapped. Startled by the sound, Daria looked to Lord Morton, who had finally arrived with her punch. Following his lordship’s eyes, she looked down at the mangled fan in her hand. She hastily thrust it into the nearby potted palm, and the punch soon followed. Snatching the arm of the still-gaping earl, Daria made her way onto the crowded floor.
She smiled her best smile as she pushed the earl around the floor. Damn, why had she grabbed Morton to dance with? He was a veritable clod and deaf as a post to boot. She laughed as they clumped passed the duke and Mrs. Weston.
“Very funny, your lordship,” Daria tittered.
“What’s the joke, my poppet?” said Lord Morton loudly. But Daria’s eyes were already fixed on the striking couple, who had just sailed effortlessly by.
How dare he flaunt his new dalliance in front of her? How dare he step so far outside his normal habits for a mere dressmaker? Just wait till she got her hands on the chit. And by God, she would. She just needed a diversion to split them up. Even as she thought this, the dance was ending and she could see Mrs. Weston making her way to the ladies’ retiring room with Eveline Barton right on her heels. Good, at least Barton was good for something. Now she would have a few moments alone with Roydan.
She just caught him disappearing onto the terrace. She dumped the earl on Prudence Radcliff and hurried to follow the duke.
****
What Olivia needed was some air, but then the duke would have escorted her out of doors, and what she needed even more than air was to be away from him. Especially after the half hour they had just spent together on the dance floor. Especially after being held in his arms, with his eyes boring into hers. Especially after feeling light as air as he guided her so beautifully among the other dancers. She had seen and felt no one but him. He had surrounded her in his private world—the world of only his arms, his eyes, his smell, his breath, his grace. God, it had been sheer bliss.
And a mistake. The pretending. She had let her guard slip, and joy had found its way inside, if only for a moment.
But this duke would only use her body for a time and then reject her. And a life of superficial decadence was not one she wanted. She had rejected it time and time again. As much as she hated to admit it, she felt a bit sorry for Daria Battersby who was the man’s latest discard. Well, Olivia would not be another.
She pushed her way past a leering Caesar and down a short hallway to safety.
****
Daria found him taking the air on the terrace. His long body canted over the balustrade, arms locked under wide shoulders while he surveyed the shallow back garden. Heavens, he was still as magnificent as the first time she had seen him.
She had been shopping in an alley off Petticoat Lane. In the middle of intense bargaining over a particularly lovely—and naughty—ivory snuff box, she dropped the bauble and immediately crossed the narrow street.
It was a bookseller’s shop. A place she would never have entered of her own volition. Yet she ended up spending almost a full half-hour’s time thumbing through dusty volumes, desperately trying to gain his attention. Nothing had worked. In the end, the only thing she had to show for her efforts were thoroughly ruined gloves and a volume by some atrocious Greek—in Greek, no less.
But he had touched it, his beautiful hands skimming over the pages. She had caressed those same pages back in the privacy of her boudoir, imagining those hands on her body, and she vowed she would have him. She had worked on him for months with nary a glimmer of interest on his part, and then, quite suddenly, his man of affairs arrived to present her with contracts.
At first Roydan had been insatiable, coming to her sometimes three times a day. She was used to lavish compliments on her lovemaking skills and proudly possessed an extensive repertoire, but he never wanted anything more than standard fare and even that was hurried. Afterward, she had always felt she had dirtied him somehow.
She kept telling herself she just needed time and she would make him love her—need her—but in nearly five years his emotions never entered the boudoir. Not once. In the end she had been happy enough to have Thursday evening come and go and the business done for that week.
Still she had given him her best years. She was not going to surrender him now to some halfpenny seamstress! Daria felt the familiar frown between her brows and quickly smoothed them. Adjusting her bosom, she pinched her cheeks and prepared for battle.
“Rhys, darling.” His head snapped up and he slowly straightened, his back a massive black wall. She was taking a great risk. He did not like for her to call him by his given name, and even less endearments, but desperate times, she reasoned, called for desperate measures. She would not go so far as to touch him, however. She had, after all, spent at least one evening of every week with him and had learned a thing or two about the man. “You cannot be serious.”
He turned to her. “Mrs. Battersby.”
She made a moue. “Rhys, surely you can do better than that. You can’t still be angry at me for ordering a few silly gowns, can you? It is very hard of you. To subject me to seeing you flaunt that dressmaker is too cruel. I am sure in
your man’s mind you thought you were doing just the thing to get back at me. Very well, I am cowed, and I own you have struck a chord—especially waltzing with the girl. But let us put the past behind, my dear, and we shall say no more of it.”
“Mrs. Battersby,” he said in his lowest bass. Oh dear, this was not a good sign. “I am attempting to do just that.” He executed an almost nonexistent bow. “I wish you good evening.”
****
Olivia had not found peace in the retiring room, but she had found a client. Mrs. Eveline Barton was very insistent about having seven or so gowns made up posthaste. The lady would come to the shop tomorrow afternoon to see some models and sketches.
A tall man stepped into her path. It was the Satyr-man.
“Madam,” he said in a slightly lisping yet deep voice. “I wonder if I might have the honor of the next dance?”
As his words slid over her, the fine hairs on her arms stood on end and inexplicable adrenaline rushed through her.
“You may not,” said the duke, who materialized behind her. He must have been waiting for her just to the other side of a bank of schefflera and orchids. Her cold hand was immediately enveloped in his warm one, his touch thoroughly shocking. He clearly meant to lay claim to her—to warn the other man off. But his hand, its firm heat pressing her own, felt not so much like a savior, but very much like a lover’s touch.
The Satyr-man, obviously angry, bowed stiffly. “Another time, perhaps.” Then he disappeared into the milling crowd.
“What do you think you are doing?” she jerked her hand out of his, turning her unsettled feeling into reliable anger. His touch was too warm and too right. “You are most officious, sir. You do not own me. How am I supposed to generate custom if I am never to mingle with anyone?”
“That, Mrs. Weston is certainly not my affair,” he said, in his haughtiest tone. “It is my understanding you agreed to this outing in recompense for settling an outstanding bill. A rather large bill, if I am not mistaken. Now if you wish to renege, I would be very happy to negotiate another settlement.”
Olivia glared at him through her mask. Oooh, he was infuriating. But the evening was not a complete loss; she did have the Barton order, which was quite handsome.
“No, there will be no other negotiating. I will play by your rules, at least for this evening.”
“Very well then, let us depart. I have had quite enough of this entertainment,” and he whisked her toward the entryway.
Daria watched them disappear into the tunnel draped in midnight silk. She had truly lost him. Her heyday was dead gone, and all that remained were the Lord Mortons and Actons of this world.
“Mrs. Battersby?”
Daria turned to the masculine voice. A rather well-looking man, from what she could see, stood before her, tall and slender, wearing a mask of a Satyr. He made a deferential bow.
“Sir? Do I know you?” She noted the cut of his coat and his linen—not in the first stare of fashion, but fine enough. His boots were worn, but perhaps that was part of his costume. He wore no jewelry.
“No, madam, but I know you. You are the famous Daria Battersby, the toast of the demimonde.”
Sweet Jezebel, if he had some blunt, he might be a ripe one. Oh, if she only had her fan. It was always such a useful prop when preparing to flirt. Still, she rested her hand on her décolletage in lieu of the fan. The gesture met with success as the man’s gaze dipped. “La, sir, you are too generous.”
“Not so, my dear Mrs. Battersby, but I would like to be.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips.
Better and better. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” She playfully pulled her hand away and laid a finger to her lips. “I know you only by your huge horns and beard, Monsieur Satyr, but I do not see your pipe, sir.” She tsked. “Perhaps you have hidden it away and only blow upon it for a select few?”
He smiled, his teeth very white against the dark of his mask and beard. “Oh, I assure you I have a pipe, my dear nymph, but my preference would be for you to make music upon it.”
Enough dallying, it was time to see if the man had the goods—and it had nothing to do with the size of his pipe.
“Before I lose my heart, I would know who is tugging at its strings.”
His mouth twisted and then flattened. “Never mind your heart, dear lady. I think we are both more interested in other things?” He paused and smiled. “I happened to be on the terrace while you were having your tête-à-tête with Roydan.”
Daria felt as if she had been doused with freezing water. “How dare you, sir.” She must get away. She turned and saw Morton waving to her, his mask cocked at a ridiculous angle, his chins waggling beneath, but she could not hear him through the roaring in her ears.
“Don’t you want your precious monk back?” The man’s words snapped as surely as a trap. Daria whipped around as if to protect herself, preparing for his killing blow. He smiled. “I believe we may be of some service to one another…in more ways than one.”
Chapter Nine
Rhys stared out the window of his carriage, knowing she was only an arm’s length away. It might as well be a mile. He had nothing to hold her to him now. The silly sham of the gowns was spent and the mask over as well. He must let her go. He was an honorable man, or at least he had been.
He risked a look. She was wedged in her corner of the carriage, her head turned to the window.
God, he wanted her. His honor was nothing against her. His bloody honor had crumbled the moment he took her in his arms and she smiled at him. Just thinking of that smile had his heart knocking against his chest. What a fool. No doubt she used that surefire weapon to slay hundreds of unsuspecting gentlemen, leaving a trail gasping in her wake. But in his heart it had felt like that smile, that gift, had only been for him.
He willed her to turn her head, to look at him, and then he might be able to speak. But her gaze remained fixed. He finally looked away and back out into the night.
With nothing but blackness to occupy him, he tried to think of his future with Arabella Campbell, but his mind would not comply. Instead, he calculated the damage to his morals if he took a mistress while preparing for marriage.
Certainly the Campbells presented no impediment to his lust. The old man himself had made it perfectly clear that he expected Rhys to have his dalliances. The family was so thrilled with the possibility of having the Duke of Roydan for a son-in-law, Rhys could have an entire harem living under his roof and Lord Campbell would not bat an eyelash—or his daughter, for that matter.
Rhys closed his eyes.
The carriage lurched, dipping wildly. Rhys’s shoulder and head banged sharply against the coach wall. The horses shrieked and his coachman let out a “Bloody hell!” from somewhere above. But the pain from his head was nothing to finding the woman of his dreams in his arms.
He did not think.
He kissed her.
The frantic knock at the coach door had him fumbling for the latch to keep the world out. But already her soft lips were pulling away. More pounding from outside and a hard tug on the door.
“Your Grace! Are you and madam well?” The world had crashed in.
Rhys let her go, and she pushed back into her corner. He looked away, pressing the back of his hand against his lips. His breath came fast. Oh, God, what had he done? Damn it, she was too close, he needed to be away and out. He fumbled for the latch and heaved himself out of the coach.
Rhys spent a full ten minutes outside discussing every minute detail of possible damage to the coach, his servants, and the horses until he could no longer delay the inevitable. He could not very well ride atop the carriage with James—could he?
Ridiculous. Yes, he had become quite ridiculous. His footman was standing there with the door open waiting for him to proceed. Rhys pulled himself in, rapped the ceiling, and they were once again moving.
Five—now six—streetlamps illuminated her profile and then died away to dusky gloom. He waited for the seventh, each time
hoping to see in her face a glimmer of want to justify the enormous need that engulfed his body. Nothing. Eight. And nine. How much time had passed? Still, her profile hung, like a frozen Madonna, within the coach’s window frame. Why could he not speak? It seemed a Herculean task, the silence so deafening, it was do or die. Very much like hurling himself off a cliff. Now ten.
He jumped.
“I am tired of subterfuge.” His voice sounded harsh and overly loud. He took a breath and began slower and with, he hoped, more control. “Artifice is not in my nature, but I find I am out of sorts when I am in your presence. I apologize. It is very—unsettling—to me.” He took another breath. “I thought this feeling would simply go away if I did not see you. In my experience, it always has.” He swallowed. “It did not. Then I thought if I saw you again it would go away, but it did not. It does not. I have tried to pave an honorable way toward marriage, but I find I cannot escape you. You fill my every moment, and it confounds me. So be it. I can no longer struggle against such a force. I—”
“You want me only because I am not available to you.” Her words came in a quiet rush. “I imagine you are very used to getting what you want almost before you think it, much less ask for it. I have frustrated you, and you cannot stand it. That is the only reason you stubbornly pursue me.” She met his eyes now. “I am an ordinary dressmaker. Someone you would never stoop to notice.” He opened his mouth to speak but she held up her hand to stay him. “Yet because I thrust myself under your nose, demanding payment and then vexing you, you have set me up as a challenge to your male pride.” Her eyes closed. “I wish you would let it go.” She took a breath and opened them. “I wish you would let me go. I am sure you could find far better amusement in no time at all.”
“If you would allow me to finish.” It was imperative he get this crass business part behind them. “I do not offer you a mere dalliance, madam, I would have you as my mistress.” There, it was out.
One look at her face told him his tack was all wrong, yet he knew no other way of being. Surely she would see beyond his meaningless words and know how much he wanted her, needed her. He plowed on, “I am planning to marry soon, you should know that, but it will not affect our relationship and contract.” The neat and tidy words fell from his mouth, so at odds with his rioting emotions. “You will have carte blanche—a house, gowns, jewels, a carriage and horses, a generous allowance and, should we part company, you will have a stipend for life.”
