by Gina Conkle
And an evening of hot flirtation that could lead anywhere? A timely reprieve.
He liked that his mystery guest wasn’t intimidated by him, but he couldn’t say if she was or was not after money. Such were the limits of trying to read a woman in a dimly lit room.
And he had to admit, he wasn’t thinking entirely with his head.
But if she wasn’t chasing gold guineas, what was she in search of?
In recent years, he’d met his share of courtesans, and his enigmatic guest struck him as too proper and too pert to be a refined lightskirt. Could she be a newly fallen woman exploring that mode of employ?
When they touched on the subject of women and independence, his guest became tart tongued and emphatic, meeting him word for word, qualities that stoked his interest, among other parts clamoring for better acquaintance with her.
He would know more of the secretive beauty named Claire, if that was her true name, and there was no better way to coax the fair sex into openness than a festive atmosphere. Women thrived on entertainments.
“We ought to return to the ball.”
“So soon? And here I thought you wanted a reprieve from the crowd.”
“True,” he said, offering his arm. “But the evening’s improved considerably.”
Claire’s fingertips rested lightly on his sleeve, her silk skirts stirring a seductive sound as she stood up. Glittering silver embroidery drew his attention to cream-white curves moving with the strong ebb and flow of her breathing.
“And I’d like to further our conversation in the light.”
The curl on her breast swayed from her gentle laughter.
“The light has no bearing on our conversation,” she asserted, making a point of dipping her head to restore eye contact with him. “I’d venture to say the lack of it has been freeing.”
He grinned like a lad caught ogling a tavern maid.
“If I said I’d like to dance with you, would that make a difference?”
Her charmed smile was his reward. He strained to see Claire’s eye color, but couldn’t. Candlelight sparkled off the beads around her eyes. Her visible features rounded with pure merriment.
“Since you put it that way, how can I resist?” She reached over and lifted the jabot off the settee. “You’ll need this.”
He turned around and crouched low for her to retie the bothersome neckwear. “Please be kind with the knot. My valet is new and was overanxious when preparing me for tonight.”
She leaned close to his ear. “I’ll do my best.”
Cotton skimmed his neck, and her nearness tantalized him…her warmth at his back, the allure of her gown brushing his legs. Agile hands worked efficiently at his nape, tying the jabot, and he couldn’t help the wicked thought: Why don’t men hire women as valets?
The air cooled behind him and he rose to full height. Claire was at his side, setting her hand on his arm.
“Shall we?”
They made their way out of the study’s intimate atmosphere, into the bright hallway.
Standing on the royal-blue carpet, light shocked his system. His fair-haired guest looked to him, waiting for him to lead the way no doubt, but his limbs locked.
Her lustrous white-blond hair appeared that unique shade by nature, not artifice of paste or powder. Her face, though covered with a demi-mask, promised symmetry of the kind poets waxed on about. His breath caught on the singular yet insufficient word beautiful.
“Beg pardon?” Her head tilted, artful and feminine. “What did you say?”
Did he say the word out loud?
One corner of his mouth curled up. He wasn’t smooth with words, nor was he the fawning type.
Clearing his throat, he led their amble to the ball. “I was wondering how the evening progresses.”
His constitution needed balance on this already off-kilter night since ahead lay the battle zone of a London ball. He wasn’t bred on these events the way others lived and breathed the social whirl.
Why the gluttonous need for grand entertainments? Do London’s refined citizens exist under a constant cloud of boredom?
His teeth clenched in the manner he suspected a soldier’s would as he bore down in battle. He could hardly tolerate these things, but one footfall after the other led them to the blast of festivities.
An explosion of unsavory odors pummeled him, the result of too many hot bodies together for too many hours. The orchestra plied their skills with frenzied vigor for throngs of colorful dancers. Discordant laughter jangled through the room. Most of the guests had been dipping rather deep in the free flow of his wine.
A perspiring earl, his bagwig askew, spun past. The man squired a masked, guffawing woman through a fast-paced courante, her face paint streaking down one cheek. Layers of pomp and dignity had long ago deserted the tipsy crowd.
He wanted to wipe the room clean and finish a quiet evening in his home, but that wouldn’t aid his quest to find a fine place in Society for Lucinda. He needed the good graces of these people to arrange the most advantageous marriage for her—and someday for himself.
His sister, masked in purple silk, chatted amiably with two of Society’s matriarchs at the far end of the hall; her cheerful composure showed she was none the worse from the evening’s earlier drama.
A ravaged refreshment table provided breathing room near double doors flung open, allowing cool air to reach the perimeter of the ballroom. Empty glasses littered the table. Clusters of grapes had been devoured, leaving skeletal vines poking up from a silver tray. Only a small bowl of luscious red berries remained untouched, tempting the eye.
“Oh, strawberries. How lovely,” his mystery guest cooed. “My favorite.”
He made sure to steer closer to the succulent fruit, ready to engage his guest in private conversation. But as they approached the table, so did his good friend, the Marquis of Northampton, with his younger brother, Lord Marcus Bowles, at his side. The pair stepped through the open doorway from the back courtyard, North scowling his displeasure.
Out of sorts from Lucinda’s refusal of his marriage proposal? Or taxed by the burden of rescuing his half-sprung brother yet again? Lord Bowles’s walk was steady, but his queue was near undone. A crumpled, brown silk mask dangled from his fingers, and the man reeked of whiskey. The former soldier’s brash stare, however, lost no time settling on Claire.
“Ryland. Wondered where you went.” Lord Bowles’s voice dropped with suggestion. “But I see what’s occupied your time.”
Cyrus’s mouth firmed at the younger man’s encroachment. North moved closer to his brother as though proximity could bring the younger man to heel. A pair of dancers, loose with laughter, bumped the marquis’s silk-clad arm.
“As it is, we’re on our way home.” Within his black silk mask, the marquis’s dark, assessing stare moved from Claire to Cyrus. “I’d hoped to speak to you, but the evening’s deteriorated, an—”
“And he’s got to run home with his tail between his legs.” The younger man cut in, directing his last words to Claire. “That, and make sure I don’t cause trouble in exalted circles.”
North’s frown stretched. If Cyrus were a betting man, he’d have laid odds on the sibling being the thorn in his friend’s side, not Lucinda’s rejection. The brothers together often made a powder keg waiting to explode.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Cyrus promised North and began to steer away from the table.
“What?” Lord Bowles stood taller, smoothing the front of his brown silk waistcoat. “Dismissed without so much as an introduction to this tempting armful?”
“Marcus,” North snapped. “You forget yourself.”
The former soldier perused the flaxen-haired woman, lazy eyed and curious. Most women found the irreverent second son appealing, no matter that he lacked two pence to rub together. He offered little more than dashing looks and the occas
ional witty remark, yet ladies flocked to him.
Cyrus placed a possessive hand atop the feminine fingers resting on his arm. Lord Bowles’s hazel eyes caught the maneuver, one corner of his mouth curling up. Though in his cups, the man read the universal message, one man to another.
She belongs with me.
Lord Bowles’s daring, heavy-lidded gaze drifted from the claiming grip to meet Cyrus’s rigid stare. The reprobate raised a challenging eyebrow. The former soldier liked to push the limits, especially under the influence of strong drink.
When would the evening’s absurdity end?
Cyrus wasn’t getting any closer to uncovering more about the mystery of the woman at his side. In those jarring seconds, Bowles must’ve reassessed his position. He backed down, ceding with the barest of nods. Cyrus wanted the fair lady to himself, but he grudgingly accepted good manners meant introductions were in order.
“Gentlemen, I forget my manners. Please allow me to introduce Miss…Miss…” He stalled, his brows slamming together.
Bad enough he reemerged with his jabot loose. He couldn’t introduce a woman as Miss Claire—to do so would all but put her in the worst possible light.
“Miss Claire Tottenham,” she interjected, pinching her skirts and dipping low.
North nodded at the pretty curtsy, but his brother’s eyes kindled with shrewd assessment. Unfazed, his Miss Tottenham held her head high, sidling closer to the strawberries.
Cyrus motioned to his friend. “This is Lord Northampton, the Most Honorable Marquis of Northampton.” His eyes narrowed. “And his brother, Lord Bowles, formerly an officer of the Eightieth Regiment of Light-Armed Foot.”
Both men bowed. Lord Bowles placed his crushed mask over his heart, the reprobate’s stare hovering indecently on Miss Tottenham’s neckline.
“I live only for peaceful pursuits now. My latest heroic service is rescuing damsels in distress.”
“When I find myself in dire need, I shall call upon you, sir.” She gave them both a bright smile and plucked a ripe red berry from the bowl. “And is this a family endeavor, your rescuing damsels in distress?”
“You mean me and Lord Perfect here?” Lord Bowles angled his head at his brother. “No. Gabriel’s too busy saving the family to bother with life’s finer pursuits. I’m your best bet.”
The marquis stiffened when his Christian name was bandied about, but Miss Tottenham smoothed his ruffled feathers with another glowing smile before looking again to Lord Bowles.
“Then your brother’s the archangel to your…darker heavenly being.”
Cyrus’s jaw ticked at the soft tempo of her voice. This flirtatious back and forth between the two served little to get him closer to the enigmatic woman. And simply put, he wanted to be the sole recipient of her smiles and soft, playful words.
The former soldier’s eyes darkened with keen interest. His voice, rough from smoke and liquor, dropped to an intimate note. “Wherever did Ryland find you?”
“I’m afraid that will have to stay our secret.”
The saucy Miss Tottenham slipped the strawberry into her delectable mouth, all the while looking at Cyrus. His thigh muscles tensed inside the velvet prison of his breeches. Hot pleasure shot through his body at the sight of the red berry slipping through her lips. Adding to his misery, a spurt of juice from the tender morsel painted her bottom lip red. He nearly groaned.
Tradition named the apple as the fruit of man’s downfall, but tonight he’d argue mightily for the dangers of a ripe strawberry on a certain woman’s lips.
Lord Bowles laughed, his face alight with fascination. “I like this one, Cy. She’ll keep you hopping.”
Cyrus’s body hummed between charmed interest and the sharp edge of frustration. He had more than hopping in mind where Miss Tottenham was concerned.
With perfect timing, the first notes of an allemande played, and the dance floor thickened with new revelers full of laughter. The allemande was the last dance before the midnight unmasking, a decadent rout, allowing some close contact between partners—something he wouldn’t miss.
He set a firm hand on Miss Tottenham’s elbow. “I plan to, starting with this dance.”
“But you don’t like to dance.” The startled admission came from North in the middle of pulling off his mask.
“I do tonight.” He bade them farewell and steered his guest away from the younger man’s poaching stare.
No doubt Bowles would pounce on any opportunity to assert himself with the fair lady. Tonight, however, Cyrus was the hunter who would claim Miss Tottenham. He drew her as close as her wide skirts allowed, finding pleasure in her graceful sway. He maneuvered through the crowd, nearer to the open, cooling doors, where partners pranced the allemande.
He positioned himself beside Miss Tottenham, and with a light handhold, they ventured into their first steps. Bodies pressed everywhere, the hot, noisy swarm expanding and contracting. But his lovely guest caught the joy, laughing with delight. His every sense went on high alert, honing in on her: her scent, her feel, her sound. He hungered for details of this woman, but words of a hot nature sprang out first.
“Are you always a flirt?”
Her eyes sparkled within the demi-mask. “Flirting, you say? I take it you refer to the conversation with the marquis and his brother?”
“Exactly.” Miss Tottenham’s fingertips moved across his palm. The tantalizing connection quieted him, bringing to mind a cool breeze soothing overheated skin. What she did was correct for the dance, but on the fringe of propriety with so much fleshly contact.
“I like to think I helped calm obviously stormy waters between those two. Simply another one of my talents, if you will.” Her head tilted, revealing a flirtatious stretch of her neck. “And I am dancing with you.”
The procession stopped, and Miss Tottenham twirled under his upraised arm, smiling at him over her shoulder. Her reminder of the obvious calmed the covetous beast within. Miss Tottenham glowed, a mix of the coquette and a woman lost in the fluid freedom of dance. Dark blue-green eyes trifled with him, vibrant within her mask. Now he knew their color.
“Is it true?” she asked over the loud hum of music. “You don’t like to dance?”
Their hands switched for another rotation. Her silk skirts brushed against him, sending a thrum of pleasure across his legs.
“I don’t. Usually,” he admitted. “Never had the occasion until coming to London last year. And then I had to learn.”
She came out from under the arc of their arms, her body moving in time to the music. “Then I should feel especially honored.”
He bent his head, all the better to hear her, but it was her scent he craved. He tried breathing in her skin’s perfume. Instead, Miss Tottenham circled away, her unique fragrance eluding him.
His body quickened when her lithe form spun around in front of him with both hands overhead. Her gown’s false hips kept her from coming too close. The way Miss Tottenham’s eyes shined, she grasped very well her maddening effect.
Two could play this game.
He wasn’t good with words. Never had been. Nor was he ever the handsomest man in the room or the ugliest. His well-muscled size drew as many of the fair sex to him as repelled them. Yet he understood the power of the right stroke with a woman. Where flowery words failed him, touch succeeded.
They swayed together, their hands joining in a high arc. One hand slipped free and slid under the sack portion of her gown. The cloth draped high from her shoulders to the ground, hiding his calculated move. Throughout the room, partners paraded side by side…one, two, three. Behind the swath of fabric, he caressed the contours of her back, her sweet warmth flowing from the bodice.
Her torso stiffened under his hand. She kept their forward progress at his side, but jeweled eyes slanted his way, glittering brighter than the beads on her mask. Her pink-red lips opened a fraction as t
hough she needed more air.
His veins drummed an insistent rhythm. The flat of his palm brushed a slow, meandering trail down her spine, finding small, silken ties. The single row cinched her bodice shut, each fascinating X softly abrading his fingers.
He imagined loosening each lace…one by one…all the better to explore the tender landscape of her body.
The move lured him into deeper enchantment. His vision went hazy on Miss Tottenham’s blue-and-silver bodice. They turned and faced each other, their bodies closer than other dancers around the room. He didn’t care. His limbs hummed with sizzling awareness.
He leaned in and whispered, “Tonight, with you, has been the best conversation with clothes on.”
Her pink-red mouth opened. “Because it’s something of a sexual nature when clothes are off, Mr. Ryland.”
He stumbled, missing a dance step. His phallus clenched. Hard.
Recovering, he chuckled. “Indeed, it is.”
Miss Tottenham circled slowly for the dance, her skirts rubbing him, and glad he was for the longer, concealing waistcoat. His mysterious guest grasped well the game he played, giving better than she got.
His lungs expanded, drinking in much-needed air. There seemed to be so little of it in the room. He wanted to be alone with her in his dark study again. He hungered for connection with the woman beneath maddening layers of cloth, something physical and yet…something else.
Then, she took a deep breath, her small breasts straining the lace of her plunging neckline. The simple movement snared his vision.
Was she just as affected?
He itched to test the smoothness of her pearl-colored skin, and not only the plump parts about to spring free. He wanted to test her shoulders, her back, the legs hidden by voluminous skirts. Would the rest of her feel as soft as she looked?
Chattering dancers took two steps forward. He slipped his hand again under the sack and splayed his fingers across the small of her back. The silk gown slid against his skin. The scandalous move was lost in the crowd, but her dark lashes fluttered low within her mask.
