Daring Masquerade

by Mary Balogh

  “Nonsense,” he said. “You are prickly tonight, my dear Mrs. Mannering. Tell me what your plans are for the future.”

  “I must seek employment in order to finance my expensive living style,” she said bitterly. “Perhaps I will even be extravagant enough to add a third color to my wardrobe if I can earn a high enough salary. And I am not your dear Mrs. Mannering.”

  “Will you be journeying to London?” he asked. “Where will you live while you search for new employment?”

  “That is not your concern, sir,” she said. “But if you have plans to be in London too, you need not fear that we will move in the same social circles. You will not be seeing me again.”

  “A matter of great satisfaction to you, I perceive,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I find your manner obnoxious, sir. And I find I am tired. I shall bid you good night.”

  Sir Harry bowed and said nothing. He stood and watched her make her way through the trees back to the lawn at the side of the house. Her shoulders were straight; she walked purposefully. But when she was out in the open, her steps became more hurried. She was running by the time she reached the side door.

  Well, and was he satisfied now? Nicholas asked himself. He had not intended that quarrel to happen. Although he had told himself for the past several hours that he should hold her at arm’s length, not allow any intimacy to develop between them, he had believed in his heart that when he saw her he would not be able to resist letting down his guard. He had wanted this hour or so in the park to be a time to remember, perhaps for the rest of his life.

  How had it started anyway? His mention of her rash behavior of the afternoon probably. He had not meant to sound coldly disapproving. In truth, he had laughed heartily when he first heard the story, and felt greater admiration for Katherine than he had felt even when she refused to show fear at his kidnapping her. It was only after he had had time to think it over that he had realized how rash her revenge had been. He had merely wanted to express that this evening, to show her that he was concerned for her safety.

  When she had become angry, he had found suddenly that being Sir Harry came almost naturally to him. He had meant to tease, had not realized until it was too late that he really had angered and even hurt her. And yet perhaps some part of him had quite deliberately destroyed the atmosphere of closeness that might have characterized their evening together. Some sensible part of his brain had been telling him all along that this was the way it should be. She would leave now hating him, quite happy never to see him again. And that was the way it should be. It was purely selfish to want her to love him and to miss him when she left.

  But no, he decided, he could not leave matters quite like this. She was upset. He had hurt her with his remarks about her clothes. He really had not meant to. He had thought she would see his comment as a joke. But she had been angry. It is sometimes hard to see the funny side of a remark when one is boiling with fury. He must apologize. He must wish her well. And somehow he must persuade her to tell him where she was going to be staying. He would see her in the morning before she left. Fortunately most of the residents of the Abbey would probably be still in bed. He would perhaps have a private moment with her.

  Nicholas sighed. A private moment. It was so inadequate. He could be with her now, the whole night ahead of them if they needed it, if only he had not given in to the temptation to goad her into anger. And he was becoming more and more pessimistic of ever being able to claim her for his own. The waiting had gone on for so many days that he almost despaired of his plan to lure Clive Seyton into leading him to his mother. Somehow the plan no longer seemed so likely to succeed. Almost five-and-twenty years had passed. A quarter of a century.

  With lagging steps Nicholas followed Kate across the lawn and through the side entrance to the house. There seemed nothing better to do than go to sleep.

  Kate closed her door fast behind her and threw her shawl in the general direction of the bed. She went straight through to her dressing room, tugging at the pins that held her hair in the style she had been so pleased with an hour since. She shook her head vigorously, took a brush from her dressing table, and began to drag it mercilessly through the waves and knots.

  How could he! Oh, how could he? And how could she? What was it in the last few days that had blinded her to just how insufferable he was? Always so cynical and so scornful. Always so ready with an insult. Always treading on her feelings just as if he believed she had none. Always so ready to tell her how little she appealed to him. How could she possibly have convinced herself that she loved such a man? She seemed to have an alarming tendency to fall for the wrong men. First Nicholas. Now Sir Harry.

  Why in heaven’s name had he invited her to meet him this evening? Just so that he could insult her and sneer at her? It was just as well that she would never see him again. He would probably make much of the loose morals of a woman who would agree to meet a man late at night in the garden without any sort of chaperonage. She would never hear the end of it.

  And to think she had sat for half an hour and more for Audrey to do something pretty with her hair. And picked her dress with such care. And been so flushed and starry-eyed. She had made a pretty fool of herself. Probably that story would be all over the house by tomorrow, to rival the account of Lord Uppington’s humiliation. Wouldn’t they all laugh! The poor love-starved widow tripping out to the garden dressed for all the world as if she were going to the ball, just in order to meet a man who had never made any secret of the fact that he despised her.

  But she did not care, Kate told herself, slamming the brush down on the dressing table again. Let them talk. Let them laugh their heads off. She did not care. She would not be here anyway. She would never have to face any one of them again. And what she did not know would not hurt her.

  And what was she doing now? Kate asked herself indignantly. And for how long had she been doing it? She was sobbing quite painfully and brushing impatiently at tears with the backs of her hands. Good heavens, she was not crying again, was she? How disgusting! And over what? Over her own humiliation? Over the loss of the great love of her life? Great love, indeed! Sir Harry had been quite right about one thing. She was not a creature of great intelligence obviously. How else could she have worked herself into such a state over a worthless gentleman as to be crying for him?

  She stopped herself by a great effort of will and doused her whole face in a basin of cold water. She came out of it sputtering and gasping—and remembering. Nicholas! Of course, she still had not got his address. She had been going to ask Sir Harry but had completely forgotten in the heat of their quarrel.

  Bother! Kate thought, standing in the middle of her dressing room, a frown on her face. Now what was she going to do! Trust that someone in London would know how to find him? That was absurd, of course. No one knew Nicholas Seyton. Or anyone who did knew him only as the illegitimate grandson of the late Earl of Barton. Besides, it would be days before she reached London. Could she wait until after the ball and creep along to knock on Mr. Dalrymple’s door? Out of the question. Creep downstairs now and hope to attract his attention without being seen by anyone else? Impossible.

  There really was only one thing to do. She couldn’t do it, of course. Anything but that. There really was not anything else. But she could not lower herself to quite that degree. Then Nicholas might never discover the evidence she had uncovered. There was only the one thing to do. She would die rather. She had to.

  Why should she care anyway? Kate asked herself. She had just finished telling him that she controlled her own life, that she was answerable to no one but herself for what she did. Why should she care what he would think of her? He could hardly despise her more than he already did anyway. She straightened her shoulders, flung back her loose hair, and opened the door of her room again. There was no one in sight. His room was not far away. She found that her heart seemed to be beating right in her throat as she walked the distance and knocked firmly on his door.

 
“What the devil?” Sir Harry said as he opened his door. “What do you think you are doing, Kate?” He leaned out and grabbed her by the wrist suddenly. “Get inside here, foolish woman. Do you have no sense of propriety at all?” He glanced up and down the corridor as he pulled her inside his room and closed the door behind her.

  Kate found that she was trembling. He was wearing only shirt, breeches, and stockings, and his shirt was opened almost to the waist.

  “I . . . I . . . ” she said, despising her shaking and stuttering voice. “I just remembered that I had something very important to ask you.”

  “Did you?” he asked. She was standing with her back against the door. Looking quite breathtakingly lovely with her hair newly brushed and streaming halfway down her back. She looked as if she might have been crying.

  “I . . .” She found that her hands were twining together in front of her and resolutely stilled them. “I need some information. Something that Mr. Dalrymple knows and you will be able to find out quite easily even if you do not already know it.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows were raised. His tone did not sound very inviting.

  “It will sound very strange, my request,” Kate said. “But I cannot explain it. Please just accept that it is very important to me to find out.”

  His eyelids drooped over his eyes. “Is this a riddle, Kate?” he asked. “Am I supposed to start guessing?”

  She laughed nervously and then despised herself for doing so. “I need to know the address of Nicholas Seyton,” she blurted.

  “Indeed?” Sir Harry said, managing to inject a world of scorn into the one word, Kate thought.

  “Yes,” she said. “Can you get it for me? Now? I must have it before I leave.”

  “Clandestine goings-on, Mrs. Mannering?” he asked.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t start this again, please. It might seem that I owe you an explanation in exchange for the address, but I cannot give one. Please, do you know it?”

  “I believe I can recall it, yes,” he said, holding her eyes with his own.

  She sighed with relief. “Will you write it down for me?” she asked. “And . . . thank you.”

  He nodded but did not move away. “I’m sorry, Kate,” he said quietly. “Forgive me?”

  “For what?” she asked, pressing back harder against the door.

  “I was teasing you,” he said. “I did not realize that I was hurting you.”

  Her chin went up. “I was not hurt,” she said. “I told you that I do not care what you think of me. You need not apologize to me, sir. It would be quite out of character for you to do so and mean it.”

  He put his head to one side. “Kate . . .” he said softly.

  “No, don’t!” she said sharply, putting out her hands as if to ward him off.

  He did not move. He continued to watch her. “Not if you don’t want me to,” he said. And then, when the silence lengthened between them, “Do you, Kate?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and pushed back even harder against the door.

  He still did not move. He waited for her and finally she left the sanctuary of the door and came to him. His arms opened to take her in. She did not lift her face to be kissed. She pressed it against his shoulder. And she let her body relax against his, let the heat of him flow into herself.

  “But you don’t like me,” she said against his shoulder.

  “Have I ever said that?” he asked. “What a dreadful liar I must be.”

  “You like quiet ladies,” she said. “With dark hair.”

  “Do I?” he said, his hands twining into her hair, his cheek resting against the top of her head. “Or rather, did I? I must have had dreadfully poor taste once upon a time.”

  “You disapprove of me,” she said. “You think I do not know how to behave.”

  “At the moment, Kate,” he said, “I am very thankful that you do not. You would not be here in my room with me else.”

  She raised her head to look up at him. “You will despise me tomorrow,” she said. “You know you will.”

  He shook his head slowly. “No, my dear,” he said, “never that. I don’t want to think of tomorrow, Kate. Let us take what tonight offers, shall we?”

  She stared into his eyes while his hands stroked gently through her hair. She desperately wanted to understand him. Was this a mood only? His face was without its customary cynicism. His eyes were wide open. And very blue. So familiar. As if she had loved him all her life. And all the time she had with him was one night. Not even that long. Until the ball ended. When that distant music finally stopped, then she must be prepared to leave.

  “Yes,” she said. “Tonight I am yours, Harry. Tonight only. Make it good for me. And I will make it good for you. Make love with me.”

  “ ‘With me,’ not ‘to me,’ ” he said. “Yes, Kate, even in bed you will not be the docile female, will you? Come, then, make love with me. Let us shed some clothes, shall we?”

  He was undressing her even as he spoke, unbuttoning the back of her dress, drawing it free of her shoulders and down her arms, bringing her shift with it.

  “Ah,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her bare shoulder and bringing his hands up to cover her warm breasts, “I am glad you do not wear stays and all that other armor that is supposed to make a woman’s body so attractive. You are so soft and feminine, Kate. So very desirable.”

  Kate was pulling the shirt from his shoulders and burying her face against him again. “You are so beautiful,” she said.

  He laughed softly. “Kate,” he said, pulling loose the sash at her waist so that her dress fell in a heap around her feet, “you are stealing my lines.” He was pulling her shift free of her body.

  Her hands went to the buttons of his breeches. He put his hands on her shoulders and took her mouth with his, teasing her lips, nibbling at them, coaxing them open with the tip of his tongue as her fingers undid the buttons one by one and her hands eased the tight breeches down over his lean hips.

  “Witch!” he whispered into her mouth.

  It was going to be just as wonderful as it had the last time, Kate thought. She could feel heat rising in her body, the pleasurable, unfulfilled aches in her throat and in her breasts, the throbbing between her thighs. And he was beautiful, as Nicholas had been beautiful. They were remarkably similar in physique, in fact. Was that what had attracted her to Sir Harry in the first place? But now was not the time for thinking. Now was the time for feeling, the time for giving pleasure and receiving it in return.

  “Come to bed, love,” he said. “I want to touch you all over. In the most secret and intimate places. I want to love you as you have never been loved.”

  He freed himself of his breeches and led her to the bed, which had been turned down for the night. Kate lay down on the sheet and reached up her arms for him.

  “Do you want the candles out?” he asked. “Would you be more comfortable in darkness?”

  She shook her head. “I want to see you,” she said.

  He lowered his head and kissed her as he joined her on the bed. He pushed aside the blankets with one hand and one leg. And Kate blanked her mind to everything except that moment and that bed and the man who began to make slow and expert love to her. And it was different from the last time. He did things to her that she had never even dreamed of before, took her to heights of longing she could not have imagined this side of madness and she found her own hands moving over him, seeking out, caressing, teasing by sheer instinct parts of his body that had him moaning, murmuring her name, and whispering endearments.

  “Kate, my love,” he said against her mouth finally, “you are very ready, are you not? Beautiful. Beautiful. How could I resist such an invitation? Such a very soft and easy entry you give me, Kate. You see? So much better than the dryness that gives pain.”

  Kate gasped. He had slid into her moistness, deep and hard, meeting the throbbing of her need. And she reached blindly for fulfillment, lifting her legs clear of the bed so that she could bring
him deeper yet. But when he began to move in her, her frenzy gave place to deep pleasure. Deep physical pleasure. She knew she would be satisfied. She knew he was committed to pleasuring her. And she trusted him utterly. She gave herself unconditionally. She would enjoy the journey with him.

  And she caught his rhythm, tilting her pelvis to receive his inward thrusts, relaxing through his withdrawal. And she found herself no longer mindless but fully aware of her surroundings, of herself lying on her back on the bed, opened fully to the man who was loving her, and of him, covering her body with his, his arms pressing firmly against her sides, his hands holding her buttocks, giving and giving of himself so that she would know release before he would allow his own climax. She consciously enjoyed the pressure of his manhood pushing into her and into her and into her, hard and huge, painless against the wetness of her own desire.

  And then his hands were on either side of her face and he was looking down into her eyes, his own heavy-lidded, Harry’s eyes, but heavy with passion rather than with boredom. It was Harry who was loving her, she told herself quite deliberately. Sir Harry Tate. Whom she loved. And she was glad.

  “Twine your legs around mine, love,” he whispered to her. “And relax for me. I am going to come to you.”

  And she did not give a thought to asserting her independence. She obeyed, watching his face as she did so. And her eyes widened as he pushed slowly and deeply against her opened and relaxed body until she felt all the remaining tension flow out and a great peace fill her from her toes to the crown of her head.

  “Oh!” she said in wonder, still staring into his eyes.

  He lowered his head to the hollow between her neck and shoulder and pushed once more into her. Then he sighed and relaxed his full weight onto her body. Kate wrapped her arms around him, laid her cheek against the top of his head, and closed her eyes.