“What a happy coincidence, meeting you here,” he said, finally finding his voice.
She inclined her head respectfully and set the copper of her hair shining. “Your Grace...”
She stood beside him at the railing on the terrace and rested her fingers on the thick band of marble, a mere fraction of an inch from his own. How he longed for such separation to be closed between them, so he might delicately run a finger over the back of her gloved thumb. A slow stroke, easy and sensual—but one he would not make.
“I assume you’ve had a pleasant evening?” Her casual tone indicated no nervousness at being with him outside, alone.
“I have,” he answered in earnest. For it had been so when she was dancing in his arms. “It would appear you have become quite popular.”
Lady Eleanor’s eyes danced in the night. “Is it not enough for you to be a humble pirate, but you must also be one prone to jealousy?”
Jealous? Him? It was so ridiculous a notion Charles could only scoff.
Eleanor lifted her brows and fixed her attention to the garden—a convenient distraction. He edged his hand closer, drawn by an unseen force, and grazed the back of her thumb with his forefinger before he realized what he was doing. The fine quality of their gloves glided against one another.
Eleanor gave a quiet gasp and met his stare, her eyes luminous. Blood rushed through his body and he found himself wishing to pull the gloves from them both, to caress the silky heat of her naked skin on his.
Gloves. Confound it.
He could have shaken his head at his own thoughts. He’d been too long abstinent from the fairer sex if he was thinking merely of removing gloves and touching hands.
No, not just gloves. He wanted to peel the dazzling dress from her body and watch the true beauty of her being unveiled in a way no crystal or diamond could ever rival. She would be lovely. He needed only to see how the dress hugged her curves to know as much.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered.
Her breath was sweet and her lips were parted with innocence, with temptation...
The touch of their fingers was not enough, damn it. He wanted more—needed more.
Though he knew he shouldn’t, he drew his arm around her waist, as he’d done when they’d danced the waltz. They stood together in the semi-darkness, far too close, with nothing between them but the sparking of mutual attraction.
Lady Eleanor did not pull back from him as she might once have done. She stared deep into his eyes, as if she saw every level of his soul...as if she could stay thus for hours.
He touched her cheek and cursed his gloves once more. Her lashes swept downward in pleasure at the caress. He shouldn’t be doing this—holding her, wanting to kiss her. The right thing to do would be to release her and make his way back into the ballroom.
Even as he thought of the right thing his body acted on the wrong thing. He tilted the delicate edge of her jaw upward, turning her face to the moon, the better to see her beauty in the cast of silver light before he lowered his mouth to the warmth of hers in a delicate kiss.
Her body eased closer against him and her lips opened ever so slightly, granting him the opportunity to gently suck her lower lip. And the Ice Queen melted in his arms.
* * *
Eleanor was lost in the Duke of Somersville’s kiss. His mouth was hot, and surprisingly soft, and the kiss was followed by the gentle drawing of her lower lip between his.
Despite the coolness of the night, her skin blazed with the most delicious heat and settled into a low, eager throb between her thighs. His fingers trailed behind her head, cradling the weight of her hair. Then—dear God—then his tongue swept into her mouth and brushed across her own.
Sweet heavens.
Her nipples hardened with a pleasant needling against the silk shift she wore beneath her gown and every bit of her skin seemed to dance with awareness.
The Duke pulled away and gazed down at her in a way no man had ever done. “My God, you are beautiful,” he said in a low voice.
“Will you kiss me again?” she asked breathlessly.
His gaze settled on her mouth and his lips lifted in a languid half smile. “Not here. Not now.” He swept his thumb over her cheek. “I do not want your absence noticed.”
She fought the urge to protest. She wanted to be kissed again. Again and again and again. Until the entire night faded away in the hungry pulse of heat still throbbing insistently through her.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like you wish I would kiss you again.”
Her knees went soft at the deepness of his voice, at his obvious attraction to her. “You could kiss me again,” she offered.
He put his hands behind his back and eased away to a proper distance, such as should exist between a lady and a gentleman. “I would not ruin your reputation, Lady Eleanor. I’ve seen the effects of ruination and would not wish it on a lady I hold in such high esteem.”
A lady he holds in such high esteem. Her heart should not swell so girlishly at mere words, and yet it did, expanding in the most delightfully happy way until her chest seemed near bursting.
His scent hovered on her skin and mixed with the warm pleasure still tingling over her lips. It was divine—a heady, exotic combination of spices and adventure. The scent of a man who had seen the world she had only ever imagined.
A glance toward the door confirmed that the dancers were walking away from the finished set. She would need to return before the next began.
“Have you come up with your answer for me yet? Will we work on the mystery of the journals together? Will you...?” She flushed, unable to ask the most pertinent question aloud again.
“Will I marry you if no one else will have you?” he finished for her.
When he said it she realized how sad it sounded—how desperately pathetic.
“It would be my honor to work with you.” His face was entirely earnest.
The very idea of working alongside him to solve the mystery left her pulse racing in her veins. The adventure...the excitement...
“And the other thing...” He paused. “I will need more time to consider.”
Disappointment crushed in on her, but she suppressed the emotion with the stiffness she’d clung to for the better part of her life. This was a reminder not to allow herself to get too close to him, to remain at a distance no matter how he encouraged her to open to him.
“I shall bring one of the journals with me when I come to Lottie’s tomorrow evening,” she said. “But only one until the remaining terms can be met.”
“Understandable.”
He brushed the length of his forefinger over the back of her gloved hand once more. Her skin warmed at the caress.
Distance.
After all, she could not afford to be reckless.
“I do not wish to hurt you, Lady Eleanor.”
He said the words so softly she almost did not hear.
“You must go.” He bowed low. “Enjoy your evening, beautiful Ice Queen.”
“And enjoy yours, jealous pirate.”
She bobbed a quick curtsey to him and strode to the doors. It was a wonder she was able to walk at all with her legs trembling the way they did, with knees that seemed too weak to hold her upright.
But she did make it to the doors, and through the crush of people, until she practically ran into the chest of a man who did not move aside for her to pass. How very rude.
“Excuse me, please.” Eleanor curbed the irritation from her words and looked up. Anything else she might have said died on her tongue.
Hugh looked down at her with a quiet smile on his lips. “Will you dance with me, Eleanor?”
In days past she would have readily accepted, maybe even harbored the hope that he might cast a
side Alice, as he had Eleanor. But not now—not tonight. Not after the Duke of Somersville’s searing kiss had relegated the memory of Hugh’s kisses to a place of easy forgetting.
“Do forgive me, Lord Ledsey, but I am on my way to speak with my mother now.” Her regret did not come across as earnest—not even to her.
Hugh’s pale blue eyes regarded her carefully. Compared to the rich depth of the Duke of Somersville’s blue eyes, Hugh’s appeared rather pallid.
“Perhaps later, then.” He bowed to her, his tone cool. “You look beautiful this evening, Lady Eleanor.”
While his words and actions were polite, there was an air about him that set little bumps of unease running down Eleanor’s spine.
“I thank you.” She was suddenly desperate to escape from Hugh, and found herself grateful for Lady Alice having interrupted their courtship.
At last Hugh moved aside and gave Eleanor leave to pass. Her mother was clearly waiting without patience, her face dour.
“You’ve certainly taken your time,” said the Countess of Westix in a flat tone. “Was that Lord Ledsey I saw you talking to?”
Guilt prickled at Eleanor, but then memories of the pleasure of Charles’s kiss wiped away any negative sensations. The kiss, the kiss, the kiss. She could swoon at the very thought of it, at the memory of the protective strength of the Duke’s hands around her, the heat of his mouth on hers, his tongue grazing—
“Did you not hear what I said?” Her mother’s brow rose. “I certainly hope you aren’t imagining more kittens, or some other such nonsense.”
Eleanor pursed her lips, thoroughly chastised despite the humor threatening to bubble up in her throat. The thing about the kittens had been rather amusing.
“Forgive me,” she said. “The Earl of Devonington was not exactly light on his feet. I needed to recover.”
She said it quietly enough, but her mother rebuked Eleanor with a sharp look.
“I have it on good authority that he was very taken with you.” The Countess clapped her fan against the palm of her gloved hand. “You could do far worse than the Earl of Devonington.”
She delivered a stare so pointed, it jabbed through Eleanor’s daydreams.
“For instance, the Duke of Somersville.”
Chapter Thirteen
If one measured success in such things as multiple callers, and flowers sent with heavy cream-colored note cards, it could be said the following day that Eleanor’s appearance at Lady Covington’s masquerade ball had been victorious.
And most intriguing of all the flowers she received were the brilliantly red tulips sent with a note stating only: An admirer.
The man who had sent the red tulips did not call, and nor did he send a servant so that she might guess who he might be.
The butterfly of hope in Eleanor’s chest fluttered about. Surely it had been Charles.
While she ought to be simply pleased with her newfound suitors, she could not help but place him above others in her mind.
There were several others who did call—including the much sought-after Marquess of Bastionbury, whom she’d danced with later in the evening. Though following the magic of dancing with the Duke of Somersville, the Marquess of Bastionbury’s appeal had regrettably been thin.
The Earl of Devonington called too, and took a short lifetime to finally depart, with the Countess of Westix practically tugging him back in.
The day trudged on, taking an eternity, until the sun finally began to sink behind the clouds. Most of it had been a blur—a background to the thoughts at the forefront of her mind: an admirer. The Duke of Somersville. And that kiss.
Surely he had sent those vividly red tulips which proudly spoke the love of their sender?
Finally night descended on London, and at long last Eleanor was finally able to slip into the domino and blonde wig with her black mask.
Amelia winked in the mirror at her mistress. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you beam so, my lady. Is it...?” She paused for a long moment before speaking. “Is it the Earl of Devonington?”
Eleanor’s mouth fell open in horror. “Most certainly not!”
Amelia pressed her hand to her chest. “Pardon me for saying so, my lady, but I’m glad it isn’t him who has you in a whirl.”
“Am I in a whirl?”
“Your cheeks have been flushed all day and you’ve had a dreamy smile on your face, like you’re floating through the world while the rest of us simply walk.” The maid grinned down at her. “Are you going to confess to your trusted maid who it is?”
Eleanor’s stomach clenched. As much as she loved Amelia, she couldn’t bring herself to say the Duke’s name aloud. Not when her mother’s ears managed to extend through the entire house.
And a good thing too, for no sooner had Eleanor decided to keep quiet on the topic her mother strolled into the room in a glittering evening gown. Eleanor got to her feet and met the Countess’s lifted brow as she regarded her daughter’s masked appearance.
“What are you doing, Eleanor?”
Amelia bobbed a curtsey and left the room, silent as a mouse, the way a good servant ought to be. Oh, how Eleanor wished her maid was still there to share secret confessions with, rather than the Countess of Westix. Eleanor knew too well the determined glint in her mother’s eye.
“We’re going to Almack’s tonight.” The Countess spoke in a voice brooking no refusal.
The brilliance of Eleanor’s excitement wilted into an ache of crushing disappointment. “I thought I was to go to Lottie’s?”
Her mother waved her fan dismissively. “You needn’t go there anymore. What she’s taught you has evidently paid off. Several gentlemen are quite taken with you. Most especially the Earl of Devonington. He’s asked to take you to supper later this week at Vauxhall Gardens.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere with him.” Eleanor spoke the obstinate words levelly.
The Countess narrowed her eyes. “You are lucky to have his attentions, Eleanor. He’s one of the wealthiest peers in London and would keep you in the lifestyle to which you are accustomed. Beyond it, really. While the others have merely flirted, he has spoken to me directly about his intentions to court you.”
Eleanor said nothing. How could she? Her mother was right, of course. The Earl of Devonington was impossibly rich, and high in the instep as a result. He was clearly very interested in Eleanor, and he had the means to let her live even better than she did now. Her life would be just as the Duke of Somersville had predicted: an endless blur of soirees and luncheons until they were all strung together in a life without purpose.
Her stomach twisted at the thought of being wife to a man like the Earl of Devonington, with his pompous sneer and devastatingly painful little feet. While several months prior she would have been pleased with Devonington’s interest, she understood now that she wanted more. Needed more. A suitor who matched wits with her—one who would turn her blood molten in her veins and make her melt with desire for intimacy.
“Nothing to say?” asked her mother.
Eleanor had much to say, but she had never given herself leave to allow her mother to see the depth of her feelings, to hear the truth of her opinions. Her blood rushed with such fervor through her veins it roared in her ears.
“Forgive me, Mother,” Eleanor said. “I feel I would benefit from more of Lottie’s instruction. I should like the opportunity to meet a suitor who appeals to me more than Devonington...one whom I might find happiness with.”
Goodness, but her knees had begun to tremble, and she found herself wishing to be seated still.
The Countess’s eyes sharpened with perceptible shrewdness as she regarded her daughter for a long, stifling moment. “You aren’t dressed properly and your hair has not yet been done.” She relaxed and sighed. “I daresay you wouldn’t be ready in time. Almack’s closes its doors to all patrons in the next
hour. If you will agree to sup with Devonington at Vauxhall, I believe I might forgive your absence tonight.”
Eleanor’s heart leapt at the opportunity. “I agree.”
Her mother gave a smug smile. Apparently they had both just won a victory.
The Countess of Westix brushed at her immaculate gown. “I shall inform Devonington tonight of your decision to dine with him, and convey your disappointment at not being able to attend Almack’s. I shall say that you have truly been overly exerted by the events of today and last night. I will also see if Aunt Lydia and your cousin Lady Violet might be free to act as chaperons for you.” She turned to leave and stopped. “You are smiling, daughter.”
Eleanor pursed her lips to quell her blatant display of delight.
The Countess softened slightly and nodded. “I like it.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
The Countess of Westix swept from the room without further comment, letting the door shut quietly behind her. Eleanor rushed to her dressing table and pulled out the journal she had obtained from her father’s study earlier that day.
But the eagerness of her joy was dampened by the presence of guilt. Her mother trusted her, and Eleanor intended to spend the evening with the very man her mother most despised. Eleanor bit her lip and slid the battered book into a bag. Her mother wanted Eleanor to be happy, though, and this made Eleanor far happier than anything else ever could.
Amelia appeared in the room once more and bobbed a curtsey. “The Countess has departed and the hackney has arrived for you.” She glanced at the bag.
Eleanor resisted the urge to pull it behind her back.
Amelia winked. “You needn’t worry, my lady. You could hide a body in here and I’d not tell a soul.”
“You knew?” Eleanor asked.
“Nothing in your room goes unnoticed by me. It’s my job, my lady. It’s all part of protecting you.”
Eleanor had never thought of Amelia as a protector. A maid, yes, but never a protector. The idea was a nice one—to know Amelia was on her side should she need her.
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