Lady Em's Indiscretion (6 page)

She laughed again and grasped his lapels. He
paused to remove his coat. She slipped off the balustrade, meaning
to unbutton his waistcoat, but her disheveled clothing hampered
her, so she stopped to shrug it all off.

His breath quickened as he devoured her with
his eyes. “Beloved, I think I fancy you in nothing but jewels and
stockings.”

“You are still far too respectable,” she
chided him, removing his waistcoat.

He laughed and pulled his shirt over his
head, while she unbuttoned the falls of his breeches, fumbling in
her haste. He sat on the bench, quickly pulling off boots, socks
and breeches until he stood once more, nude and deliciously
aroused. But he did not allow her to feast her eyes on him for
long. Instead, he knelt to undo her garters and remove her evening
slippers, kissing her thighs as a warm breeze touched her
breasts.

How shocking it was to make love out of
doors. And how beautiful.

She let out a small shriek as he lifted her
quickly back onto the balustrade. The marble pressed cool and
smooth against her bottom, while his hands, warm and strong,
gripped her waist. She pulled him close, between her legs, and ran
her hands down him, exploring the curve of his back and beyond.
She’d never touched him there before but now she felt brave enough
to follow any urge. She cupped his buttocks as he’d done hers
earlier and pulled him closer. His arms closed around her waist and
he lowered his head to her breasts. It was a sweet torture, how he
toyed with them, alternately kissing them and letting the night air
caress them, making her long to have him inside her once more.

She reached a hand up between them, to touch
his nipple. Perhaps that would excite him as it did her. He made an
incoherent sound; she guessed it did. She teased his nipples,
elated to find them hardening like pearls in her fingers. He tried
to divert her, nibbling her breasts, his fingers working between
her legs. Determined, she slid a hand down until she found what she
sought. It was so firm and velvety, so warm and alive. She stroked
it and he flinched.

“Have I done something wrong?” she
asked.

“No, too right. It seems like forever since
. . . I’m afraid I’ll . . . not last.”

She tilted her chin, to get a better look at
him. “You mean you’ve not? . . .”

He shook his head. “Not in two years. I told
you I was a reformed character.”

She reached out and stroked him again, saw
his face work with the effort to hold back his climax. What a
wonderful game this was; she could not give it up yet. To think
he’d waited two years for her . . .

“Em . . .” He started to back away, but she
held him close. He sighed and submitted to her touch. She played,
stroking upwards from root to tip, trying first a light, then a
more firm grip. His body tensed with the effort of restraint. As
she continued the game, his breath became ragged, a series of moans
mingling with the night sounds. It was wondrous, this ability to
sport with him as he had sported with her.

But he did not suffer it for long. He pulled
away, taking advantage of his longer reach to spread her legs
wider, while she could no longer reach him. Perched on the
balustrade, she tried vainly to dodge his fingers as he played her
mercilessly, bringing her ever closer to rapture. Dear Heaven, she
was more than ready. Somehow, she managed to lean forward and seize
him again. He closed his eyes, making a low, strangled sound. For a
moment, his fingers stilled. Then he mastered himself and leaned
forward to kiss her on the mouth, moving his tongue in time with
his hand. She shook with the effort of holding back, and lost her
grip again.

She broke off the kiss, her breath now as
ragged as his. “Mark . . . I want you . . . inside me.”

She reached to bring him close, but he was
ahead of her. He tilted her back on the edge of the balustrade and
positioned himself between her outstretched limbs. She put her arms
around him. He entered in one thrust, stretching, filling her even
more than she remembered. Happiness flooded her.

She had missed this so much.

He must have too, for he remained still for
a moment, just watching her. She marveled at the transformation
passion wrought in him, taking him from handsome to something
godlike. But still vulnerable.

He kissed her forehead. “I hope . . . I can
. . . make it right for you.”

She chuckled. “I’ve no . . . doubts.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist. He
withdrew slowly and entered her again. Every movement sent a
wondrous heat through her body. She tilted her head up to kiss him,
caressing him with her inner muscles as he slid in and out. The
pace of their lovemaking quickened; they breathed as one, kissing
and then pausing before drinking each other in again. But he was
still gentle, striving to prolong her enjoyment.

She could not last much longer.

“Mark . . .” she gasped, between kisses. “I
cannot . . . wait . . . please . . .”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice
rough.

She nodded.

“Beware then.” His voice was like a low
growl; the next time he went deeper, sending shocks of pleasure
through her core. She lifted her hips, inviting ever more powerful
thrusts, feeling each one in her heart. She hovered, in a state of
bliss, waiting for him. Another series of quick thrusts, his eyes
bright, his face wracked with the strain of holding back. How
glorious he looked! He was on the brink. She surrendered, allowing
sensation to flood her being. She convulsed around him and cried
out for joy. He echoed her cry, plunged in one more time and
remained there, holding her tightly and calling her name.

Finally, he rested his head on her shoulder.
She gazed up at the stars and murmured, “I love you.”

“I love you,” he echoed.

She lowered her head to his shoulder. They
held each other, the rose-scented air and sounds of the night
enfolding them. Somewhere in a nearby tree a nightjar churred
softly.

He shifted and she raised her head. He was
beaming down at her.

“For the second time then,” he said. “My
dearest Lady Emmeline, will you do me the honor of becoming my
wife?”

She looked down at their bodies, intimately
joined and gleaming in the moonlight. She laughed.

“My dear Lord Denby, I shall be
delighted.”

He nuzzled her neck. “You
will
be
delighted. I promise.”

Excerpt from
Lady Dearing’s Masquerade

Subscription Ticket

for the MASQUERADE BALL at the

Pantheon Theatre, Monday, March 9th,
1809

Heart pounding, Livvy stared down at the
elegantly engraved ticket in her hand. Dare she indulge this
whim?

Ladies of Quality did not attend public
masquerades. Except, perhaps, for a lark, or to meet a lover. She
was not seeking a lover, but a lark . . . a lark was just what she
deserved. She’d already spent a glorious week reveling in London’s
theatre, the opera, shopping, and even picking up the broken
threads of friendships begun over ten years ago. Some of those
morning calls she’d paid had even resulted in invitations.

The thought made her pause.

Though she had no ambition for anything but
the most minor role in society, and certainly no desire to remarry,
she had no wish to cause a scandal either.

The sound of the orchestra playing a
quadrille seduced her ears, set her feet to tapping. It fed the
reckless mood that had stolen over her since she’d donned her
costume. She did not feel like herself, and the sensation was
intoxicating.

Who could possibly recognize her?

She glanced down at her costume. How she and
Alice, her maid, had laughed over the black wig, the golden
headpiece and matching mask, the golden asps that encircled her
upper arms, the flowing white gown that bared one shoulder. Drat!
Livvy quickly pulled the bodice up a fraction of an inch to hide
her distinctive little birthmark, shaped rather like a musical
note.

There. Now she was Queen Cleopatra. No one
would recognize her as Olivia, Lady Dearing, relict—what a ghastly
term!—of Walter, sixth Baron Dearing of Dearing Hall, Kent, who’d
broken his neck on the hunting field over a year before.

Eleven years rolled back. It was over.

She was free.

She stepped forward, gave her ticket to the
usher and entered the ballroom. Enormous chandeliers cast a glow
over the dance floor. More chandeliers lit the upper galleries
above, but the boxes at floor level were dark. She wondered if the
rumors about what went on at these public masquerades were true.
But no harm would come to her if she remained on the dance floor,
and Charles awaited her outside. Her burly footman would know how
to deal with anyone who tried to cross the line.

She lifted her chin and surveyed the scene
with growing fascination. The ballroom swarmed with
pleasure-seekers: some wearing simple masks and dominoes, others in
more fanciful costumes. Fairy Queens, Turks, Greek gods and
goddesses, shepherds and demons swirled before her. Above, in the
gallery, she saw more joking and flirting merrymakers.

Then her gaze was arrested by a lone figure
just above her.

Tall and powerfully formed, he wore a black
cape that hung open to reveal a skeleton painted over a black shirt
and pantaloons. A hood covered his head and he wore a mask painted
in the semblance of a skull. His solitude and perfect stillness
made a stark contrast to the movement on all sides.

She shivered, and not unpleasantly. How
pagan it was: Death among the revelers! A throwback to earlier,
more superstitious times. A reminder that life was fleeting and
pleasure should be savored.

A moment later, the quadrille came to an end
and just as she’d hoped, several gentlemen came her way to solicit
her hand to dance. She bestowed the first dance on a young,
shy-looking Highwayman, then, careful not to encourage any one
partner, on a dashing Spaniard. Feeling suddenly younger than her
twenty-nine years, she smiled at the silly compliments they paid
her, and even more with the simple joy of dancing.

Walter had despised the pastime.

During the next interval, her gaze was drawn
back to the gallery. Death still stood there, but now he conversed
with a gaily dressed Harlequin.

So he was flesh and blood after all.

And—she could not help noticing—certainly
the finest figure of a man present.

Distracted, she allowed herself to be led
back to the floor by a colorfully garbed Grand Turk. Too late she
smelled the hateful odor of brandy on his breath; too late she
realized that he’d mistaken her for an entirely different class of
female. Stilling a sense of panic, she endured his broad hints and
the sweaty squeeze of his hands, but when the music ended, she
slipped away from his groping arms and darted through a gap in the
crowd. Clearly it was time to leave. She’d enjoyed her few dances;
there was nothing else worth staying for.

Vaguely disappointed, she stopped beside a
pillar to check if the Turk had followed her.

“I see you, my Queen! You shan’t escape me
so easily!”

Seeing him not far behind, she hurried off
again, dodging between knots of curious revelers and amorous
couples, making her way toward the entrance and the protection of
her footman. She broke into a run, and suddenly cannoned into what
seemed like a wall of darkness. The unseen wall swirled, revealing
a ghastly skeleton, and she lost her balance.

Black-gloved hands held her in a strong
grip. A shriek escaped her throat.

“Please do not be frightened, ma’am. I am
perfectly harmless.”

His voice, a mellow baritone, warm and dark,
struck a chord deep within her. As she regained her balance, he
loosened his hold.

There was no need to panic.

“I—I am sorry I screamed,” she said,
straightening up. “It was just that—your costume was
so—startling.”

Let him think it was just the costume.

“You are in a hurry; is someone troubling
you?” he asked in that same rich and reassuringly sober voice.

Dark eyes gleamed down at her through the
eyeholes of Death’s mask; below, another opening revealed full,
beautifully shaped lips.

Nervously, she glanced back. About twenty
feet away the Turk still meandered among the crowd, perhaps seeking
new prey.

“The man in the turban?” the stranger
asked.

She turned to him and nodded.

“Do you think he would leave you be if we
danced together?”

Her breath caught, and she stared up at him.
No one would tangle with a tall gentleman in the guise of Death,
she decided. If they did, they would soon discover that the painted
bones concealed entirely solid and powerful muscles.

But could she trust him?

“Y-yes, I am sure he will,” she replied.

“Then I would be honored to lead you out
into this set,” he said. He released her shoulders and offered her
his arm, eyes gleaming, as if he enjoyed coming to her rescue.

He was sober. He was polite. And thoroughly
intriguing. She could not resist.

“Thank you, sir.” She laid her hand on his
arm.

“I should thank you. You will have to be
patient with me. It has been many years since I last danced.”

His tone was light, but she wondered . . .
had he been in mourning, too?

“It is no great matter.” She smiled up at
him. “No one will notice a misstep, I’m sure.”

They took their places in the set. A moment
later, another familiar country-dance began to play, lively, too
vigorous for conversation. Livvy once again threw herself into the
dance, relieved to see that after a few stumbles, Death fell into
the rhythm as well, his cape swirling around him theatrically.
Though as large and powerfully built as Walter had been, the
stranger was light on his feet. From the grin that peeked through
the opening in his mask, she guessed he enjoyed it, too.