Secrets of a Proper Countess (12 page)

“How was Waterfield?” she asked.

“Waterfield? Who told you I was there?” he demanded, his tone low and suspicious. “It was that damned Jane Kirk, wasn't it?”

“No, Honoria mentioned it at luncheon,” she lied. “I haven't been there in years. Is the estate earning well?”

“What?” he demanded, sounding confused.

“It is
my
estate. I haven't seen a statement of accounts since before Robert died. He used to show me the quarterly reports from all my properties,” she bluffed, daring to ask since Charles was drunk and likely wouldn't remember the conversation in the morning.

He moved fast, like a snake striking unexpectedly. He grabbed her knee and squeezed, his grip merciless. Red-hot needles of pain shot up her leg and she gasped, but the pressure and the agony only increased. He was enjoying hurting her.

“Please—” she began, but he let go suddenly as the coach turned a corner and knocked him off balance. She clutched her stinging limb in horrified surprise as he struggled to right himself.

“Damn you, hold your tongue!” he said, his words slurred and sloppy. “It's none of your affair what happens at Waterfield, do you understand? I'll tell Mother if you interfere, and then you'll see what impertinent questions earn you. You're nothing but a burden on this family, my dead brother's useless widow. You aren't even worth the air you breathe.”

Her heart rose in her throat, making a reply impossible. His eyes glittered dangerously in the low light, and Isobel shrank back against the squabs, letting the shadows swallow her.

Putting a hand under her cloak, she touched the little portrait of her son, letting the throbbing pain in her leg fuel her resolve.

For Robbie, she could bear anything. They could take everything else from her, so long as they left her her son.

H
ighwaymen and pirates stormed St. George's Square, eager to see the Earl of Westlake's newly renovated London home. They paused on the threshold just long enough to present their invitations to the liveried footmen.

Charles pinched Isobel's arm as they entered the marble foyer, squeezing until it hurt. “Remember, I don't want to be bothered by you tonight,” he growled in her ear. Then he was gone, leaving the bruise as a reminder of her duty.

She watched him shoulder through the throngs, heading for a lady dressed as a Grecian goddess. She scanned the room for Miranda and saw a costumed princess in the opposite corner from where Charles was going. Isobel flicked her fan open to hide a malicious little smile. Miranda was safe.

The ballroom basked in the gleam of a thousand candles set in high crystal chandeliers and gilded wall sconces. From the ceiling, painted cherubs grinned down at the guests. The sharp odor of new paint competed with the sweet fragrance of the flowers that adorned every corner. Goddesses, kings, and shepherdesses trod a gleaming floor inlaid with mahogany and ebony to form a huge compass rose that reached all four corners of the room, a tribute to the earl's ships.

Due north, Marianne and Adam held court, costumed but unmasked, and surrounded by their guests. Isobel hesitated, unwilling to push through the crush of bodies to reach her
friend. Out of habit, she looked around the room for a quiet corner to make her own for the evening, out of the way of both harm and temptation.

Then she saw him.

Tonight he was Sir Walter Raleigh, in a short brocade doublet, trunk hose, and long leather boots that climbed his thighs. The familiar jeweled sword was once again draped around his lean hips. He looked handsome, virile, and dangerous.

He was leaning against a marble pillar near the door, his bored posture at odds with the anxious set of his mouth as he scanned the room.

Anger hit her like a flash of lightning. Looking for another conquest, was he? She glared at him, knowing the scathing look was lost under her mask.

She took a step forward, planning to sweep right past him without so much as a glance as she crossed the room to the secluded spot she'd chosen, but he shifted, just the slightest movement, his long legs changing stance, one hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. Sharp desire pierced her to the quick, and she drew a breath as his head turned, froze where she was and waited for his eyes to touch her, bracing for it.

His bored gaze flicked over her and away, and she let out the breath she'd been holding. There. It was done. He had not recognized her, and she did not interest him tonight. A deluge of disappointment drowned fury, resolve, and lust all at once.

But his eyes swiveled back, stopped on her and locked. She saw the change in him, felt it. His body tensed and his jaw dropped as he looked her over from head to toe. He hadn't moved, but if he had slid a hand over her skin it could not have been more electrifying.

Run
, her mind said.
Run, before it is too late to stop this
.

But it already was.

The room was too hot, and he was the source of the fire.
With trembling fingers she untied the knot at her breast and whisked away the fichu, needing to breathe. Candlelight and sultry air fell on her breasts, but she felt no cooler for it.

His eyes flowed over her again and stopped at her breasts. She saw his chest heave as he drew a deep breath. She almost swooned, a mixture of desire and doubt making her heart hammer, her knees too weak to hold her upright, but the crowd did not allow the space to fall. They closed in around her, pushing past like a torrent, cutting off her view of him, and she struggled to stand against them, to regain good sense and turn away, but she was rooted to the spot.

She shut her eyes and sent up a plea to the Fates to take the matter into their capable hands and decide what would happen next.

She felt his hand close on her arm and almost sobbed with relief. She breathed him in, the now familiar scent of his soap, his skin, his desire.

“Yasmina?” the word was a guttural hiss.

That was all it took. In a single instant she was Yasmina again, not plain Isobel. Yasmina was playful and daring. She took what she wanted, made this man drool with lust. She was everything Isobel Maitland was not but wanted to be. And plain Isobel wanted it very much at this moment.

She felt Yasmina smile, wide and slow. “I thought I recognized your sword.”

His palms slid down the tight satin of her sleeves to the bare flesh of her forearms, warming every inch. He clasped her hands as if he were afraid she might flee and stood staring down at her through the slits in his mask, his eyes a knowing glitter that made her nipples swell like rosebuds, her mouth water, her breath catch in her throat.

He took a step closer, shielding her from the crowds as they pushed past. She could feel the heat of his male body, the strength and power of him.

He put an arm around her waist and bore her toward the wall and a little respite from the crush. She leaned against the polished paneling and looked up at him, and he put a hand on the wall behind her, making an intimate space for two in the midst of the crowd. He didn't say a word, just stood with his eyes on hers.

“You're staring, my lord,” she managed, suddenly afraid he'd recognized her. She couldn't bear it if he laughed now, or was angry that the exotic Yasmina turned out to be only dull, frumpy Isobel. She realized she was trembling, waiting for his answer.

“Yasmina,” he muttered again, a hint of very flattering awe evident in his voice. He leaned close enough to breathe her in, and she instinctively arched toward him and placed a hand on his chest. She could feel the throb of his heart under her palm, and her fingers curled against the damask of his tunic.

“Not tonight. Tonight I am Charlotte.” The name tripped off her tongue unbidden. Why hadn't she said Marie Antoinette or Lady Anne or any other name but
Charlotte
?

He grinned at her, his rogue's grin, the one that made a woman's heart flip and her toes curl. A woman might do anything under a smile like that, even forget her own name and all good sense. Isobel shut her eyes and took her hands off his chest, clenching them at her sides, knowing if she touched him again, she would be lost.

“You look delicious, Lady Charlotte—or is it Queen Charlotte?” he asked, playing the game she'd foolishly started. She smiled as the compliment thrummed through her veins like liquid fire. His eyes dropped to her breasts, and the intensity of his gaze made her feel naked. She ran a fingertip over the velvet ribbon that edged the low bodice, checking that nothing had escaped and now lay exposed.

“That's a very fetching gown, Your Majesty,” he drawled,
following her finger with his own. She clasped his hand before she melted under the tickling caress and set it safely on her waist instead. She did not wish to give up his hands on her entirely.

“This? This is a very old gown, my lord,” she said truthfully. She let her eyes roam over his costume again, daring to flirt, needing to look anywhere but into his eyes. “May I say I am pleased to see that you have put more effort into your own costume tonight? You quite do your sword justice now.”

He chuckled. “My sister chose my disguise. Mari—”

“Are you Sir Walter Raleigh or Sir Francis Drake?” she interrupted, not wanting the real world to intrude, not now. She reached out and touched the hilt of the sword, running a fingertip over the large ruby. The jewel's cold smoothness contrasted with the heat and softness of her satin bodice, a sensual, dangerous comparison.

She watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, but he didn't answer.

“Cat got your tongue, my lord? You're staring again.”

“I am trying,” he said slowly, as if speaking was a new and difficult skill. “I am trying to resist the desire to pop your breasts out of that gown right here in the middle of my sister's ballroom.”

Her eyes drifted shut and a small gasp of pure desire escaped unbidden from her parted lips, and she knew she would do anything, follow him anywhere. She cursed her weakness even as she leaned into him, surrendering her strength to his. He would push back the coldness of her real life, the fear, and replace it with pure, scintillating pleasure.

 

Phineas breathed her in. After weeks of searching every ballroom, salon, and brothel in London, he'd found her.

Yasmina.

He should tear her mask off, demand to know who she
was. Charlotte, was it? The Queen of England was named Charlotte, so were a thousand other noble ladies. He stared down at her. Under her mask, her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, her luscious lips slightly parted and begging for a kiss. His own mouth watered. He
needed
information from her, but he
wanted
something else entirely.

He was standing in Marianne's elegant ballroom with an erection that could knock holes in the freshly plastered walls. She ran her tongue nervously over her lower lip, moistening it, the soft flesh gleaming in the candlelight.

“Hell,” he muttered, and grabbed her hand, dragging her through the crowds as fast as he could clear a path.

“Phin!” The sound of his name made him wince. He felt Yasmina try to pull out of his grip as Marianne called to him, but he held her tight and glared at his sister without stopping.

“Not now, Marianne.”

Undeterred, she plucked at his sleeve. “But there's someone I want you to meet!”

He watched his sister's bright eyes flick over his companion briefly, before her eyes came to rest on the lady's pert breasts. Her jaw hit the starched Elizabethan ruff she wore.

He stepped around his frozen sister, and she disappeared behind them, swallowed by the crowds. He'd explain tomorrow, when his brain was functioning again and he could think of something other than the pressing need to make love to this woman.

Yasmina?

Charlotte?

He pushed through the crowds, ignoring anyone who tried to stop them, desperate to find a place to be alone with her, needing to touch her, to kiss every satin-clad inch of her, whoever she was. They'd get to that afterward, he promised himself.

He opened the first closed door he came to and pulled her
inside. The honorable scent of leather and old paper assailed him. Westlake's library. It would do as well as any other room, he thought. A soft carpet, a deep settee, the top of Adam's wide mahogany desk—

A loud gasp stopped him before he'd gone three paces, letting him know that the room was already busy. He stopped so fast that Yasmina crashed into his back. Six
ton
matrons, shepherdesses all, stared at him.

“Damn,” Phineas muttered under his breath as they recognized him. Their eyes bulged with indignation. Six fans snapped open and fluttered, and a twitter began behind them.

Adam, dressed as Henry VIII, came toward him, his eyes on the woman behind Phineas, his expression bland. Phineas instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her.

“Ah, Blackwood, I was just showing Lady Moresby and Lady Kelton some family portraits.” He sounded so calm that Phineas had the sudden desire to hit him. “Do join us.” Phineas glanced up at the magnificent oil portrait of Carrington glaring down at him in dour disapproval, and backed out of the room without a word. He was leaving Westlake in the awkward position of having to explain his ungainly intrusion. The old hens were probably clucking already, squawking over his lack of manners and speculating as to who his companion might be. Adam surely was.

Phineas winced. He still didn't know the answer to that himself.

Even if he'd wanted to, he could not have introduced her. He could tell them how she tasted when he kissed her, how her breasts felt in his hands, or describe the soft sounds she made when he slid slowly into her body, but he couldn't tell them her name.

Damn them all. Right now he had a very urgent need for privacy. Once he'd loved her, and satisfied them both, he'd find out who she was and make a hundred introductions.

He needed a place where they wouldn't be interrupted. He could hardly take her upstairs with Jamie asleep in the nursery. Marianne would call him out, shoot him dead and mount his head in her new sitting room.

He looked down the length of the hall, trying to remember where the passage led and which rooms might be unlocked and unoccupied. Hell, he'd take a curtained alcove behind a potted palm in the ballroom right now. He forced his lust-fogged brain to work. To the right there was the morning room, the dining room, and the stairs to the kitchens. Beyond that was the door that led into the garden and Adam's pride and joy, the conservatory.

“We should go back to the ballroom, my lord,” she said at his elbow.

“The conservatory,” he muttered.

“What? No, I think—”

She looked so delicious that he dared to swoop in for a kiss, if only to stop her objections. Her lips clung and her body cleaved to his. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, but not
here
. Anyone could walk by. He stared down at her luscious mouth.

“Do you like cherries?” he asked, running a thumb over the ruby flesh of her lower lip.

“Yes,” she said on a sigh. “That is, I want—” She flicked her tongue out over her lips, and he was instantly as hard as a post.

“I know,” he growled. “Come on.”

He pulled her into the conservatory. It housed dozens of exotic plants, collected by Adam's ships from around the world. Adam also grew strawberries, cherries, and oranges year-round to please Marianne. The room was hot and dark, the heavy fragrance of flowers and fruit a powerful aphrodisiac. Not that he needed one.

He pushed through the foliage. The setting was perfect
for a casual seduction, but a trifle awkward for what he had in mind. They'd made do with a bench before, but he'd spent weeks imagining this woman in a proper bed, for a night, a week, or a month. In the same way Adam carefully catalogued his collection of plants, Phineas had listed the things he wanted to do to Yasmina once he found her.