“And,” he replied, his eyes finding hers as they slowed and joined the stream of other couples more sedately revolving up the room, “at a masked ball, you can laugh and express delight without restraint.” His eyes held hers for a moment more, then he murmured, “I love hearing you laugh.”
He twirled her again. Henrietta was grateful for the momentary distraction; she’d suddenly lost her breath, lost her voice . . . lost touch with rational thought. He loved hearing her laugh . . . what did that mean?
She returned her attention to him, and fell into his eyes. And realized that her focus on him, and his on her, had deepened, had gained new depth.
And that mutual connection had gained even greater power to hold them both, to draw them in, heightening their awareness, each of the other, immersing them together in those moments of shared experience.
Weaving ribbons of mutual delight into a net that ensnared them.
They danced until they could dance no more, then wandered again, catching their breaths in the large conservatory into which countless couples had drifted to stroll in the moonlight streaming through the glass panes. Conversations there were muted, private exchanges that no one else needed to hear. Windows were open, so the air was fresher, and carried the scents of green growing things tinged with the exotic fragrances of night-blooming flowers.
To Henrietta, the night had taken on a magical quality. She’d lost track of time; since agreeing to James’s proposal of how to spend the evening, she’d thought of nothing beyond the next moment, the next experience, the next aspect of their mutual enjoyment.
She’d allowed herself to be swept away—something she couldn’t recall ever doing before. It was most unlike her, the practical and pragmatic one, to embrace a come-what-may philosophy and willingly plunge off the structured path. Tonight, she didn’t have an agenda; she had no goal, no aim in mind. She wasn’t pushing and shoving anything . . . but, she realized, she was learning.
Learning what she might desire in an arena she hadn’t, until very recently, allowed herself to explore.
She felt the warm weight of the necklace circling her throat, the touch of the crystal pendant above her breasts. Strolling beside James in the moonlight, her hand on his arm, his hand lying warm over hers, she thought about that, and about what more she needed to learn.
James paused. She glanced at his face. He’d tipped his head and was peering past a collection of palms. Then he straightened. His teeth flashed in a smile. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“What?”
He glanced around; she did, too, but there were no other couples near. Then he lowered his arm, caught her hand in his, and drew her around the palms—and through the door that had been concealed behind the large, strappy leaves.
The room beyond proved to be her ladyship’s orangery. A narrow stone-walled chamber, it ran across one end of the terrace bordering the ballroom. Glass-paned doors could be opened onto the terrace but were presently shut. Two rows of potted orange trees marched neatly down the room, scenting the air. The only source of light was the moonlight slanting through the glass doors; the shafts struck the pale stone flags, resulting in a soft, diffuse illumination—enough to see by, but not enough for them to be seen by the few couples strolling on the terrace.
Releasing her, James shut the door.
Henrietta went forward, down the aisle between the rows of sculpted trees; glancing at the wall opposite the terrace, she spied a small sofa set against the wall beneath a rectangular window. Stepping out of the aisle, she walked to the sofa; curious, she peered out of the window, then sighed. “Oh—this is beautiful.”
The window overlooked an ornamental lake. Sinking onto the chaise, she looked the other way—she could see all the way along the terrace—then she glanced at James as he prowled up to join her. “This sofa is perfectly set.” She gestured with one hand to the rectangular window. “The view is simply lovely.”
James looked down at her and smiled. “Indeed.” After an instant of appreciating her upturned face, masked though it was, he turned and sat beside her.
Looking out along the terrace, she sighed. “It’s been an unexpectedly delightful evening—thank you.”
“It’s been entirely my pleasure, for which I thank you.”
He watched her lips curve, then she murmured, “Sadly, it’s nearly over.”
That was true, which meant . . . he was running out of time. The evening had gone perfectly to this point, but he couldn’t risk not capitalizing on the opportunity Lady Hamilton and fate had, it seemed, conspired to hand him. If he didn’t take the risk, accept the challenge, and take one more step forward, tonight and all the ground he felt he’d regained might well be for naught.
He had to push on, or his advance, and all advantage, might dissipate like mist come the morning.
This, he suddenly realized, was the moment. His moment of truth with her. If he took the next step, he might be damned, but if he didn’t, he almost certainly would be.
Yet if he took this next step, there would be no going back, at least not for him. And if she approved and accepted . . . then there would be no going back for her either, even if she didn’t, immediately, recognize that . . . but he didn’t have time to think and rethink.
His time was now.
Relaxing against the sofa, he glanced at her face. “There’s one more thing we’ve yet to do—one more experience we’ve yet to enjoy.”
“Oh?” Shifting to face him, she widened her eyes. “What?”
“This.” He reached a hand to her nape, cupped the delicate arch, and drew her face slowly to his. They were both wearing half masks; they didn’t need to take them off. He gave her plenty of time to resist if she wished.
She didn’t. Instead, he heard her quick, indrawn breath, saw her gaze fix on his lips.
He lowered his gaze to her mouth, then drew her the last inch and covered her luscious lips with his.
And kissed her.
Properly, this time, yet still with restraint. He set his lips to coax, to tempt, to tease, and waited . . . until he sensed her tentative response, felt it well and swell and burgeon.
Until the pressure of her lips against his grew to be both invitation and incitement.
Only then did he take the next step, the first tiny step beyond innocent. Even then, he didn’t want to frighten her with any too-precipitate glimpse of the passion he held leashed, yet this time he had a point to make, a claim to stake, and he wasn’t going to retreat before he’d accomplished that. Slowly straightening, sliding his thumb beneath her jaw, he tipped her head up, angled his, and sent his tongue cruising over the fullness of her lower lip, tracing the seam . . . and she parted her lips, opened for him, and invited him in.
He wanted to plunge in, to dive deep into the heady delights she offered, but he hauled back on his reins, deployed all the expertise at his command, and smoothly, seductively engaged, traced, stroked, and tantalized.
Steadily, step by step, he led her deeper into the dance, into the subtle play of dueling tongues, the evocative delight of claiming her mouth, and the surprising pleasure of her questing response.
He introduced her to the complementary joys of him tasting her, and of her in turn tasting him.
Any thought that she wasn’t enjoying this, that she wasn’t as wholly engaged as he was, was shattered by her first more definite foray. Then she shifted; a moment later he felt her fingertips gently caress his cheek, and his awareness fractured.
Henrietta sensed it; she didn’t know enough to put a name to what she sensed—a sudden break in his control, of his careful leading—but something in her leapt with a never-before-experienced delight, a sense of victory. Of feminine triumph.
Yes—this was right.
Kissing him and being kissed by him felt inexpressibly right, in a way that resonated to her bones. She wanted to rush ahead, to learn more—much more—all that he could teach her, yet simultaneously she wanted to linger, to savor this, to exalt in this, t
o drag every iota of simple pleasure from this—to learn the ways how.
He showed her. He didn’t rush forward but lingered with her, savored with her.
They shared even that, openly and completely.
She had no space for thought in her mind, no scintilla of awareness left for reason, and certainly not for detached observation. She followed where he led, and when he paused, once she was certain she’d absorbed all there was to experience to that point, she pressed, and he responded, and they moved on.
So completely immersed in the kiss were they that neither reacted to the warning swissh.
But the explosion of the first rocket jerked them both back to the present—to the sofa in the orangery. They blinked across the shadowed room; looking through the glass doors, she saw the milling crowd now filling the terrace.
“Ah.” With James’s help, she sat up; she’d been leaning into him. His lips appeared softer than usual, his hair disarranged—had she done that?
He looked out at the gathering, then grimaced and met her gaze. “I just remembered—her ladyship has decided to enliven the countdown to midnight and the unmasking with fireworks. The twelfth rocket will be fired at midnight.”
She sighed, but not unhappily; pleasured satisfaction sang in the sound. “We’d better go out.”
“Sadly, yes.” James settled his mask, then rose and held out his hand.
She resettled her mask, too, then laid her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.
He met her gaze, then raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and said, “We can talk tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you in the park.”
“Earlier. I usually ride twice a week, at about eight o’clock.”
The curve of his lips deepened. “In that case, I’ll meet you at eight by Rotten Row.”
She nodded, then faced forward and walked beside him as he led her to the glass doors, opened one, and escorted her through and into the crowd thronging the terrace flags. She needed to think about what they’d just done, of what it meant, of what she’d learned, and what they’d both intended. And then they needed to talk, yes, but as she couldn’t yet corral her wits sufficiently to think at all, tomorrow was the perfect time for that.
As everyone else had their eyes on the heavens, oohing and aahing at the pyrotechnical display, no one noticed them joining the gathering. Still smiling with a species of reckless delight, she stood at the side of the crowd, and with James beside her, directed her gaze upward, too.
The second rocket soared into the firmament and burst in a glory of red and gold sparks.
A conflagration of other fireworks filled the moments between each rocket; the countdown steadily progressed, the guests taking up a chant, counting the rockets one by one.
Then, at last, to an eruption of cheers and applause, the twelfth rocket shot high overhead and exploded, raining silver and gold over the gardens.
Smiling, laughing, everyone threw back their hoods and untied their masks. Gaily turning to each other, looking about, people started hunting for acquaintances in the crowd.
“No need for us to find anyone else.” James smiled at Henrietta as she turned to him, her delicate features once more fully revealed.
She smiled back, but sighed. “I should leave soon. My parents will expect me home shortly.”
“I may as well go, too.” Flinging his domino back over his shoulders, he made a gallant show of offering his arm. “We can track down Lady Hamilton and take our leave together.”
Henrietta grinned, placed her hand on his arm, and together they turned—
The young lady alongside Henrietta backed into her.
“Oh! I say!” The young lady whirled and proved to be the lovely Cassandra Carmichael. “I’m terribly sorry. Have I caused any harm?”
Smiling, Henrietta shook her head. “None whatever.”
Cassandra introduced herself and Henrietta did the same, then she introduced James to Miss Carmichael, who smiled with transparently sincere delight; it was no difficulty to see why she was considered one of the catches of the season.
“And this”—Miss Carmichael waved over her shoulder—“is . . .” Glancing back, she broke off. “Oh.”
The gentleman who had been standing with her had turned and was already some paces away, making his way through the crowd.
Cassandra smiled indulgently. “Someone must have summoned him.” Shrugging, she laughingly shook her head. “It happens all the time—he’s in such demand. You’ll have to excuse him.”
They shook hands and parted. Turning, Cassandra started tacking through the crowd in the wake of her errant partner. Steering Henrietta toward the house, James softly snorted. “She’ll make some politician an excellent wife.”
Henrietta laughed. “We can only hope Sir Peter appreciates her.”
“Was that him?”
“I assume so. I’m not that familiar with him, truth be told. Ah—there’s Lady Hamilton.”
Together they made their way through the crowd, waited in line to take leave of their hostess, then James handed Henrietta into her parents’ carriage, smiled and saluted her, then shut the door.
As the carriage pulled away, Henrietta sank back with a sigh.
She was still smiling in a wholly revealing way—and she still couldn’t think worth a damn.
Chapter Six
Despite her best intentions, by the time she reached Rotten Row the following morning, Henrietta had still not managed to adequately dissect what had taken place between her and James the previous night enough to come to any conclusion.
That said, when it came to him and her, something inside her seemed to push to the fore and make decisions—decisions based wholly on her emotions—and, to her wary amazement, thus far those decisions appeared to have been sound. Indeed, they appeared to be bearing fruit, for there James was, waiting at the beginning of the tan track, resplendent in an exquisitely cut riding coat and mounted on a heavy gray, and the light in his eyes when he smiled as she cantered up simply made her heart soar.
She’d never before had her heart behave as it did around him.
“Good morning!” She drew her mare, prancing in expectation, in alongside his gray. “And what lovely weather we have for our run.”
James tipped his head, his lips curving appreciatively. “The sun isn’t the only thing that’s lovely enough to warm.”
A blush touching her cheeks, she chuckled and felt a spurt of exuberant happiness inside.
Leaving her groom to wait by the tan, they took their place in the queue at its head. When their turn came, they thundered down the track, her fleet-footed black mare a good match for his stronger, but heavier, gelding. After three runs, punctuated by waiting for other riders to clear the tan, they turned away, letting the horses amble as they headed back toward Upper Brook Street.
For a while, she concentrated on slowing her breathing, on settling and finding her mental feet in the aftermath of the exertion. James seemed content to do the same. The horses walked on, then Grosvenor Gate neared. They clopped through, crossed Park Lane, and turned north.
They’d said that they would talk, but in all honesty she wasn’t at all sure what they might say; it was too early, between them, for any declarations, and the moment . . . was perfect as it was, and she didn’t want to wrestle with the question of whether, in the aftermath of last night, she should nevertheless tell him of what she’d learned about the excellent Miss Fotherby. She didn’t want to bring up the subject of Miss Fotherby at all—but was that fair?
To Miss Fotherby, or to James?
They turned into Upper Brook Street, the clang of the horses’ hoofbeats striking the cobbles echoing hollowly between the tall façades—and, dragging in a breath, she decided she couldn’t not speak. If James no longer wished to pursue Miss Fotherby, or any other young lady, because he had shifted his sights to her, then he would have to tell her. They couldn’t keep avoiding the subject. . . .
It suddenly occurred to
her that she wasn’t the only one who’d been avoiding the subject of Miss Fotherby.
She blinked, then glanced at James, riding easily alongside.
He was studying her mare. “Is that a horse from your cousin Demon’s stables?”
“Yes.” She paused, then, very willing to be distracted, went on, “Demon supplies all the family’s horses. I think he’d be insulted if we got a horse from anywhere else.”
James chuckled. “From what I recall of him, I can believe that. He always was a stickler over horseflesh.”
Henrietta studied James’s face, but all she could see was . . . the same enjoyment of the moment she felt.
Her horse screamed and reared.
Instinctively, Henrietta clamped her crooked knee tighter about her pommel; because she was riding sidesaddle and was a strong rider, she managed to keep her seat.
But instead of coming down and settling, the mare plunged forward—straight into a bone-shaking, wildly careening run.
Gasping, jostled and shaken, Henrietta hung on and fought for control. She hauled on the reins, but the normally placid mare was frantic—and was far stronger than she.
Upper Brook Street was in Mayfair. It was cobbled, with stone gutters and pavements; if Henrietta fell, she’d dash her brains out.
That was the prospect that flared in James’s mind as Henrietta’s horse dove and wove through the carts and drays delivering produce to the houses of the wealthy. He’d clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks before he’d even formed the intention of giving chase; within seconds he was thundering up in her wake, closing the gap to the black mare’s back.
And Henrietta.
She was still clinging, white-faced and desperate, as he drew alongside.
Grimly, he used his own mount’s weight to lean into the mare and force her to slow, but the panicked horse wasn’t going to halt, and the wider streets surrounding Grosvenor Square lay just ahead.
“Trust me!” Dropping his reins, he reached for Henrietta. “Free your foot from the stirrup, unlock your leg, and let go of the reins—now!”
She didn’t hesitate; if she had, he might not have had the balance to seize her, lift her, and haul her to him. To crush her in his arms and hold her tight while with his knees he slowed his gray.
And Then She Fell Page 10