A Touch Wicked (Private Arrangements)

by Katrina Kendrick

  James laughed. “Ah, there you have it wrong. A demanding woman takes more than she gives.”

  “And an insatiable one?”

  He kissed her, his lips soft. Then he slid inside her in a single, slow stroke. “An insatiable woman gives and takes in equal measure,” he whispered, moving in and out of her almost lazily. “It’s not that she’s never satisfied. It’s that she’s always willing to try more.”

  Selene wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him closer. “So you’re saying I’m adventurous.”

  “I’m saying you’re a challenge.” His strokes quickened and he laughed with pleasure as he pressed his cheek to her hair. “And I’m a man who loves challenges.”

  They dozed for a few hours in each others arms, until he heard her leave the bed and pull on her clothes. The candles were all the smallest stubs now, but he could see her clearly as she dressed. James admired the long, smooth lines of her back, the curve of her waist.

  He smiled when she lifted the torn dress and wrinkled her nose. Then, as if reluctantly, she put the dress on and buttoned her cloak over the torn fabric. James was struck by his desire to see her again, not to end this so soon. He wanted her back in his arms.

  She turned and caught his gaze, as if she knew he was looking. “I’m forced to go now,” she said.

  Is there a man you return to? he wondered. Is that why you weren’t able to have your someone?

  James wanted to ask her everything. So many questions. But he only said, “I’m told some members pay for these rooms during the week between Masquerades.”

  Selene tilted her head. “Do they?”

  James would not ease into the topic gently. They were beyond such things. “Will you meet me tomorrow?”

  She sighed. “I can’t.”

  He wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t ask about a husband or her life or whatever kept her away from this bed. He only knew he wanted her in it. “When? If you’re still willing.”

  “Three days,” she said. “And I’ll always be willing.”

  Chapter 12

  One night with James turned into two, and two turned into a dozen more.

  They met several nights during the week, until invitations to return became unnecessary. Emma went through her days with Alexandra in a state of distraction, avoiding James until she could meet with him in their room.

  God, those nights. How could she have ever thought herself content with only one?

  Their lovemaking was fierce and wild. After, they lay curled next to each other, talking and exploring each other’s bodies. There was no part of James that Emma had not kissed or stroked, but it still wasn’t enough. She loved the sounds he made when he came, the way his voice became gruff with sleep, or how when he dozed, he wrapped his arms around her.

  Emma grazed her fingertips across his ribs and he jerked, letting out a laugh. “That tickles.”

  She loved his laugh, too; he did it so easily with her now.

  She grinned at him. “Oh, dear. You shouldn’t have told me that.” She straddled him and tickled until she had him laughing. Then she bent down and rained kisses across his face. “You adorable man. Now I know your weaknesses.”

  Without warning, he rolled them until he was on top, smiling down at her. “Don’t tell anyone. The only person who knows I’m ticklish is my sister, and I’m hoping she’s forgotten. She used to torture me as a child.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead and settled back beside her. “Do you have siblings?”

  Emma’s own smile faded. “No. Sometimes I wish I did, but then . . .” He noticed her hesitation and gave her a questioning look. She lifted a shoulder. “It’s best that I didn’t. My father was not a good man. My mother deserved better, but he was very charming to her.”

  James frowned. “Did he hurt you?”

  “How protective you sound.” She loved it too much.

  “I don’t like the idea of anyone hurting you.” His whisper was rough, spoken as he edged in for a kiss. “Not anyone who is mine to protect.” Emma froze.

  Anyone who is mine to protect.

  What a dangerous thing to say.

  “Am I?” Emma asked him. “Yours to protect?”

  James stared at her strangely, as if he hadn’t realized what he’d said. Then he winced. “I worded that poorly. I meant while we’re together. Of course you are.”

  Surely he recognized how much those words had meant. They were too much for this dream. Too real. Their masks had to mean something. Without them, they were no longer James and Selene. They were the James Grey, the Earl of Kent and Emma Dumont, commoner, secretary, author. Everything was different.

  “Of course.” She only said this to reconstruct their boundary. Put those crumbling bricks back into place, knowing one day they would fall. “In answer to your question, he never hurt me. He simply never cared that I existed, either. Yours?”

  James let out a brittle laugh. “He was a cad. Once he had his heir and his spare, I barely saw him."

  "Not even when your mother had your sister?"

  "No. I suspect my sister was unintended; Father loathed her for reasons I’ve never understood. He wouldn't even see her on his deathbed.”

  Emma flinched. Alexandra had never spoken much about her father; if she did, it was in short, terse responses. She never wished to discuss their relationship. Emma understood the complication of wanting a father's love while at the same time loathing him.

  “She must have been glad to have you, at least,” Emma said.

  “Perhaps. I played father to both my siblings in his absence, but I was only a boy.” James let out a breath. “I fear I’ve become too impatient with them over time. With . . .” He seemed to be grasping for words. “With feeling as if I’ve lost years performing a duty that wasn’t mine. Is that selfish of me?”

  “No,” Emma said. “I’m sure your siblings would understand, too. You’re their brother, not their father. I’m sorry he forced you into that role.”

  “And I’m sorry for yours not caring.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Selene?”

  “Hmm?”

  He slid an arm around her in a solid embrace. “I, for one, am glad you exist.”

  Emma wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She shut her eyes and pressed her lips to his.

  The mysterious Madame had thought of everything, every comfort one needed during intimacy.

  Each bedchamber linked to its own water closet, with a bathtub big enough to fit two. Servants brought up warm water, receiving and carrying out instructions quietly. The Madame had no doubt hired them for both their discretion and attentiveness. They came quickly after each bell pull, bringing Emma and James meals, which they received in bedclothes provided in the wardrobe.

  Each night between them grew more intimate, more personal. Emma found herself staring into his eyes when he slid into her, losing herself in their depths. When James entwined their fingers and pressed his forehead to hers, he’d murmur sweet sentiments that belonged in dreams.

  Though the word love was never uttered, they played at the boundary, too close for comfort.

  Emma couldn’t sleep at night outside of the Masquerade, not without him beside her. There, in that bed that didn’t belong to them, she felt more safe and comforted than she ever had in her life. James kissed her eyelids as she dozed off.

  When she woke, she found him looking at her, stroking her hair. “You smile when you sleep,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you?”

  “No. Never.”

  James slid his bare leg against hers, bringing her closer. “What do you dream about?”

  “I dream about this. About you.” She rested her head on his chest. “Nothing before would have brought me as much joy.”

  He was quiet then. Emma knew he must be turning her words over in his mind, wondering what to say. She found she did this more and more, risked small reveals that might lead to bigger questions.

  It became so difficult to hide herself from him now, after all these weeks together. Her
deception grew unbearable; the mask began to chafe.

  She felt as if she were stealing time from him. He ought to have been meeting debutantes, not staying here with her in this shared dream that wasn't real.

  “What is your life like? That this is its sole bright spot?”

  “It’s not an unhappy life, James. At times I grow discontent and I long for things I can’t have.” You. I long for you. “I use dishonest means to get them,” she added quietly.

  “What sort of dishonest means?”

  “I leave my life, meet you here, and I wear this mask.”

  When he didn’t respond right away, she wondered if he was going to risk everything. If he was going to suggest taking off their masks.

  But in the end, he only kissed her and whispered against her lips, “Are you lonely, Selene?”

  Emma’s chest squeezed. “Yes.”

  She hadn’t realized she was crying until he kissed away her tears. “Perhaps I have a bit of the devil in me,” he said, “to want you to keep being deceptive. To keep meeting me and to stay until morning.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “I know.” James kissed her again, harder this time. His hands skimmed down her body. “But you leave too soon. You always leave too soon, no matter the hour.”

  “Are you lonely, James?”

  He settled on top of her and rested his forehead against hers. “Yes. On nights without you, and every morning.”

  Their lovemaking this time was slow, quiet and lovely. When it was over, Emma left. Again, too soon.

  “You never told me why you came to the Masquerade,” Emma asked James another night.

  She had only caught part of the conversation between James and Mr. Grey.

  They were in bed, the candlelight burning around them. Emma had her head on James’s shoulder, and he stroked her hair, her neck, her back. Emma was beginning to understand why people came here, why they rented out rooms and met lovers in secret.

  It still didn’t feel real after all this time. Even with him touching her like this, Emma swore she could have been dreaming. It was so easy to come here and forget her life, her name, her upbringing, and only exist from the moment his eyes met hers.

  “I suppose I didn’t,” James said.

  Emma lifted her head and looked at him. “What a sigh that was. Did someone hold a pistol to your temple? A blade to your throat?”

  “They might as well have. I’m getting married.”

  Emma drew back in surprise. Alexandra hadn’t mentioned that. “My congratulations to the lucky, nameless lady.”

  “That makes two of us,” James told her. “I don’t know who she is yet.”

  “Well,” Emma said with a bit of amused sarcasm, “that makes perfect sense.”

  James kissed her nose. “Oh, sarcasm. I adore it, particularly when it’s in French.”

  He was trying to distract her from the conversation at hand. Emma wasn’t about to fall for it. “If you consider matrimony to be a terrible fate, then why are you bothering before you’re ready?”

  James stared at her, and his thoughts were so clear. Emma deliberately never answered his question about whether she had a husband. Though some debutantes were willing to risk attending the Masquerade, most women members were married or widowed.

  “I have to marry at some point. Why not now?”

  “Why not six months from now?” she countered. “A year from now?”

  “It wouldn’t make a difference, would it? It’s putting off the inevitable.”

  Emma propped herself on an elbow and met his eyes. She wanted so badly for him to take off that mask, to ask her to remove her own. That would mean seeing each other in the light and choosing their path from there. No dreams, no anonymity, just him and her. Names and pasts and the great, yawning chasm that separated their stations.

  Too real.

  “You asked me once if you were a distraction from my someone,” she said. “Am I a distraction for you? From your inevitable?”

  “Something like that.” James shook his head and brushed his fingertips along her jaw. “May I speak plainly with you?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  “I don’t want a mistress after marriage. If I can’t offer my wife love, at least I can give her fidelity.” He stopped touching her face, his fingers curling into his palm. “It’s more than my father gave my mother.”

  Alexandra had told her as much.

  The late earl died shortly before Emma came into the employ of the Grey family, but his life cast an undeniable shadow over his children. Michael Grey had been charming, the servants said. A quality that had been both his greatest asset and biggest weakness. In his investments, that charm made him a great deal of money and connections. In his private life, it surrounded him with a constant barrage of women, or so Emma had heard.

  While a number of gentlemen took mistresses, she knew the old Earl of Kent had a voracious appetite when it came to women. A mistress was one thing, a man parading his many lovers about with no regard to his wife and children was another.

  “His affairs bothered you?” Emma tried to sound indifferent, as if she knew nothing about him or his past.

  “Not the affairs, no.” James let out a breath. “My father was . . . careless, to put it delicately. He took his mistresses to the theatre, the opera, on holidays to the Continent. He lavished them with gifts and attention. My mother hid how it made her feel, but it took a particular toll when she was pregnant with my sister.”

  “Did she love him?”

  “Like with yours, far more than he deserved,” James said. “I often wondered why.”

  She pulled away and tugged the sheets around her. Suddenly it was too much, her nudity and everything he had said and how it made her feel.

  That sheet was armor — or, at least, a thin facade of it. A wordless way of saying, This, but no closer. Because she was a fake, a fraud, a liar.

  “Selene?” James sat up, his fingertips brushing the back of her neck. “Was that too much?”

  Yes. You’re too much. This is too much. It was supposed to be one night and now it’s something more.

  “No,” Emma said. “I was thinking about how my father doted on my mother after long absences, but how empty it all seemed. He gave her affection and gifts, as if he could buy her forgiveness. I had trinkets in my bedchamber that he found during his travels. They were always exactly what I wanted, but when he gave them to me, he’d pat my wrist and send me to my room and never speak of it again. As I grew older, I understood why.”

  She heard him swallow, as if dreading the answer. “Why?”

  Emma lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Because my mother gave him a list. She’d write my name at the top as a reminder.” At the question in his eyes, Emma looked away. “He wouldn’t have remembered me, otherwise. He could never recall my name.”

  James sucked in a harsh breath. “How? How is that possible?”

  “Haven’t you figured it out yet? The woman behind this mask is so easily forgettable as to be invisible.”

  He stared at her. “I don’t believe that.”

  Emma knew her look was slightly pitying. “James—”

  He kissed her, his lips soft on hers. “Let me see you and I’ll prove it isn’t true,” he murmured. When she shook her head, he kissed her again and again. “Then wait here.”

  Emma watched as he rose from the bed. She admired his beautiful form in the light. The way his muscles flexed as he picked up a candlestick and blew out the flame.

  She stayed silent as he went around the room and snuffed out each candle until they were left in complete darkness. The bed dipped as he returned, and she felt him reach for her mask.

  He slid it off and she heard him place it on the bedside table.

  Then he touched her. She felt his fingertips brush along her closed eyelids, down the slope of her nose.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

  Emma drew away, b
ut not far enough. His lips found her cheek; he pressed a kiss there.

  “In the darkness you can imagine me to look anyway you’d like,” she said.

  “No. It allows me to appreciate you more.” His hands slid down her neck to the tops of her shoulders. “The feel of your skin.” Down her breasts to her stomach. “The shape of you. Every part I might otherwise miss.”

  He traced the lines of her body like she was a work of art. Like he wanted to be able to shut his eyes and draw her from touch. He kissed across her skin, inch by inch. Then he laid himself on top of her, their bodies pressed together, and Emma knew she would never forget how perfectly he fit there.

  “Tell me your name,” he whispered against the pulse of her throat.

  “Selene.”

  James nipped at her, as if in chastisement. “Your real name. Tell me, and I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

  Emma shook her head. She couldn’t, even amid the terrible thoughts — fake, fraud, liar — because then this would end. And god help her, she wanted to keep him right where he was, so close to her heart.

  “I can’t.”

  He paused, his breath coming fast. “Don’t want or can’t?”

  Emma shut her eyes, knowing she had to lie. She couldn’t keep stealing time from him. “Can’t. I’m married.”

  The lie sat so uneasily on her tongue, she was surprised she didn’t choke on the words. But no, they came out so smoothly, despite their bitter taste. She deceived so well.

  The curse he whispered against her skin made her feel like a villain. He’d wanted to call on her, as if she were a woman he wished to court. A woman he could court.

  “Then keep meeting me here. The day after tomorrow.”

  She wanted to meet him here every night. Every morning. She wanted to wake up in his arms and meet his eyes without her mask. But she had duties to attend to — her work his sister. Their next essay was almost complete.

  “Six days,” she told him. Then she kissed his chin. “In the meantime, go confront your inevitable.”