At the rout, the seed of an idea had taken root in her brain, and in the days since then, its tendrils had infiltrated her thoughts until it was all she could think of: if the worse should come to the worst, and she was forced to look for a husband, well...
Benedict wants a wife. Why should it not be me?
She knew he was not violent, and he had already shown by his reactions when they met at Tenterfield Court that he would not force himself on her. He would never punish her for a wrong look or a wrong word.
Her instinct to dismiss the idea as being unfair to Benedict had been drowned by a surge of resentful entitlement.
He owes me!
Her predicament was his fault. Actions had consequences, and his refusal to marry her when she’d conceived his child had resulted in her disastrous marriage, which in turn had driven her to take a lover to vanquish her terrible memories of her husband.
The consequences of Benedict’s return, their past relationship and her affaire with Stanton had now combined until it threatened to leave Harriet destitute, with no income and no means of support unless she married again.
Besides, he owes it to me. He owes me peace of mind... He owes me respectability... He owes me a baby.
If you are still able to have a baby. She shook the errant thought away, determined to allow nothing to spoil the evening ahead. It was true she had not conceived during her marriage to Brierley, and she had counted that a blessing, but surely God could not be so cruel to deny her a child if she remarried.
She focused on her image in the mirror, spinning this way and that to examine her appearance from all angles. Her dress consisted of a length of fine silver muslin draped around her figure and caught at the waist with a woven silver-coloured belt, knotted to allow the ends to dangle free. A silver brooch, fashioned in the shape of a bow and arrows, pinned the fabric at one shoulder and, daringly, left the other shoulder bare, preventing the wearing of her shift. The fabric flowed over the roundness of her hips and bottom before spilling to the floor in shimmering waves. A silver-coloured quiver containing three ‘arrows’—made from slender canes to represent the shafts, with white feathers stuck on the end to represent the fletching—was slung diagonally across her back, secured in place by a fine silver chain. The effect of that chain passing between her breasts, emphasising each full mound, was deliciously provocative.
Did she dare carry out her plan to seduce Benedict?
What if he shrugs his shoulders to the fact he has compromised you? He walked away from you before, and you were with child then.
He is older now. Surely he will be more responsible. Besides, I’ll seduce him so thoroughly, he won’t be able to resist me.
You know this is wrong. You are not being fair to Benedict.
She thrust aside her niggling conscience. What choice did she have? Anyway, when had Benedict been fair to her... When had life been fair? But that thought prompted the memory of all the servants she had given shelter to in the house in Cheapside. She pictured their innocent babies, and she felt ashamed. In comparison, life had been very fair to her. Those servant girls were, however, another reason why she must do something drastic to protect her future. The charity relied on donations. If it came out that she had been Stanton’s lover, and Edward cut her off from the family, then those donations would surely trickle to a halt.
‘Lord Stanton’s carriage has pulled up outside, milady. Are you ready?’
Janet’s voice jerked Harriet from her reflections. ‘Yes. I am ready.’
* * *
The masquerade ball was a private party to celebrate the birthday of Lady Cotham, at her country house, north of Paddington village. A full moon lit the way, as did the coach lamps on the procession of carriages leaving London on the Edgware road. At Cotham Manor they were required to produce their invitations to prove they were invited guests. In the well-lit hall, Harriet got her first proper look at Richard and Felicity, resplendent in their costumes as a medieval nobleman and his lady. Studying the guests arriving at the same time as them, Harriet marvelled at the inventiveness of some costumes and realised that, as much as she had embraced the knowledge that she would be hard to recognise, she was less keen that she was unable to put a name to many of the other masked revellers. Anonymous eyes glittered through masks and she felt a shiver of apprehension descend her spine.
Thank goodness she was with the Stantons and had not ventured here alone.
There was no formal announcement of their arrival. Lady Cotham had decreed nothing should spoil the fun of guessing the identities of her guests and, to that end, the only people whose costumes were known were Lord and Lady Cotham themselves. His lordship was Henry VIII—a role perfectly suited to his ever-expanding waistline—and her ladyship had let it be known that she was Boudicca, and that she would not be amused by any other warrior queens of ancient Britain who might presume to turn up.
The ballroom was already crammed with people clad in colourful and sometimes bizarre costumes, resulting in a great deal of hilarity as everyone circulated, making wild guesses. Stanton disappeared into the throng to procure three glasses of punch, leaving Harriet and Felicity by a window with strict instructions not to move.
‘It is disconcerting not to instantly recognise the person to whom one is speaking,’ Felicity whispered to Harriet.
‘Indeed it is.’
Felicity threaded her arm through Harriet’s and a nervy sensation stirred deep inside her as she realised it wasn’t just her being prudish—Felicity was wary, too. Somehow, behind the anonymity of their masks, people had shed their inhibitions. Manners took second place to innuendo and—in some cases—out-and-out suggestive remarks, none of which were appropriate comments a gentleman should make to a lady. And, already, she had witnessed a passionate kiss and a sultan squeezing the ample breast of a giggling shepherdess. The atmosphere was reminiscent of some of the parties she and Brierley had attended when they were first wed, after she had lost her baby. Without volition, Harriet tensed, squeezing Felicity’s hand against her ribs.
‘I am certain there is nothing to worry about, Harriet,’ Felicity said. ‘We will look after you, and I make no doubt Richard will insist we leave if it gets too disorderly.’
Stanton reappeared, carrying, with some difficulty, three glasses of muddy-looking liquid. ‘It’s madness,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s impossible to tell who is who.’ He handed a glass to each of the women and sipped cautiously at his own. His lips turned down in a grimace.
‘Is it horrid?’ Harriet said.
‘It certainly packs a punch,’ Stanton replied, making them laugh as they, in turn, tried the punch. It was undoubtedly fiery, burning Harriet’s throat as she swallowed, but the after-effect was a lovely warm glow.
‘You had better not imbibe too freely,’ Stanton continued with a grin. ‘I can’t cope with two tipsy women on the journey home.’
Felicity had taken one sip, coughed and then passed her glass back to Stanton. ‘You need not worry about my state of mind, my love,’ she said, ‘for I’m afraid I cannot stomach this. Do you think—?’
‘I’ll find you some lemonade,’ Stanton said immediately, and disappeared once more.
He was soon back with a glass of lemonade for Felicity.
‘It’s no wonder everyone is so merry, with the strength of this stuff,’ he said, gazing around at the revellers. ‘Can’t understand what Cotham was thinking,’ he added in a mutter. ‘He must have realised such a gathering would descend into chaos. But then, he always was somewhat buffleheaded.’
‘He may not have realised what might happen,’ Felicity said. ‘After all, we did not guess, did we? Do you want to go home, Richard?’
He slipped one arm around her waist and dropped a kiss on her nose. ‘I want to keep you and our baby safe,’ he said.
The familiar stab of envy pierced Harriet, d
espite her love for her friend. Silently, she scolded herself, aware that if she did not strive to overcome her jealousy, she would struggle to properly rejoice with Felicity and Richard when the baby was born. Their friendship was far too precious for her to risk losing it because they had been blessed and she had not. Maybe, if my plan with Benedict works... Resolutely, she diverted those thoughts, stifling that same whisper of conscience that she was being manipulative and unfair.
‘We cannot go home yet anyway,’ Stanton continued, raising his voice to compete with the musicians, who had begun to play. ‘Carriages are still arriving and it’s chaotic out there. Besides, my man will never forgive me if we leave before he’s had a chance to brag about his exploits with the other coachmen. And whilst we’re here, we may as well have a dance. At least I shall avoid the accusation of being hopelessly unfashionable by dancing with my own wife. We’ll give it an hour or so, and then I’ll order the carriage round. Our hosts won’t be too insulted if we make our escape then.’
‘Felicity! Is that you?’ A statuesque flower seller, her burnished mahogany hair threaded with flowers and carrying a basket filled with fresh blooms, appeared, followed by a powerfully built, scowling Roman centurion. ‘I am relieved you told me what you would be wearing or I might never have found you.’
Harriet recognised Eleanor’s voice.
‘Yes, it is me,’ Felicity said, ‘and this is Harriet—she came with us in our carriage.’
Greetings were exchanged all round and, while the two men had a comfortable grouch about the masquerade shaping up to be an unsuitable place for the ladies, Eleanor said, ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Harriet. What a beautiful costume—I should never have known it was you had Felicity not said.’
She lowered her voice, continuing, ‘Matthew is being most disagreeable, complaining about the tone of the party, but I must confess I have been happily diverted in trying to guess who is who. Benedict came with us, too, but heaven knows where he has disappeared to. He’s gone off to find himself a mermaid, no doubt.’ She laughed, adding, ‘He has come as a pirate.’
So Benedict was here. Harriet skimmed the crowd of revellers closest to them, but could see no pirate. She sipped at her punch, watching the guests, the conversation between Felicity and Eleanor washing over her. Babies. Again. Could they talk of nothing else? She instantly castigated herself for her meanness. If she were in their shoes, would she not be the same? Excited, and wanting to speak of it every chance she got? She realised, with a lurch of guilt, that Felicity had not mentioned her baby, unless Eleanor was present, for a few weeks. Had she somehow guessed that Harriet was envious? Tears of self-pity prickled at Harriet’s eyes and she drank some more punch, scanning the crowd again until—there he was.
Benedict: tall, lean and unbearably sexy, clad in an open-necked white shirt with full sleeves that billowed between shoulder and cuff; a red waistcoat, fastened by laces; loose-fitting calf-length striped trousers with a wide ragged hem and black shoes sporting large silver buckles. To complete his costume a red patterned sash was tied at his waist and a cocked hat completely covered his auburn hair. As with most guests, a mask covered his upper face, but she knew him in an instant by the line of his jaw and the curve of his sensual lips. He moved amongst the crowds, at his ease, a smiling bow here, a laughing shake of his head there.
As she watched, a buxom milkmaid clutched at his arm, up on tiptoe as she said something. He bent to listen to her, sliding his arm around her waist, then cocked his head to whisper in her ear. Jealous resentment squeezed Harriet’s chest, making it hard to breathe, as he led the milkmaid into a set forming in the centre of the room.
Life is so easy for him. Why should he not pay a price for what he did?
She glanced at her companions. They were all preoccupied, taking no notice of her. She could not afford for Benedict to see her with his friends, for then he would guess her identity, so she slipped away and wended her way through the throng, fending off the clumsy advances that each man she passed appeared to feel obliged to make. In escaping her friends she had also lost sight of Benedict so she made her way to the side of the room, reaching the relative safety of a wall to await the end of the dance.
She gazed around, vulnerable and on edge. There must be over a hundred people here and, although the collection of invitations at the door was intended to prevent any uninvited guests from gaining access, the glazed doors along one side of the ballroom all stood open, making the house freely accessible from the garden. At that moment a chimney sweep and a Turkish sultan staggered in through the doors, arm in arm, and kissed passionately before disappearing into the crowd. Was one of them a lady? Or was...? Harriet swallowed, feeling suddenly very naive and very uncomfortable.
This was foolish. She must return to the Stantons. On the brink of plunging back through the crowd, she saw him again, walking from the dance floor, his erstwhile partner nowhere in sight. His gaze passed over her, halted and returned. She felt stripped bare by his perusal, but there was no spark of recognition in his eyes, and that gave her the courage to smile at him, hoping he might ask her to dance. He smiled in response, and moved on. To talk to Queen Elizabeth. Harriet felt the smile freeze on her lips. This was not going to plan. She should forget the whole thing straight away and return to the Stantons.
She had no sooner left the relative safety of the wall than a hand caught hers from behind. She whirled round, tugging her hand free as the Turk she had seen earlier swayed towards her, lips puckered.
‘Come here, my little arch...archer...archeress,’ he slurred.
‘No!’ she gasped. ‘I must go. My husband is—’
‘Her husband is here, and is not amused,’ interposed a deep voice.
The sultan took one look at the tall, dangerous-looking, stubble-jawed pirate who stood protectively by Harriet and staggered back into the crowd without a protest. A nervy sensation fluttered in Harriet’s stomach. Should she? Shouldn’t she? She gathered her courage in both hands. It was only a dance. For now. She need not commit to following her entire plan.
She remembered to disguise her voice, speaking with what she hoped was a passable Italian accent. ‘Thank you, signor. Would you—?’
‘You are very welcome,’ Benedict said, cutting across her intended invitation to dance. ‘I suggest you go and find your real husband if you do not wish to attract further unwanted advances.’
He melted back into the crowd. Indignation fired Harriet’s blood. Did he not find her in the slightest bit alluring? She followed his path through the other guests, and was in time to see him disappear through the open garden door. Before she could talk herself out of it, she followed.
Chapter Fifteen
Outside, Benedict had crossed the deserted stone-flagged terrace and stood, tall and erect, at the top of a flight of steps that led down into a garden, criss-crossed by paths lit by flaming torches.
Harriet crossed the terrace to stand behind him. ‘But why did you flee, signor?’ Her voice low and husky, she slid one hand across his lower back. ‘Are you pirates not bold adventurers, taking risks and facing danger as you seize and conquer?’
He tensed, then turned and smiled, slowly and sensuously, as he perused her once again from head to toe, lingering over her breasts, softly outlined by the silky fabric of her dress.
‘I was curious to see if you might follow,’ he said. ‘And now that we are here, allow me to hazard a guess.’ His gaze roamed over her again, and then he leaned towards her. He pushed her gauze headdress aside and put his lips to her ear. ‘If I am correct, you will owe me a forfeit.’
Shivers danced across her skin. Would he recognise her? ‘What is this forfeit, signor?’
‘Why, one that allows me to worship you, of course,’ he breathed. ‘What else would a poor pirate do when he meets the goddess of his dreams?’
His finger trailed from her
neck to her shoulder and stroked the bare skin of her arm, barely touching her, raising gooseflesh in its wake. He circled the sensitive skin of her inner elbow and repeated the motion on her inner wrist, before taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
‘The goddess of my dreams... Diana, goddess of the moon.’ He fingered her headdress and she tensed, ready to whisk out of reach if he attempted to remove it. ‘Tell me I am right.’
Harriet forgot to breathe, mesmerised by the magnetism of his eyes, glowing behind his mask. He moved closer, one arm encircling her waist, pulling her hard against him.
‘Tell me I’m right.’ Demanding now, staring down at her, so close she could feel the thunder of his heart as well as her own. They were in full view of anyone who ventured onto the terrace, but she found she did not care. No one would know her. She relaxed. She would enjoy this moment and her forfeit.
‘Diana the huntress,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘as well as goddess of the moon.’
‘Diana the beautiful, a female deity of unfathomable depths and hidden talents.’ His lips quirked. ‘And were you hunting me, Diana?’ His head dipped and he feathered kisses along the scant inch of skin between the top of her mask and the line of silver stars that edged her headdress. ‘Was I your prey?’ His lips moved on to her ear and he traced its rim with his warm tongue. ‘Do you intend to slay me now that you have me in your power by moonlight?’
His lips were on her neck, tickling as he laved the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Before she knew it she was arching back over his rock-solid forearm, her entire throat exposed to the magic weaved by those lips. She clutched at his sleeves, aware of the weight of Diana’s quiver as it swung free beneath her, the silver chain that crossed between her breasts taking its weight. He kissed and nibbled at her neck, then drifted down to her neckline. She gasped as he pushed aside the taut chain and probed the valley between her breasts with his tongue, desire sizzling through her.
Raucous laughter burst from the ballroom and Benedict lifted his head to look back towards the house. Still arched over his arm, exposed to his view and to his touch, a feeling of defencelessness stole through Harriet and she battled to stop the memories of Brierley encroaching on this moment. She could not upright herself without Benedict’s help and was completely at his mercy, and yet she was not afraid. And even if she could stand upright, she feared her legs—weak and boneless after so simple a caress—would never support her. But she had no urge to move. She wanted his hot kisses and caresses. She needed him to heal her invisible wounds. She yearned for his loving.
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