Ren hadn’t dared admit that he was quite taken by the ebony stick with its gold ball grip engraved with the Porter family crest. Apparently not all of his vanity had leaked out upon those docks long ago.
He stepped forward. “You look … you look like spring itself.” She looked like life itself to him, like green growing things and fat laughing babies and the rise in a young man’s blood, but he hadn’t the words to tell her. He wanted to kneel at her feet. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and lock them in his room for a month. Instead he bowed deeply, his hand over his heart.
She held the mask up over her eyes and dipped a curtsy so deep her nose nearly touched the carpet. “Why, Sir Lawrence, I swoon.”
Pleased, Ren straightened and tugged self-consciously at his cuffs. He held out his arm and she slipped her gloved hand onto it. “Our guests will be here soon.”
She smiled brilliantly up at him. “You look like a king. I like the medal. It suits you.”
He smirked. “If you like this one, I’ve a drawer full I can try on for you.”
She swatted his hand with her folded fan. “Don’t be improper. I have to concentrate on our guests.” Then she slid him a heated glance. “But you may wear them all for me … later.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “And bring the sword.”
Ren was laughing when he took his first steps into the world he’d left behind all those years ago.
* * *
Callie and Button had decided that it would be easier for Ren if they introduced him to the entire village at once. Therefore, the ballroom was already filled with brightly colored gowns and dark coats, all topped by an incredible variety of masks. There were homemade masks, sometimes of startling composition—Callie had never seen such a creative use of cornhusks!—and sometimes finely made creations of beads and feathers, though Callie doubted any were as purely elegant as hers and Ren’s. Button had obviously reserved the finest of his wares for the host and hostess.
It all made for a most startling moment when they entered the ballroom, for at once a hush fell upon the crowd and every face—that is, every mask—turned their way in the same instant.
Just as Button instructed them, they held quite still.
“Let them look,” the little dressmaker had ordered. “Let them look for as long as they like. They will stare. They will gape. Some of them, silly souls, may even gawk.” Button had beamed a benevolent smile. “Yours is not to hide away in shame. Yours is to impress and instruct. ‘Here are the master and mistress of Amberdell,’ your posture must say. ‘See us and know us for who we are.’”
So Callie draped her hand casually over her husband’s arm. No one would know by looking at her that her fingers pressed deeply into the muscle there, letting him know that she was with him.
If Callie hadn’t been attempting to reach bone with her fingernails, Ren might have forgotten she was there. When all those eyes swept to him, to his face, he had to fight the overwhelming urge to step backward, to duck right back through the double doors of the vast ballroom. As it was, he and Callie stood upon a stage created out of the first landing of the great curving double stairway that arched downward to the dance floor below.
With hazy distance, Ren felt Callie’s grip. It was a lifeline, a kite string of touch—well, pain, really—that held him to the earth. He tried to remember Button’s instructions through the roaring in his ears.
Impress. Instruct.
See us.
That was when Ren realized that if he could simply hold out for a few more moments, he would never have to hide again—not here, not in his home or on his estate or in the village nearby.
The weight of those years of secrets and shadows ahead of him had once bent him nearly to the ground. Now to realize that he might ride bareheaded about the grounds, that he might stop into the village post office to send a letter, that he might hire staff to ease Callie’s days—
Air filled his lungs, cool, fragrant air, not stale and humid from coming through black wool. Ren stood straight and tall, the glimmering sash of his knighthood smooth across his expanded chest.
At some instinctive moment—surely instructed by Button, who had quite the flair for the dramatic—Callie gave his arm a squeeze and began to lower herself into a grand curtsy to their guests. Ren matched her with a deep bow.
As they straightened, spontaneous applause broke out in random areas of the crowd. Soon, everyone, even the crustiest villager, had joined in. The thundering applause threatened to send Ren right back through the door, away from the noise, away from the faces, away from the crystals tinkling in the grand chandeliers above from the vibrations.
Callie’s ferocious grip kept him pinned like a butterfly in her collection.
He shot her a glance. Are you trying to draw blood?
She met his quick glance with a loving glare. Do not flee. Do not even think about leaving me here alone.
That thought, of her standing alone to face this mob, did more to fix him in place than any physical grip. If he could find it in him to protect her from falling off a window ledge, it seemed petty to desert her now.
So he bore the applause and the gazes and the gawks. Button was right about one thing. He’d earned these scars in service to the Crown. Just because his mission had been secret—hell, his very existence had been secret!—did not mean that he had to remain in the dark for the rest of his life.
He could stand here for a little while, and earn the right to walk in the light—in Callie’s light.
For she shone on this night. He could see it in the faces gazing up at them. First they fixed on him, on his face, on the visible scars, seeking, searching, wondering about the scars that remained hidden. Then, when the first startling impression of his marred face had sunk in, one by one their gazes turned to the incandescent woman at his side.
Pretty Callie, with her snub nose and dash of freckles, Callie of the countryside tramping and the kerchief-headed cleaning, had become exquisite Callie, goddess of spring and all things new.
A goddess with a bosom fit for a god’s delight. Oh, my God. Why had he not noticed before? How could he have been so caught up in his own nerves that he’d missed the fact that the riches of Callie’s bosom runneth over!
Fury flashed through him. He was going to kill Button!
Then Callie unobtrusively tugged him to the stairs and they descended into the ballroom. The walking stick assured their progress was stately rather than lurching. Henry and Betrice stepped forward from the grinning multitudes to greet them. Henry was distinctive in his rustic squire’s garb from an earlier century. As costumes went, it looked a bit more like a rummage through the attic. It suited Henry’s old-fashioned blustery charm to perfection.
Betrice looked very pretty in misty gray silk and a cat mask created of ermine fur. Callie exclaimed over the gown, praise which Betrice received with a strange discomfort. “It is an old gown.”
Callie blinked. She’d thought every woman in the village had ordered something new from Button’s shop. “Well, you look absolutely stunning,” she assured Betrice. “By far the prettiest lady here.”
Betrice eyed her with a slightly furrowed brow. “Have you no mirror, Callie?” Then her gaze slid to Ren’s chest. “Or should I say ‘Lady Porter’?”
Henry nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes. Lady Porter, indeed! May I be the first to offer congratulations, Sir Lawrence? When did you receive the honor?”
Ren stiffened slightly. Callie felt the muscles of his arm tighten. “Three years ago … and yes, you are the first.”
Henry’s open features begged for an explanation, but Callie knew none would be forthcoming.
She cleared her throat. “Sir Lawrence, I believe the quartet is awaiting our taking the floor for the opening waltz.”
With a curt nod to Henry, Ren handed off his stick to a fellow in livery and swept Callie onto the floor in a manner befitting a prince and princess. Then he bowed deeply to her and she to him. On cue, the music began as he took her han
d and she flowed into his arms.
There was a long pause. Callie awaited his lead. Then Ren bowed his head toward hers. “Callie?”
“Yes?”
“You not only forgot to ask me if I wished for a ball, but you forgot to ask me if I could dance.”
Oh, hell. Oh, damn. Oh, Great George’s Balls!
Then he laughed in her ear and swept her into an effortless waltz, even using his limp in time with the rise and fall of the steps.
Callie threw back her head and laughed out loud. After a moment of stunned attention upon the dark, imposing master and his luminous bride, the rest of the guests joined in the dance.
Ren looked down at her, his evening sky-blue eyes twinkling. “Don’t forget you owe me a pearl.”
* * *
When Ren found Button after the first waltz, the dapper little man was deep in conversation with a lithe young woman in a housemaid’s livery. At first glance Ren dismissed her as a plain sort. When she dipped a quick curtsy and left the two men alone, Ren’s attention was caught by her athletic grace. If she were a man, he would think she moved like a fighter, a dangerous one.
Which was ridiculous, of course.
He shook the odd thought from his mind and pinned Button with a sour gaze. “What were you thinking, putting Callie in such a gown?”
Button blinked at him blandly. “You don’t care for it? I thought the color most becoming.”
Ren narrowed his gaze. “It’s lovely—what there is of it. Did you perhaps run short of fabric … oh, say, in the bodice area?”
Button made no effort to hide his pleased smirk. “Her ladyship’s natural assets make you the envy of all the men here.”
Ren crossed his arms and loomed, his gleaming new cane in his fist. One talent he’d not lost, looming. “And if I don’t care to have all the men here laying their bloody eyeballs on my—on her ladyship’s assets?”
“I brought something along in case of textile failure,” Button admitted reluctantly, as he slid his gaze aside. “But it will simply ruin the curve of the neckline.”
Ren, whose gut went cold with horror as he imagined Callie in the midst of “textile failure,” snatched the length of fine lace that Button pulled from his pocket and went in search of his bride.
He didn’t see Button watching him go with great satisfaction on his puckish features.
Callie was, rather unsurprisingly, to be found surrounded by a tight circle of male admirers. Since what he really wanted to do was to snatch Callie off the floor and throw her over his shoulder in a territorial display, he forced himself to bow before his bride. “If her ladyship will excuse the interruption, there is something of pressing importance I must discuss.”
Callie, who knew perfectly well that he was never so polite to her, nodded warily and sent her admirers onward with urges to draw their ladies and sisters and mothers into the next dance.
Then she lifted her chin. “What have I done now?”
Ren’s reply was to grab her by the hand and tow her off to the side of the ballroom, where a curtained alcove awaited ladies in the midst of a faint, or lovers in the midst of a tryst.
It was luckily unoccupied, although Ren felt fully able to evict any and everyone who stepped in his path. Pulling her within the curtain, he turned and glared at Callie.
“I can’t believe you would wear that in public!”
She made no pretense at not understanding him. Instead, she crossed her arms beneath her bosom and glared back. “I can’t believe it took you so long to notice!”
“I noticed,” he growled. “First I had business with that rag-peddling procurer! How could you allow him to dress you like a high-priced demirep?”
“So you do like it.” Callie smiled and inhaled a taunting breath. Ren saw the barest pink edge of areole rise above the neckline and nearly swallowed his tongue. Textile failure!
He yanked the length of lace from his pocket. “Put this on!”
She glanced dismissively at it. “I will not. It will ruin the line of the bodice.”
Ren took a step toward her. Then another. He wasn’t feeling territorial any longer. Now he wanted to wrest her down onto the fainting couch behind her and kiss that knowing smile from her lips. Or possibly erase the teasing tone of her tongue by filling her mouth with his cock, which was even now straining at the front of his trousers.
Callie didn’t back down.
Not until he reached into his weskit pocket and pulled out the pearl she’d given him for the first waltz. “Open your mouth.”
Chapter 26
Callie glared into Ren’s eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He put the pearl lightly to her lips. “Open your mouth.”
She licked her lips nervously and sent an anxious glance toward the ballroom on the other side of the thin curtain. Ren wondered if he were indeed going too far. She didn’t want to—
Then her gaze flicked back up to meet his and he saw the heat smoldering in her eyes. Oh, yes, she did want to. A smile quirked his lips.
She opened her mouth.
He laid the pearl upon her tongue and bent to whisper into her ear. “Do not move, nor make a sound, no matter what. You must not respond in any way.”
She closed her lips over the pearl but she did not nod. Instead, her gaze fixed in midair. She might as well have been carved of marble, a perfect statue of the Goddess of Spring.
Perfect. Ren dropped his walking stick to the carpet and pulled the length of lace out long between his fingers and raised it to her bodice. He’d truly only meant to shut her up long enough to make her decent—but her heated compliance made his blood burn, just as it always did.
Slowly, he tucked the lace into the edge of her neckline. It was so sheer and gauzy a pattern that even when neatly arranged, it barely kept her nipples from peeking above the fabric. He tucked those nipples down inside, allowing his fingertips to roll them gently back and forth as he did so.
They tightened at his touch, hardening for him even as he hardened for her. Rebellious little pink tips, pouting outward as if begging for his mouth. It took only the slightest tug to release them wholly into view. Bending, he sucked first one between his lips, tugging and rolling his tongue over it. Then he teased the pert, wet little thing with his fingers while he sucked the other into happy hardness.
Lifting his head, he watched Callie’s face while he tugged and tweaked at her nipples. She allowed no expression to cross her features, but she could do nothing about the quickening of her breath. He pinched gently, plucking and twisting the tender bits of lustful flesh.
“There are a hundred people on the other side of that curtain, Lady Porter, all of them wondering where you are. At any moment, one of them could sweep it aside and discover you in this shameless condition.” He pinched harder, gazing into her stony face, then harder still. She inhaled sharply, but her gaze never left some point over his left shoulder.
He drew out the length of fine lace from her neckline and dragged it slowly across her rigid, sensitized nipples. Her eyelids shivered slightly and he felt a shudder of lust pass through her. “Put your hands behind your back.”
She did nothing. No response, just as he’d commanded. So he moved behind her, drawing her hands back to cross at her wrists. Then he wrapped the lace about them. For a moment, he contemplated a simple playful wrapping, one that could be shaken off in a moment.
Then the dark tide of desire and possession rose within him and he found himself pulling a snug knot about her hands. She was truly bound, helpless and half naked at her own ball. The wickedness turned his desire into a sudden harsh wave of black lust. She was his.
His.
The lonely years, the hiding, the bleak betrayal had turned his normal male desires into something seething and deep. He didn’t simply want her—he required her. He needed to have her, keep her, own her, and make her know herself owned.
So he tied her up and pulled her breasts entirely free of the snug bodice and pushed her hard against t
he wall of the alcove while he devoured her nipples. Hard hands squeezed her soft flesh until he heard her breath catch. He sucked her deep into his mouth, grazing the rigid tips with his teeth in his urgency, eating her alive, consuming her.
It wasn’t enough. He wanted more, so much more. If he could have drawn her right into his own body and trapped her there forever, it would not have been enough.
And what of her?
He drew back to gaze into her face, still closed and distant—but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright and her breath panted quick and broken. She was as aroused as he.
Should he roger her right here, splay her out right on the sofa, to hell with her gown, to hell with the ball, and make her come screaming ten steps away from their guests?
Yes.
Or up against the wall, her thighs wrapped around his hips, her bound hands behind his neck, her soft bottom squeezed bruisingly hard in his hands while he plunged into her?
Yes.
No.
She was caught up in the moment, she was awash with lust. She would allow it. She would likely even enjoy it—in the moment. But after, when she would have to face the scandalized occupants of the ballroom wearing the evidence of her ravagement?
He dropped his face into her soft, delicious bosom and tried to wrest his lust under control. She wanted him. Her heart pounded in his ear. He could detect the warm, sea-salt scent of her lust rising up through her gown.
The perfume of her drove him to the edge of sanity, calling to mind the taste of her and the hot, soft, wet feel of her.
She stood so still, willing and waiting.
Just one taste …
He dropped to his knees before the object of his desire and lifted her skirts.
* * *
Callie pressed her bared shoulders into the cool plaster of the wall behind her back and wound her fingers tightly together in secret, but it was all she could do to suppress the shudders of hunger that swept her like waves on a shore. Her exposed nipples throbbed from his rough treatment, crinkling in the chilly air, jutting reddened and naked above the crumpled silk of her bodice.
When She Said I Do Page 24