The atmosphere felt decidedly sensual. Heat flushed the back of her neck when she witnessed people dancing much too closely, lips meeting and hands groping. Behind almost every statue and in any alcove, a young couple—and in some cases threesomes or foursomes—could be found in the throes of passion, heedless of their surroundings.
It would have distressed her to find Avonleah in such a position, when her heart had been set upon finding him and forcing him to take notice of her. However, she had yet to lay eyes on him. Even wearing a mask, Margaret would have known him. Besides, a man like him did not bother arriving on time at any affair. He could be counted upon to arrive fashionably late. She was content to wait for him while enjoying the exhibition.
She procured a flute of champagne from one of the many masked waiters making their way through the crowd, sipping while she skirted the edge of the crowd gathered around a troupe of acrobats. She clapped and drank champagne while the troupe awed them with their feats of daring. Her head spun as the drink travelled straight to her head. She had never been allowed more than one glass of champagne, and even then, the baroness had watched her closely to ensure she did not over-imbibe.
Before Margaret realized what she had done, she’d drunk three flutes and felt remarkably happy and carefree.
When she neared the orchestral pavilion, she became caught up in a group of dancers surrounding it. A pair of arms came around her, and before she knew it, she was swept into a boisterous waltz—not the slow, sedate dance of a ballroom, but rather a celebratory reel that caused her head to spin as the masked gentleman whirled her about.
“You are an enchanting beauty,” the man shouted to be heard above the music and laughter of the other dancers. “Does my angel of the night have a name?”
“Maggie!” she proclaimed without thinking.
Throwing caution to the wind, she decided she could be ‘Maggie’ for the night. It was a common enough name and the mask had emboldened her. Besides, she’d never waltzed in public before, and no man had ever called her ‘an enchanting beauty.’
“Ah, Maggie,” the young swain said as he spun her about. “Take me to the stars, love.”
Margaret realized his intent when she felt the hard length of him pressed against her belly. She blushed furiously and avoided his gaze.
“I can’t,” she said. “I am … I am waiting for someone.”
“I see.” He shrugged and continued spinning her about. The man was quite a graceful dancer. “Pity. Whoever the bloke is, I hope he knows he’s the bloody luckiest man here tonight.”
The dance ended, and before long, she fell into the arms of another gentleman. She lost herself in the music—she’d always loved to dance—and the heady rush of the champagne coursing through her. She went from partner to partner, her cheeks hurting from the smile that refused to allow her face rest. She’d almost forgotten about her search for the duke.
At least, she’d forgotten until she came face to face with him. Or rather, she came face to chest with him. Her current dance partner gave her a careless spin, sending her into the arms of a man standing on the edge of the crowd … a man whose hard chest felt like heaven against her cheek, and whose scent sent a jolt of awareness down her spine.
Powerful arms came around her, steadying her. She made no attempt to move away from him, her hands coming up to his chest, resting just over the lapels of his coat. Her gaze traveled up from the top button of his waistcoat to the snowy white linen of his simply tied cravat, to the delectable throat she wished to nibble and lick, and onward to his strong chin, firm lips, aquiline nose, and—finally—his electric blue eyes peeking out at her from behind his simple black mask.
Those eyes smoldered, locking with hers, and his sensual mouth curved into a half-smile.
“Well, good evening,” he said in a low, purring tone.
Margaret shuddered as she realized he had not yet released her from his hold. When she did not answer, he grinned, stunning her with a display of perfect teeth.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
She nodded, quickly finding her tongue lest he think her an imbecile.
“Of course,” she answered, sounding as breathless as she felt. “I am perfectly fine. My dance partner was just a bit …”
“Careless,” Avonleah finished for her, shooting a pointed glance at the man who’d flung her into him and who still stood by as if he expected to reclaim her. He shrunk away at the duke’s glare and disappeared into the crowd. “If you were mine, I’d take much better care of you.”
She didn’t miss the double entendre in his words, or the heat in his stare when his eyes traveled over the curve of her nose, her rouged lips, then farther down to the bosom pressed tight against him. She did not know where her boldness came from, though if she had to guess, she’d blame the champagne.
Whatever the cause, Margaret found the courage within herself to give him a coy smile and press her body more fully to his. Satisfaction shot through her as shock flickered across his face, followed by amusement and desire.
She leaned close and whispered in a husky tone, “I am certain you would, my lord.”
Chapter Six
Camden remained unsure of what exactly about the woman in red and black beckoned to him. From the moment he’d first seen her, twirling in the arms of one dance partner after another, he’d been drawn to her.
It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a beautiful woman before. In fact, he had indulged in affairs with woman far more stunning than this one. She was pretty, with her apricot skin, luscious, sable locks, and teasing, heart-shaped mouth. In a London ballroom, she’d hardly be considered a diamond of the first water, but something about her—here, tonight, beneath the light of thousands of lanterns—captivated him.
Odd that he should think of her in a London ballroom, when he did not know if she came from the nobility or not. She’d called him ‘my lord,’ so obviously, she knew he was one. He decided she could not know his identity; otherwise, she’d have called him ‘Your Grace.’ Camden should have corrected her, but found he did not want to. He did not know why, when his title had always gone a long way toward capturing a lady’s attention.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked, even as he took one of her hands in his and twirled her back into the throng of dancers.
His hand remained tight at her waist and he held her far closer than would be considered decent in any ballroom. However, they were not in a ballroom, and he always did what he pleased. Right now, the way her thighs felt moving against his as they waltzed pleased him.
“Yes,” she murmured, as if she didn’t realize he’d already swept her into the waltz.
Her breathless whisper heated his blood in his veins and sent it racing straight for his cock.
Christ above, who was this woman? A graceful dancer, which meant she was at least genteel. Her manner of dress suggested widowhood, or perhaps a profession as a courtesan. She was far too well-dressed to be of the usual Haymarket ware, the painted-up doxies who tried to imitate grand ladies. Her tones sounded cultured, her felt skin smooth and soft, and she still possessed all her teeth. Definitely genteel, if not noble. He’d never met her before; of that, he felt certain. He did not think he could ever forget a woman so exquisite.
“Will you honor me with a name?” he asked, his eyes finding hers through the red and black mask covering the upper half of her face. A few black feathers rested against her left cheekbone, and her lips had been stained with rouge, making them even more inviting.
“Maggie,” she replied.
So, they were only trading first names? All the better. It would only add to the mystique of the evening.
“Camden,” he responded. “What brings you to the Gardens this evening? Never tell me you are here to meet someone.”
Maggie graced him with that coy smile of hers again; just a slight upturning of her lips at the corners, causing him to want to run his tongue along the seam of her mouth.
“As a matter of fact,” she
said, “I am looking for a gentleman.”
Camden would not let disappointment claim him. He’d become accustomed to getting what he wanted, and tonight, he’d already decided he very much wanted Maggie.
“Whoever he is, forget about him,” he declared, leading her into a graceful turn. “Be my companion for the night. You won’t regret it.”
“Hmmm,” she hummed, her perfectly plump lips pressed together as if she contemplated his offer.
He imagined those lips wrapped around his cock, her red rouge staining him in a ring of desire while her tongue circled his head.
“Well, I did not have any particular gentleman in mind, you see. So, I suppose all there is left is for you to convince me.”
Arching an eyebrow, he swiftly led her into another turn, whirling her too far on purpose and taking her from the midst of the multitude. Ducking behind a statue, he spun her again, taking them clear out of view of the dancers and revelers and behind a high, thick, flowering hedge. The scent of the blossoms enveloped them as he pressed her against the shrubbery. His hands spanned her waist and he sank into her, bending his knees a bit so his hips aligned with hers.
Maggie gasped, her eyes wide and disoriented. He loomed over her, his parted lips sliding along the line of her jaw. She smelled heavenly, like rose oil and something else he could not identify. She tilted her head back, her hands gripping his biceps tightly. Her breath ruffled the curls at his temples, and her throaty whimper caressed his ear in a low, seductive note. He claimed her mouth in a crushing kiss, his hips grinding against hers as his tongue swept her lower lip, demanding entry into her mouth.
She opened for him, returning the kiss with a fervor matching his own. Her hands came up to his shoulders and she clung to him, her tongue mating artlessly with his.
He had kissed dozens of women, and fucked more than he could count. Many of them had been far more experienced than Maggie—her kiss told him the truth of her innocence—yet, none of them had coaxed the response from him she had. He burned for her, his every muscle taut and coiled, ready to spring. She was so eager, throwing herself into their kiss with such wild abandon he could hardly contain his primal response.
Pressing her against the hedge, he grasped her hips and pulled her closer against him, relieving the tension in his groin. He slid his hands up her waist, over her ribs, finding the mounds of her breasts through her gown. She gasped against his mouth, her breath coming in breathless pants that caused them to heave in his palms. He kneaded her, his eyes drawn to the creamy flesh cradled by her bodice. He wanted to jerk the gown down, exposing her nipples—nipples he knew would be as pink as rose petals.
Not here, he told himself. Not now.
Something about this woman made him want to take her back to his bed, lay her across it, and fuck her into the mattress.
His mouth left hers and trailed a path down her neck, then even farther, until he was making love to the valley between her breasts with his tongue. She cried out sharply, then bit her lip to contain it as he nuzzled her soft flesh, leaving a row of hot kisses along the top of each one.
“There is so much I want to do to you,” he murmured. “I want to take you to bed, Maggie. I want to undress you and lick every inch of your delectable body. Then I want to lay you on your back and fuck you.”
She groaned, arching her back and pressing her body more fully to his. He grinned, reaching down to cup her arse, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Would you like that, Maggie? Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes,” she whimpered. “Yes, I want that.”
He chuckled, giving her a little kiss near the corner of her mouth. “So, I have convinced you, then?”
The bold vixen returned, and she flashed him a catlike smile.
“It seems you have, my lord,” she purred. “Now all that’s left is for you to impress me.”
Chapter Seven
“We shall dine first,” Camden declared, offering Margaret his arm. “It wouldn’t do for me to get you back to my bed only to watch you expire with weakness.”
She took his arm and followed him down one of the twisting lanes, toward the row of dinner boxes near the river entrance.
“I am famished,” she admitted. “Thank you, Camden.”
Camden. She loved saying his name. She had always thought of him as ‘Avonleah,’ or ‘the duke.’ However, they’d been far too intimate tonight for her to think of him that way any longer. They’d waltzed beneath the moon, their thighs brushing and their hips pressed together. He’d stolen her away, pressed up against a hedge, and kissed her. His hands had cupped and fondled her breasts.
She would never think of him as just ‘Avonleah’ anymore. He was Camden—her Camden for this one night.
Though the dinner boxes could seat at least ten, they sat alone in the intimate enclosure. The space had been opulently turned out, with fine art hanging on its walls, beautiful brass candlesticks and gleaming silver on the tables, a crisp, white tablecloth, and painted china.
“Good evening,” said a masked waiter once they were settled at the table. “Would you care for wine?”
Camden turned to her and smiled. “Well?”
She smiled back and nodded. “Wine would be lovely, thank you.”
Margaret was pleasantly surprised. She’d have thought him one of those overbearing sorts who did not think a lady possessed the intelligence to answer a question for herself. If she weren’t already besotted with him, this act of consideration would have won her heart.
The waiter poured then backed away, promising to return with their dinner.
“Tell me, Maggie,” Camden said, his perceptive gaze fixated upon her. “What is a lovely young woman like yourself doing here alone?”
She took another long sip of her wine, to give her time to think of an answer. She’d come here tonight prepared to fib. Yet, she could not allow herself to lie to him after she’d tasted his lips. A man who had treated her with nothing but kindness since they’d met did not deserve to be lied to. Besides, she knew he would never believe her a widow.
“The truth is…” she said slowly, thinking. She did not want to be dishonest, but she did not want to say too much, either. “If I were seen here tonight and recognized, I’d be ruined.”
“Ah,” he said with a knowing smile. “A lady. An adventurous one, at that.”
She could not help her sly smile. “Young men are encouraged to sow their wild oats before they settle down. Am I not entitled to a bit of fun myself?”
A sly, wolfish grin spread across his face.
“Oh, Maggie, you and I are going to get along famously. I do agree, you deserve a bit of fun.”
He lifted his wine glass and took a long swallow, his piercing eyes peering at her through the slits in his mask. He leaned toward her, his breath fanning her ear, his lips brushing the lobe. She shivered.
“Tell me, dearest,” he murmured, his mouth grazing her neck just behind her ear. “How adventurous are you, really?”
She arched her back, straining closer to his lips, to his touch. She closed her eyes and said the first thing that came to her mind.
“I am at your disposal, Camden.”
She felt him smile against her cheek.
“Good,” he answered. “Because just now, I am gripped with the desire to taste wine from between your marvelous tits.”
A flutter of pleasure at his words registered down low in her belly. The burning heat there grew and crept steadily lower. Without speaking, she reached up and cupped her breasts, lifting them in invitation, pressing them more tightly together, creating the perfect chalice for him.
He picked up his glass and tilted it just enough to allow his wine to trickle onto her skin. It rested in the hollow between her neck and collarbone for a moment, before sliding downward, drawn down the slope to the valley between her breasts. One arm braced on the back of her chair, he lowered his head and caught the stream with his tongue. He trailed it slowly upward, leaving fire in his wake.
The warm rasp of it caused her to cry out, but she swiftly clamped her lips together, holding back another moan when his mouth began to travel, dotting a soft row of kisses across the generous globes quivering in her hands.
One of his hands came up over hers, pulling it away from her breast before replacing it with his own. He gave it a gentle squeeze, using his other hand to tilt the glass again, causing another cool splash. This time, his mouth found her breast, suckling as his tongue circled to lap the wine from her skin. His thumb dipped into the neckline of her dress, finding her nipple and circling it once before he joined it with his forefinger. Giving the nipple a gentle tug, he found the opposite bud through the fabric of her gown with his other hand. Her head fell back, a throaty groan burning in her chest. His mouth pulled upon one breast while his fingers teased the other.
Abruptly, he pulled away, the devilish smile in place once more.
Margaret straightened in her chair, taking deep, slow breaths, and fighting to clear her head. The waiter approached again. Though she knew Camden had been right to stop, she found herself wishing he hadn’t … wishing he’d continued his torture by snatching down the front of her gown and running his devilish tongue all over her breasts.
They were served by the waiter, silent and swift, laying out their light supper of ham sliced paper-thin, a refreshing, lightly dressed salad, warm bread with butter, and an array of custards, tarts, and cheeses for dessert. As desperately as she wanted him to continue where he’d left off, she also had not eaten for hours and had grown famished.
The two ate and chatted amiably while the carousing of the ton continued around them. Dancing, music, fireworks … there wasn’t a dull moment, and everything seemed designed to engage the senses in some way.
Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) Page 3