Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1)

by Victoria Vale

  “Is it good for you, too, sweetheart? Do you like the feel of my cock inside of you?”

  “Yes,” she cried, throwing her head back and clinging to the sheets. “Oh, yes, Camden!”

  Prying one of her hands from the bed sheet, he lowered it between them and urged her to touch herself.

  “Yes, that’s it, Maggie,” he murmured, his mouth going dry as he watched her stroke herself toward climax. “I want you to come with me, love. You’re almost there.”

  His thrusts became frenzied and wild, a thin film of sweat breaking out along his hairline. His gut clenched and his balls contracted, signaling his ending. Her inner walls tightened around him at the exact same time he spilled his seed. He buried his face in the pillow beside her head, stifling his roar of completion and thrusting one last time before going still. His head spun and his shoulders heaved as he struggled to draw breath.

  Maggie’s thighs quivered on either side of his hips, her arms going limp and falling from around his neck. He turned his head and brushed his lips along her jawline before finding the corner of her mouth. She met his searching mouth with her own and gifted him with a languid kiss.

  One of his hands came up to her breast, pinching the nipple lightly and causing her to shudder beneath him.

  “Well?” he asked, once he’d managed to break the kiss. “Did reality live up to your fantasies?”

  She grinned, wide and radiant. “Oh, Your Grace … it turned out to be far better than I could have imagined.”

  A chuckle shook his shoulders as he rolled away from her, standing to dispose of the sheath. By the time he’d cleaned himself and returned from the washstand, Maggie had dozed off. Easing himself gingerly beside her on the bed, he took up the damp linen he’d soaked at the washstand and used it to clean the blood smearing the inside of her thighs. She sighed in sleep, but did not awaken as he tended her.

  Once finished, he pulled the counterpane up to her chin. Though he was loathe to cover her beautiful body, the fire had died down a bit in the hearth, and he wouldn’t want her to catch a chill.

  Turning away from the bed, he disposed of the linen in the fireplace before stoking the fire up again, adding more coal. He then donned his breeches once more and crossed the room to the sideboard, where he poured a liberal splash of brandy into a tumbler before taking an armchair before the blaze.

  The flames cast an orange glow over the bed, illuminating her angelic face in peaceful sleep. Frowning, he took a gulp of brandy and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the liquor run through his body.

  As he sat there, allowing the erotic encounter he’d just had with Maggie to fill his mind, he wondered if she realized that she’d been far more than he could have imagined, as well.

  Chapter Eleven

  One week later …

  “Margaret? Margaret! I vow, you’ve had your head in the clouds all afternoon. Have you even heard a word I’ve said?”

  Margaret snapped to attention when Cordelia’s shrill voice cut through her wandering thoughts.

  “Forgive me, Cordelia,” she said, patting the other girl’s hand. The two walked arm and arm through Hyde Park, their abigails following at a close distance. “I don’t know what has come over me.”

  “I do.” Cordelia’s expression grew smug. She held Margaret’s arm tighter and turned to face her, leaning in so the brims of their bonnets nearly touched. “I know your secret.”

  She stiffened, fighting to keep the shock suffusing her from showing upon her face.

  “You do?” she whispered, her pulse galloping at the thought.

  She’d been so careful that night, ensuring no one saw her come or go from her family’s townhouse. Leaving Camden in the dead of night while he slept had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do; yet, it had been necessary. She’d made it back to her room just before her parents arrived home from Vauxhall, tucking herself safely away in bed with no one the wiser.

  Cordelia nodded. “You wicked girl, why did you not tell me?”

  She swallowed past the lump rising in her throat and fought to control her breathing. Lowering her gaze, she took a deep breath.

  “How did you know?”

  “Mother and I were paid a call by the Marchioness of Whenhold this afternoon, and she mentioned the intimate dinner party she is hosting at the end of the week. Since she knows you and I are the best of friends, she thought to mention that you had been invited. Oh, you are so very bad for not telling me that Mr. Cranfield was the one to secure your invitation!”

  A wide grin split Margaret’s face when she realized the secret her friend had accused her of keeping wasn’t the one she feared to speak of.

  She smothered her sigh of relief with a giggle.

  “I did not think it important,” she replied. Sheridan Cranfield, heir to a viscountcy, had become her most persistent suitor.

  “Not important?” Cordelia hissed, keeping her voice lowered as they neared a group of gentlemen promenading toward them down the lane. The two smiled and greeted them politely before continuing on. “Of course it is important. The marchioness told us he all but begged her son to secure seats for your family at the table. The two were chums at Cambridge, you know.”

  “I am sorry for not telling you,” she replied. “I suppose I’ve just been preoccupied.”

  “Of course you have,” her friend soothed. “We shall have to discuss what you’ll wear. You must look your best. I daresay there’s a proposal in your near future, Maggie.”

  She fell silent as they continued upon the path.

  Cordelia was right, of course. Mr. Cranfield’s interest in her had become more than apparent, and as the season went on, he’d firmly established himself as the frontrunner for her hand.

  It should have excited her. He would inherit the title of Viscount, along with a large inheritance. Aside from that, he was pleasing to look at, with soft, blond hair tousled in the style of Byron, and a tall, slender frame always accentuated by his well-tailored clothes. He had kind green eyes filled with warmth, and was charming, besides.

  He’d become her best prospect for marriage, and even if she could not claim to love him, she could someday come to feel affection for him. It would not be hard if she tried, as he’d proven himself to be a genial sort.

  Yet, thinking of marriage led her to contemplate a wedding and the inevitable consummation. When she thought of lovemaking, Camden’s electric blue eyes filled her mind. Her cheeks grew warm and her neck flamed hot at the thought of him between her legs, filling her with his cock, pumping in and out of her with wild abandon. As always, her body reacted by heating her blood and causing the tell-tale flutter of desire between her thighs.

  He was the only man she wanted, the only one who stoked the feelings within her that she associated with desire and love. It was ridiculous, really. Before the night of the masquerade, they’d never spent a minute in each other’s company. He hadn’t even known her name.

  Her girlish fantasies of a man she barely knew had been satisfied and now she would have to move on with her life.

  More than certainly, this was what Camden had done.

  ***

  “Hmph.”

  Camden glanced up from the buttered toast on his plate and met Aunt Albina’s cool stare. “Aunt?”

  She took a sip of her tea and set it back into its saucer.

  “Nephew,” she replied with a sniff. “I am certain you realize the end of the season is upon us.”

  Turning his attention back to the toast, he stifled a sigh of exasperation. His nerves were frazzled enough as things stood without his aunt’s haranguing.

  “I am well aware,” he said. “I will be glad of it. London is never so appealing as when the majority of the ton has retreated to the country.”

  “Hmph,” she muttered, carefully slathering a biscuit with lemon curd.

  “Oh, blast it all!” he grumbled, slamming his teacup onto the saucer with a clatter. “If you’ve something to say, I bloody well wi
sh you’d get on with it!”

  Her calm in the face of his outburst did not surprise him. Neither did the stern look she gave him from across the breakfast table.

  “My, aren’t we in a mood this morning.”

  “I am not in a mood,” he protested.

  “Like hell you’re not,” she countered. She dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand. “You’ve been in a dudgeon all week.”

  She was right, but he would be damned before he admitted it aloud.

  “As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me,” she continued, signaling a footman for more tea. “The season is almost ended, and if you’re going to choose a suitable bride, now would be the time. You know, before they’ve all been snapped up.”

  He couldn’t fight it this time. A groan of frustration tore from his throat, and he lowered his head into his hands. Running his fingers through his disheveled hair, he fixed his undoubtedly bloodshot eyes on Albina.

  “If and when I decide to make an offer, I will be sure to inform you,” he said with as much civility as he could muster. His foul mood made it damned near impossible. “In the meantime, might I suggest you not get your hopes up? There does not exist a single chit in all of London possessing any of the qualities I’d wish for in a wife.”

  Albina rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Yet, your requirements for a bedmate remain shockingly low.”

  His jaw tightened, but he managed to bite back a stinging retort. Clearing his throat, he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have quite lost my appetite.”

  Actually, he hadn’t come to the table with an appetite to begin with.

  “Very well,” she said. “I shall see you this evening, then?”

  He paused in the doorway and turned, frowning. “I have plans.”

  “Of course you do—with me. The Marquess and Marchioness of Whenhold’s dinner party is this evening, remember? You promised to escort me, and I’ve already accepted on both our behalves.”

  The last thing he wished to do was attend a dinner party. She’d probably talked him into going in an attempt at matchmaking, and he felt certain he’d only accepted to shut her up.

  “I’d quite forgotten about that,” he grumbled. “Nevertheless, I shall fulfill the commitment. Until tonight, Aunt.”

  He made a hasty retreat for his study. He’d kept himself locked away there for most of the week, answering correspondence from the managers of his various country estates, going over accounts and ledgers with his man of business, and generally avoiding contact with anyone and everyone unless absolutely necessary.

  Taking a seat behind his desk, he picked up the key to the top drawer and opened it. His teeth clenched as he reached for the slip of paper he’d found beside his pillow the morning after the Vauxhall masquerade.

  Uncertain of why he continued to torture himself, he opened it and read the words written in a neat, feminine hand for what had to be at least the tenth time.

  Dearest Camden,

  I know you are probably wondering why I left without saying good-bye. I feared that if I woke you, you’d ask me to stay and such an offer, I would not have been able to resist. I must return home before my parents arrive. I am certain you understand.

  I cannot thank you enough for an extraordinary evening. The time I spent with you can never be forgotten. You can be sure I will carry the memory with me always.

  All my love,

  Maggie

  That was it. No address, no promise to come visit him again, not even a last name.

  Nothing.

  With a heavy sigh, he crumbled the note and dropped it onto his desk. What the devil was wrong with him? He was Lord Camden Rycroft, His Grace the Duke of Avonleah. He could have any woman he wanted from here to Scotland; yet, his mind had become clouded by sable curls, an ivy leaf-shaped mouth, and eyes like pools of melted chocolate.

  Meanwhile, he wondered if she had thought about him even once since leaving him without so much as a good-bye.

  Was it all a game for you, sweetheart? Did it amuse you to give me your maidenhead so you could go back to your friends and whisper that you’ve been ruined by Avonleah?

  Or, he realized with a feeling of nausea rising in his gut, perhaps she’d set out to trap him into marriage. He scowled at the notion. No, that could not have been it. There had been no witnesses to their encounter, no one to hold him accountable for ruining her.

  What, then?

  He was driving himself mad for lack of answers. If that didn’t do the trick, his want of her would. Despite his many attempts at curbing his lust, he’d been unsuccessful since the night he’d met Maggie. A visit to The White House three nights ago had gone sour when none of the offered whores had succeeded in capturing and holding his attention. He hadn’t so much as touched a single one.

  A walk down to Convent Garden the following night hadn’t worked, either. The doxy he’d chosen had tried, and he’d paid her for her effort, but it had taken all of five seconds for him to decide hers wasn’t the mouth he wanted to feel around his cock. Angry and unsatisfied, he’d gone home and drowned himself in brandy. The spirits had dampened his desires for one night, but would not work the next.

  Instead of attempting to find a woman to take succor in, he’d taken care of the matter himself—something he hadn’t done since he was a young man at Oxford, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he hadn’t eased the erection that had persisted for the past three days, he would have gone insane or killed someone. Closing his eyes and thinking of Maggie’s parted lips, spread legs, and bouncing tits had done the trick, and a few minutes later, he’d come with a flick of his wrist and a small amount of relief.

  However, now that he’d gone and opened the bloody drawer again and read her letter, he was right back where he’d started. He needed to find her. He had to know the motive behind her behavior, if nothing else. Perhaps he could tempt her back to his bed for another night or two. That would be enough to cleanse his palate of her for good, and he could move on with his life.

  He did not have a surname or title to go on. He could not very well ask anyone about a girl named Maggie. If he showed the slightest interest in any lady, the gossips would spread the word like wildfire and every eligible girl named Maggie in London would set his cap for him. The notion caused a shudder to roll down his spine.

  He would have to start paying better attention to his surroundings. While she’d said they didn’t run in the same circles, there remained a chance he could encounter her. Once he found her again, he would not let her go until he’d slaked his want of her once and for all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Margaret followed her mother over the threshold of the townhouse belonging to the Marquess and Marchioness of Whenhold. The butler greeted them before ushering them up to a beautiful drawing room done in shades of blue and silver, where their hosts waited with the guests who’d been first to arrive.

  Sheridan Cranfield was present, looking quite dapper in his black evening attire and white linen. He gave Margaret a bright smile as he came forward to greet her. The tousled curls arranged artfully about his head fell over his forehead as he acknowledged her and her parents with a polite bow.

  “Lisbroke, how wonderful it is to see you this evening,” he said. “Lady Seymour, that hairstyle is quite becoming.”

  “Why, thank you,” the baroness simpered, preening proudly as she dipped into an elegant curtsy. Of all the suitors who had expressed interested in Margaret, the baroness liked Mr. Cranfield the best of all.

  Her father acknowledged Sheridan with a silent nod, and the young swain turned his attention on her, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe.

  “My, Miss Seymour, aren’t you a vision this evening?” he murmured.

  She curtsied, trying to force a smile. His hungry gaze did not affect her half as much as a certain duke’s had. “You are too kind, Mr. Cranfield.”

  She had chosen her gown with care—white satin embroidered in a fine silver lace, s
pring-green bodice. After all, it was a rare thing to dine with a Marquess and Marchioness. She wore her finest shawl, and had chosen to don her pearl necklace and earrings for the first time—she’d been saving them for a special occasion.

  If she were going to marry Sheridan, however, she supposed she had to get used to evenings like this. He would be a viscount someday, and socialized in much higher circles than hers.

  “I would be honored if you allowed me to introduce you to the Marquess and Marchioness,” Sheridan said, stepping aside and sweeping his arm toward the couple chatting with guests on the other side of the large drawing room.

  “Of course, we’d be delighted,” the baroness said with a wide smile, accepting Sheridan’s proffered arm.

  Her father gave her an affectionate smile as he extended his arm to her, and Margaret accepted it. The two fell in step behind Sheridan and the baroness, following them to where the rest of the party had gathered.

  Miles Godfrey, Marquess of Whenton, was a man of few words, like her father. His wife, Frances Godfrey, proved far more talkative as she welcomed them to the townhouse and introduced them to her son, Arthur, the friend of Sheridan’s who had secured their invitation.

  Margaret smiled politely and endured the small talk that persisted as they waited for the last of their guests to arrive—a person of great importance the marchioness seemed excited to have in her home.

  While Margaret should have been excited to be hosted by people of such high rank, the thrill of it had faded quickly. She’d grown bored by the time the butler entered the drawing room and announced the arrival of their esteemed dinner companions.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Avonleah,” he announced in an even tone, “and Lady Kearsey, Dowager Viscountess of Laureldown.”

  Margaret’s spine stiffened at the mention of his name. The cold fingers of dread teased the back of her neck, and she fought for composure as she forced a lump of panic down her constricted throat. She had no choice to but to turn and acknowledge him if she did not want to appear rude to her hosts.