Clenching her trembling hands before her, she turned, her heart taking residence in her throat as she waited for his gaze to find her. The marchioness swept forward with a bright smile, greeting first the duke, then a woman Margaret knew to be his great-aunt.
He looked divine in austere black and white relieved only by a black and gold waistcoat and the black diamond resting in the snowy white linen of his cravat. His black hair gleamed in the light of the candles as he bowed to the marchioness and murmured a greeting.
Margaret’s lower lip disappeared between her teeth, her lungs burning with the breath she held. As Avonleah stood, his cool blue stare surveyed the room. His jaw ticked with the subtlest movement as his gaze met hers and held. His stare left her a moment after finding her, perusing everyone else in the room as he was brought forward for introductions.
Did that slight movement of his jaw indicate recognition? His stony expression was difficult to discern, while she felt as if everyone in the room would know the truth if they happened to look upon her just then. Surely, the evidence of her night with the duke had been written all over her face for everyone to see.
Her heart galloped in her chest, its pace quickening as the marchioness brought the duke to her family, at last.
“Allow me to introduce Lord Seymour, Baron Lisbroke, and his wife, Lady Seymour,” she said, gesturing toward Margaret’s parents.
Camden’s face became a mask of polite interest as he bowed to her parents. “I am honored,” he murmured.
As he rose, his gaze found hers again and held.
“A pleasure, Your Grace,” her father replied.
“This is our daughter, Miss Margaret Seymour,” her mother supplied, taking Margaret’s arm and pulling her forward, as if serving her up on a silver platter. It would seem the baroness had found yet another opportunity to practice her matchmaking, with the loftiest prize of all dangled before her.
Margaret curtsied, forcing her eyes to the floor. If she held his stare any longer, someone might notice.
“Your Grace, it is nice to meet you,” she said. Her voice sounded even and calm, which belied her racing pulse and burning lungs.
“Charmed,” he replied with a slight incline of his head. Then, he turned away from her and began speaking with Sheridan and Arthur.
She exhaled slowly and pretended to listen as her mother and the marchioness struck up a conversation about the latest styles on display in their favorite millinery.
For the present, it seemed her secret remained safe. While she’d hoped to avoid encountering the duke, it could no longer be helped. She would get through the evening with as much grace as possible. There existed no chance for a confrontation here, in front of an entire drawing room full of dinner party guests. She was safe for now.
However, Margaret realized with startling clarity that her safety would be short-lived. The duke now possessed the last piece of the puzzle that made up the mysterious Maggie. She could no longer hide from him behind ambiguity … not when he now knew her surname.
You’re being silly. The duke has bedded many women, and you will not be the last.
She did not understand where this sense of panic had come from. After all, the duke was known for his prowess, but also for his discretion. The night of the masquerade had ended, and she doubted he’d given it a second thought. She likely mattered to him very little, if at all.
For some reason, that thought distressed her far more.
***
It would have been funny if he hadn’t been caught off guard. When he’d been invited to dine with the marquess and marchioness, the last person he’d expected to encounter had been Maggie. Or rather, he supposed he should think of her Miss Margaret Seymour.
He now knew the identity of his mysterious bedmate; yet, discovering it hadn’t made him feel any better. When their gazes had met from across the room, his blood had surged in his veins in an instant, causing his pulse to thrum in his throat and his cock to swell in his breeches. It had taken every ounce of his restraint to keep from taking her arm, dragging her from the room, and laying her upon the nearest sofa so he could seat himself between her thighs and fuck her until she begged him to stop.
As conversation buzzed around him, he focused his attention on pretending she was not in the room—which should have been easy. However, Sheridan Cranfield and Arthur Godfrey did not seem inclined to allow him the moment of respite.
“I say, Cranfield,” the future marquess mumbled in hushed tones. “I can certainly see why you were so hell bent on securing an invitation for Miss Seymour and her family.”
The mention of Maggie had Camden peering at her from the corner of his eye. She smiled as she listened politely to the marchioness, but it was not the wide, hoydenish grin he’d come to know. It read as false, strained. A frown tightened the corners of his mouth.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Cranfield murmured. His eyes swept over Maggie in a way that set Camden’s teeth on edge. “I intend to make an offer by the season’s end.”
Maggie, wed to this pretentious little upstart?
He fought to keep his face a cool mask of slight boredom.
“Congratulations, old boy,” Arthur said, extending a hand to Cranfield. “The first of our set to get leg-shackled!”
“You behave as if the lady has already agreed to marry you,” Camden muttered, one hand clenching at his side.
Cranfield took on the appearance of a frightened bird as he turned to face him. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
Camden’s level stare never wavered from his. “Nothing of any consequence,” he replied, his tone cooler than a snowy gust of wind.
Cranfield looked as if he wished to contradict Camden, but as quickly as his mouth opened, he snapped it shut.
Camden turned away from them both, a self-satisfied smirk curving his lips. Yet another perk of the dukedom—no one would dare speak against him and risk incurring his wrath.
His smile grew as he found Maggie alone with her mother and the marchioness. Her father had left the ladies to their conversation and joined the marquess and several others for a drink before dinner on the opposite end of the drawing room. His aunt had found a place on a sofa, beside the marquess’ mother, the dowager marchioness.
“Oh, Your Grace!” Lady Seymour exclaimed as he neared them. “I did not have a chance to tell you that I find your tiepin to be most exquisite.”
“Thank you, my lady,” he said with a gracious smile.
“I’ve always found a more austere mode of dress becoming on a gentleman,” the marchioness remarked. “I suppose we can thank Brummell for the dandified fashions overcoming the ballrooms of London. So much fussiness can hardly be deemed masculine.”
“Hmm, I quite agree,” the baroness murmured. “Don’t you, Margaret?”
He gave Maggie a knowing glance. “Miss?”
Blossoms of pink spread across her cheeks, and her lips parted ever so slightly.
His tongue came out to wet his lips at the sight. He wanted to slip his tongue between those parted lips and taste her.
“Yes,” she squeaked, before clearing her throat. “Less is more, I always say.”
“Oh my, Lady Frances,” the baroness exclaimed all of a sudden. “What a beautiful painting you have there.”
Camden stifled a chuckle as he followed the baroness’ gaze to the other side of the room and the painting she indicated.
“Do you like it?” The marchioness preened proudly. “Come, you must have a closer look. Jacques-Laurent Agasse painted it. I find his work to be quite divine.”
The two linked arms and promenaded along the perimeter of the room toward the painting … leaving him and Maggie quite alone on their side of the room.
When he turned to face her, he was confronted by her back. She’d turned away from him, pretending to inspect an ornate vase set upon a table that was a work of art in and of itself. The arrangement of flowers bursting from the top of it was lovely, but hardly worthy of her intense scruti
ny. Camden grinned as he approached. She attempted to avoid conversation with him.
“Well, well,” he murmured, pausing just before the toes of his evening shoes touched the hem of her gown. “Miss Margaret Seymour, we meet at last.”
She tensed, her back going stiff. “Your Grace—”
“Camden,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a low whisper.
“Your Grace,” she rasped through gritted teeth. “Please, this is quite unseemly.”
He stole a glance over his shoulder to ensure they went unseen. His broad shoulders all but shielded her from the rest of the room, and the others had become too entrenched in their own conversations to notice them. He brought his hand up, allowing his fingers to trail from the nape of her neck, down to where her dress began, then farther, tracing the row of tiny buttons running down the back of the garment.
“My name, love,” he murmured, his eyes fixating on the curve of her neck and almost-bare shoulders. “I want to hear you say it again, as you did the night we slept together. You whispered it when I teased your perfect tits with my tongue. You moaned it when I tasted your sweet little cunt. You screamed it when I fucked you.”
She shivered as he shifted, just a bit closer. So close now that his breath rustled the stray hairs caressing the back of her neck. Her shudder caused his cock to pulsate with painful insistence. The thrill of being near her again overcame his good sense and he lowered his head toward her, his lips brushing the back of her neck.
“Camden,” she mewled, swaying back toward him. The swell of her derrière brushed against his crotch, almost crippling him.
He gritted his teeth and moved beside her, fighting against the erection begging to be sheathed.
“That’s better,” he growled. “Now, what have you done to yourself?”
He pretended to inspect the arrangement, as well, but studied her in his peripheral vision. Her white and spring green gown was lovely; yet, hardly did her justice, not as the scarlet getup she’d worn to the masquerade had.
She frowned, turning her head a tick and spearing him with a confused glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“What happened to the vivacious little vixen I spent the night with?” he demanded, his voice raising a bit. “The one who waltzed with me beneath the stars and kissed me so boldly in public? The one who gave me one of the best nights of my life before running out in the morning without nary a good-bye? What have you done with her?”
She squared her shoulders, avoiding his gaze once more.
“You are mistaken if you believe the woman you met is who I truly am. I wore more than one mask that night, Camden. This is who I am. Miss Margaret Seymour, daughter of Baron Lisbroke and Lady Seymour. Prim and proper lady. For God’s sake, I am not even allowed to waltz in public yet.”
He heard the derision in her tone. The woman she claimed to be was not who she truly wished to be; that much became clear.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I believe this mask—the one you wear now—is the true façade. It is no wonder I never noticed you. How could I, when you’ve hidden your true self away?”
She lowered her gaze to the carpet, though her shoulders remained squared, her head erect.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, the ton isn’t exactly forgiving toward women who step outside the dictates of society—especially when one is not of high rank like, say, a duchess.”
He frowned. Damn her, she was right, and now he felt like a bloody fool for the things he’d said. Of course she played the role of the biddable daughter and debutante. She could never make a good match, otherwise. Although, now, if she did make a good match, she’d have the devil of a time explaining her lack of virginity. While many women of the ton were familiar with ways of tricking their bridegrooms into believing they’d deflowered a virgin, Maggie did not seem the type to stoop to deceit.
“Meet me tonight,” he whispered, ensuring once more that they went unheard. “You can be yourself with me, you know that.”
“I cannot,” she said. “The first time was a risk. To do it again would be …”
“The fulfillment of your wildest dreams,” he said, when she’d trailed off. “You confessed as much to me, remember? However, you did not allow me to prove my prowess beyond the one time we made love. Don’t you want to know what it’s like to straddle me and ride my cock? Or to rest on your hands and knees while I fuck you from behind, giving me the perfect view of your pretty little backside?”
She bit her lower lip and her eyes slid closed. “Camden, please.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “There will be plenty of that. Yes, Camden. Please, Camden. More, Camden. You want it, Maggie, and so do I. Come to me tonight.”
Her eyes flew open, darting as she seemed to think over his proposal. He held his breath. She teetered on the verge of capitulating; he could feel it.
“You can spend the rest of your life as a stuffy, boring, married lady if that is what you wish,” he continued. “But before then, you should know what true pleasure is. Do something for yourself, something you truly want, before you’re forced to bend to duty.”
A breath of a moment passed between them before she replied. Her answer came out a whispered, tortured sound.
“Yes. I want it.”
He grinned. “Good girl.”
“But, you must come for me,” she added. “It isn’t safe for me to travel alone in the dead of night, so I demand an escort.”
His smile grew wide and wicked and he turned to face her. “That, I can do.”
Chapter Thirteen
“How’s your champagne?” Camden asked, his gaze penetrating hers from across the table.
They sat before a roaring fire in his bedroom, with a bottle of champagne on ice and a bowl full of strawberries between them. Margaret forgot her earlier trepidation and relaxed, determined to enjoy the night. She’d been afraid when she’d slipped out through the servant’s entrance out into the garden and scaled the gate in the dead of night to meet him. Her heart had thundered in her chest as he’d lifted her into his phaeton, dashing in all black with a cape and hood concealing his face and lending him a roguish air.
Now that they were here, fear faded away and her thoughts became consumed with what carnal pleasures the night would bring.
“The champagne is delightful,” she murmured between sips. “I’ve always loved it, but am never allowed more than one glass, and even then, only on special occasions.”
He grinned, lifting the bottle from its silver bucket and refilling her now empty glass.
“By all means, drink as much as you wish. I want you to enjoy yourself. I can always fetch another bottle if we need it.”
She giggled as the bubbles from her glass tickled her nose. “It’s all very scandalous, at least for me. A month ago, I never would have thought I could be bold enough to sneak out of the house for an amorous liaison.”
He took a sip, his lips glistening from champagne when he pulled the glass away. Her mouth began to water at the thought of tasting his mouth, the heady combination of Camden mixed with the delicious champagne.
“I must confess, it’s new for me, as well. I haven’t had to sneak around with a woman in ages. I haven’t had a bedmate since university that required such stealth and discretion.”
Her heart sank at the reminder that she was not the sort of woman he would have chosen under different circumstances. She’d presented herself to him under false pretenses. It wasn’t his fault she did not live up to the image in her daily life.
“If it isn’t something you wish to do again, I would understand,” she said, lowering her eyes and plucking a plump, red strawberry from the bowl.
He reached for her hand, stilling it before she could bring the fruit to her lips. He stole it from her grasp and attended to the duty himself, his blue gaze fixating upon her lips in interest as she parted them for a bite.
“I would hide wherever you wish, for as long as you wish,” he murmured. “That is how badly I want to be with
you, Maggie.”
She frowned as she chewed.
“Why?” she asked once she’d swallowed. “I am no one.”
“Sheridan Cranfield hardly thinks of you as no one,” he said, devouring the other half of the strawberry. “He made his intentions quite clear this evening.”
Her gut churned at his revelation. While she’d known Mr. Cranfield would eventually propose, knowing he’d already publicly declared himself drove the realization home in the most startling of ways. It was no longer a possibility—Camden’s revelation had turned it into an absolute certainty.
“Oh?” she said, attempting to keep her voice light.
“Oh, yes,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and giving her a pointed glance. “Will you accept?”
“I will be expected to,” she said with a sigh. “He is the heir to a viscountcy and a large inheritance. He is a far greater catch than I ever expected. I suppose I would be a fool to refuse him.”
He fell silent for a moment, studying her with a curious stare. He cleared his throat, turning his gaze away and settling it on the fire burning in the hearth. “Do you always do as you’re told?”
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “No. I’ve been told that a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens is not an appropriate soirée for a young debutante to attend. Yet, I went anyway, didn’t I?”
A small smile curved his lips. “That you did, my sweet. Yet, you just admitted that rebelling against what’s expected of you is a new adventure for you.”
“There is adventurous,” she said, reaching for another strawberry. “And then there’s stupid. The daughter of a mere baron, refusing a viscount?”
“He isn’t the viscount yet,” he argued.
“Still,” she retorted. “His is the best offer I’m likely to receive.”
“And why do you suppose he wants to marry you?”
Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) Page 7