“Of course you can,” he answered, patting her hand resting in the crook of his arm. “You may ask me anything you wish. I hope you know that, Miss Seymour.”
“It is quite a personal question,” she warned. “I wondered … well, that is … would you mind telling me what it is about me you find worthy of your regard?”
He smiled, his shoulders quivering with a slight chuckle. “My, this conversation could last all day,” he quipped. “What is there not to like about you, Miss Seymour? You are beautiful, graceful, demure, and polite, a fabulous dancer, and an amiable conversationalist. As well, you are a paragon of virtue and decorum. A fine example for London’s debutantes to aspire to.”
She nearly choked as her throat seized at his words. Coughing, she fought to keep her fear from showing on her face. She wondered how pure he would think her if he knew the wicked things she’d allowed Avonleah to do to her … the naughty things she’d done to him.
“What a lovely sentiment,” she said, forcing another smile. “Thank you, Mr. Cranfield.”
“Might I ask what brought on such a question?”
She shook her head. “Oh, nothing.”
He paused, turning to face her.
“I think I know,” he offered.
“You do?”
He nodded. “Yes. The end of the season is nearing, and you are probably wondering when I will make my intentions known to you and your parents.”
Panic seized her at the reminder. The season would end, and with it, her affair with Camden. Their time had begun to run short, and she’d only started to experience all that existed for them to share together.
“Well—” she began.
Sheridan interjected. “I can assure you, the wait will not be much longer,” he said with another smile. “I am certain you must know where this is going. I have not spent as much time in another lady’s company as I have yours, Miss Seymour, and I’ve come to hold you in quite high regard. I hope I’ve answered any questions you might have had, but did not wish to ask.”
She nodded. “Yes, quite helpful. Thank you.”
Turning her head to avoid his gaze, Margaret fought back tears. Their conversation had been revealing, to say the least. Camden had been right. Sheridan did not know her at all. The attributes he’d listed encompassed those every young chit had been taught before being launched into society. Not one was attributed to her own personality.
Yet, the truth remained that the one man who knew her above all others could never truly be hers. Their affair would end when she became engaged. Of course, once she’d produced an heir and a spare for her husband, a discreet liaison with a duke would be overlooked by all. Though, who knew how long that would take? Perhaps by then, he would have found another woman who fulfilled his needs. He wouldn’t need her any longer. Besides, she did not think she could bring herself to commit adultery; not if Sheridan were her husband. A man so kind and gentle did not deserve such.
Margaret was now forced to acknowledge that she could not outrun the constraints of society forever. Now had come the time to yield to them.
Chapter Sixteen
The usual boredom accompanying his nights at Almack’s was absent as Camden waited for Maggie to arrive. His gaze darted to the entrance every thirty seconds, uncertain of why the impending dance had him feeling so nervous.
This is important to her, he reminded himself. Her first public waltz. While he’d waltzed with her beneath the stars and behind masks at Vauxhall Gardens, this would be different.
They’d been carrying on for a fortnight since the evening she’d first crept from her townhome, allowing him to whisk her away to his bed. He’d been on top of her, inside of her, tasting her, making love to her, and sometimes fucking her with such mindless abandon, any other lady might have been shocked. Not her, however. She gave as good as she got, and never ceased to amaze him with the amount of passion and fire hidden away in her petite frame.
Yet, for all the nights he had possessed her body, he had no claim to her outside of the bedroom. While something like that would never have bothered him with another lady, it did when it came to her. He wanted, even for the length of a waltz, to publicly declare in some way that she was his. The gossip would run rampant after their dance, but so long as she didn’t dance with him twice in the same night, it would die as quickly as it sparked.
Once would be enough. Molding Maggie against his body, their thighs rubbing together sensuously in view of an entire ballroom … just the thought of it caused his blood to hum in his veins with anticipation. Only he would know they’d danced together beneath the sheets already. Only he would know that this would not be the first time they’d stood so close, or held each other.
But they would … which was why he wanted to be the first to sign her dance card. She’d admitted to wishing he would have done so at other soirées, and he intended to fulfill her wish.
“Well, I haven’t seen you in quite some time, Your Grace,” purred a feminine voice from his side.
He turned to find Lady Katherina Chadwick, widow of the deceased Earl of Eastetter, at his side. He fought back a groan as she turned her hopeful gaze upon him.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said with as much grace as he could muster.
Just now, he did not have the patience to let the widow down easy. They’d ended an affair months ago but still called upon each other from time to time when in need of a bedmate. By her bold stare, he knew this would be one of those times for her.
“Aren’t you a dashing sight?” she murmured, lowering her voice. “Though, you always are.”
“You are too kind, my lady. You are a vision.” He responded by rote, his eyes still scanning the crowded assembly room for Maggie.
“I’ve saved a dance for you, Avonleah,” she said with a knowing smile.
Their secret code. Whenever the countess wished a discreet evening with him, she told him she’d saved a dance for him. He would sign her dance card for a waltz, his assurance that he would visit her later in the evening.
Glancing down at her dance card, he found an open quadrille just before the waltz he hoped to share with Maggie.
“I’m only good for a quadrille tonight, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I thank you for saving a dance for me, my lady.”
Katherina started, blinking as her mouth fell open. While Camden had any number of prospective bedmates on any given night, he’d never turned her down. The woman had the most exquisite mouth. At least, he’d thought so before experiencing Maggie’s lips around his cock. The countess’ expertise did not hold a candle to her innocent exploration.
She recovered quickly, snapping her mouth shut as he signed her dance card. “Of course, Your Grace. I shall see you for the quadrille.”
“Enjoy your evening,” he replied, turning his head dismissively and continuing his search for Maggie.
Anger bristled along his spine when he found her, entering the assembly room on the arm of Mr. Sheridan Cranfield.
Damn the man. As a suitor of Maggie’s, he had the advantage. It would seem he had escorted her and the baroness to Almack’s this evening. The clodpole had likely signed her dance card already, stealing away the waltz Camden had wanted for himself.
He advanced toward them at a leisurely pace, pausing to greet acquaintances as he weaved through the crowd. By the time he reached them, it was far too late. Cranfield stood presenting Maggie with a cup of watery lemonade and smiling in that smug way of his as Camden approached.
“Your Grace!” the baroness exclaimed, dipping into a curtsy. “How lovely to see you again.”
He bowed to her, keeping his eyes on Maggie, who returned the stare just as intently.
“You’re a vision, as ever, Lady Seymour. How are you this evening?”
“Quite well, thank you,” she answered. “Margaret, do come and say hello to the duke.”
Clutching her cup in one gloved hand, Maggie stepped away from Cranfield and approached.
“Good evening, You
r Grace,” she murmured, attempting a curtsy while keeping her cup upright.
“Miss Seymour, has anyone told you that you are radiant this evening,” he said, giving Cranfield a smug glance of his own over her shoulder. “This particular shade of yellow favors your coloring.”
He did not say so just to set Cranfield on edge. Her ensemble was demure, but the yellow gown beneath an overlay of amber gauze caused her to look like a golden goddess. The lace embroidered along her bodice and hem were just enough to enhance, the simple earrings and bracelet she wore the perfect compliment.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied.
“I do hope you saved a waltz for me,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll be sorely disappointed if you did not.”
“Of course,” she said, extending her hand and the dance card dangling from her wrist along with it.
Camden fought back a scowl as he glanced down at the card and found that Cranfield had, indeed, signed for the first waltz. The only other waltz would be at the end of the evening. He would have to wait for hours while watching her partnered by man after man. The thought set his teeth on edge. He signed his name in the allotted place and returned the dance card to her.
“Margaret was one of the few debutantes given permission to waltz by the lady patronesses,” the baroness gushed. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “An exciting evening for a young miss. I will await our waltz with great anticipation, Miss Seymour. Lady Seymour,” he added, bowing to her again. He inclined his head in their companion’s direction. “Cranfield.”
“Avonleah,” Sheridan snapped, his jaw tight as he glanced away, refusing to meet his gaze.
“If you will excuse me, I see someone I must speak with. Miss Seymour, until later?”
Without giving them a chance to reply, he left and went in search of his first dance partner. He’d signed for a few country dances and quadrilles to pass the time; yet, he had not anticipated being forced to wait the entire night to have Maggie to himself.
What he wouldn’t give for five minutes alone in a room with Sheridan Cranfield. He’d thrash the man within an inch of his life.
“A waltz with a duke, how splendid!” the baroness gushed as she and Margaret sipped lemonade between dances. “You must have made quite an impression on him at the Marquess of Whenhold’s dinner party for him to remember you and ask for a dance.”
Margaret tried to keep her voice even as she answered her mother. “I am sure he’s only being polite. He’s danced with several other ladies tonight.”
“Oh, poppycock,” she insisted. “He is in high demand and he could have chosen to dance with anyone. And a waltz, at that! I vow, your father and I believed Mr. Cranfield to be your best prospect, but now … you might just have a chance to marry a duke!”
She sighed. “Mother, one dance is hardly a marriage proposal. I barely know Avonleah.”
That was not entirely true. She knew the way he tasted and the way he smelled. She knew he had a scar on his lower back from the time he’d been thrown from his horse as a young man. She knew he liked it when she nibbled on his neck while they made love. She knew he enjoyed brandy before retiring for the night, and slept in the nude. She knew how his lips felt on every inch of her naked body, and the feel of him, hard and hot between her thighs.
As the night went on, she found herself increasingly aware of him—where he stood, who he conversed with, what he was doing. It drove her mad, being so close to him, yet so far away. Her dance with Mr. Cranfield had been pleasant. He had proved an accomplished dancer, leading her with precision and grace while they conversed easily. Yet, the close proximity of his body had only reminded her of Camden and how badly she wished for his form molded to hers.
When the moment finally came, she forgot the fatigue plaguing her after several country reels and quadrilles. She saw only Camden as he approached her, his black hair gleaming in the candlelight, his blue eyes filled with mischief.
“At last, we have arrived at the moment of reckoning,” he teased with a smile, taking her hand and bowing over it. “Miss Seymour, will you honor me with a waltz?”
Her chest swelled as her heart began to race, her mouth going dry. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice low and breathless.
He gave her hand a gentle tug and led her into the throng of dancers. His arm came around her, his hand resting at the small of her back as his opposite hand took hers. His gaze never wavered from hers as the music began and he led her into the first steps. As good as Sheridan had been, he was leagues better.
Their wild, dizzying waltz at Vauxhall could hardly compare to the smooth grace with which he led her now, mastering her body as easily as he did in the privacy of his bedroom. She went limp against him, allowing him to guide her as the individual flames of the candles became one golden blur beyond him.
“I need you tonight,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “Will you come?”
She sighed. “I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t.”
“No,” he agreed. “You should not. But you want to … you will.”
“You’re so certain,” she remarked. “Maybe I won’t.”
“Then I’ll simply have to scale the wall of your townhouse and climb through your window,” he whispered. “How would you like to wake up with me in your bed, kissing your neck, finding your warm cunt beneath your nightgown?”
Her face and neck grew warm, her eyes darting to ensure they’d gone unheard. “Camden,” she chastised. “Be good.”
His lower lip pushed out in an exaggerated pout. “Must I? All right, I will, but only if you’ll agree to meet me.”
She nodded. “I will. Our usual time?”
He grinned. “I’ll be waiting.”
They completed the dance in silence, their gazes locked without wavering, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization. A night at Almack’s had never been so exciting.
When he released her, she returned to Sheridan and her mother and fought not to glance back at him. If she did, Maggie felt certain he, and everyone else present, would know the state of her heart.
She found the baroness engaged in conversation with a friend when she approached, but Sheridan stepped forward to offer his arm immediately.
“Would you take a turn about the room with me?” he asked, his tone strained and his gaze turbulent.
Guilt assaulted her at the sight of his distress. Perhaps she and Camden hadn’t been as good at concealing their connection from everyone. Sheridan certainly seemed to have picked up on it, at any rate.
“Of course,” she complied, placing her hand upon his arm.
He waited until they had skirted the edge of the crowd before he spoke again. “I took too long in declaring myself to you, didn’t I?”
His question took her aback. “I … I am not certain I know what you mean,” she stammered.
“The duke has taken an interest with you, which is hardly surprising,” he said. “Why shouldn’t he? You’re a fine catch, and he sees that as much as I do.”
“Mr. Cranfield, I don’t think now is the time—”
“I know,” he said in a rush. “It is hardly proper for me to do this now, but I must say this. I want to marry you, Margaret.”
She tried to stifle the gasp burning in her throat, but was unsuccessful. He’d never called her by her given name before.
“I realize you may know this already, but I am officially making an offer. I believe we suit each other well. You have proven yourself to be a woman beyond reproach and I would be honored if you would agree to marry me.”
Panic gripped her and her breath became shallow, hampered by a tightening in her chest. “Mr. Cranfield—”
“Sheridan, please,” he insisted. “You must call me Sheridan. Or Sherry, if you like. It’s what my schoolmates called me at Cambridge.”
She smiled at him. “What an endearing nickname. Sheridan, perhaps you would allow me to sleep on your proposal?”
His eyes widened and he
cleared his throat. “Of course. I have caught you off guard. It was terrible of me, but I hope I can admit to being jealous without causing you to think me a lesser man.”
She patted his hand with her gloved one. “It’s all right, I understand. Perhaps if you call on me tomorrow, I will have an answer for you.”
He smiled radiantly at her promise, but she felt her heart sinking into her stomach. The moment of truth had come, and while she had the power to refuse him, she could find no reason to. What would she tell him?
I’m sorry, Sheridan, I cannot marry you. It’s just that I must remain constantly available so I can act as a lover to the Duke of Avonleah. I’d rather be his mistress than your wife, you see.
It was ridiculous to keep him waiting any longer than necessary. The season was ending and with it, so must her affair with Camden. She would tell him tonight, when he came to meet her. She hoped that by morning, she would feel less guilt over what she must do, and more certainty.
Chapter Seventeen
Darkness had descended on the garden, with only the barest hint of moonlight from behind the clouds illuminating it. Maggie stood waiting for him in the far corner, against the stone wall concealing the Seymours’ townhouse from their neighbors. She wore a simple white nightgown beneath a dark navy dressing gown. Her hair fell loose down her back, hanging in soft waves.
Camden grinned as he approached, enchanted by the sight of her standing before him, kissed by moonlight. He reached for her, taking her waist in his hands and pulling her against him. She tried to speak, but he muffled her words, kissing her with the all the hunger he’d kept at bay during their evening at Almack’s.
She whimpered, her palms coming up to his chest. His body roared to life against hers, his every inch hardening … including the organ between his legs.
She broke the kiss, staring up at him. “I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
He’d been about to tease her over her loaded words until he studied her face in earnest. Her eyes appeared watery, as if she’d been crying, her lips parted as if she were breathless. He scowled, his arms tightening around her.
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