Max didn't want to hear the names. He didn't even want to look at anyone else. All he wanted to do was spirit Arielle out through the nearest door to the gardens, drag her up to her room - no his - and strip that silky, torturous concoction of a dress he had bought for her off her surprisingly enticing body and hopefully reground himself in reality.
This was Arielle, for heaven sake.
The same Arielle, he added, who had been under his roof for months now without ever revealing how utterly feminine, delightfully curvaceous, and charmingly desirable she truly was.
The woman in question sat, obviously oblivious to his plight, nibbling delicately at one of the little cakes he'd brought her and he bit back a groan. How had he not noticed what a prize she was? Her soft, pink lips closed around the confection and he imagined them closing over him in the most inappropriate of places - which caused him to die a little death inside.
“You are killing me, Arie-”
“Ari,” she reminded in a harsh whisper. “My name is Ari, remember? And I do apologize for causing you pain by seeing to my hunger, but you did drag me in here and I am famished, Max. I was so anxious about tonight I quite simply forgot to eat, and...”
He only stared at her and Arielle put the cake back onto the plate with a little sigh of regret. She named three names, ticking each off on her gloved fingers as they were listed, but Max didn't hear a word.
“What were you laughing about, with Atlindale?”
Arielle was confused for a moment, but then, she smiled, her eyes sparkling with remembered humor. “He called me Harry.”
Max's eyes widened at Drew's gross mispronunciation of the nickname he himself had given her for the evening.
“Harry?” He scoffed. Could the man find nothing less belittling with which to set himself apart from the crowd in her mind? “So much for originality. He is naught more than a rapacious flirt, Arielle. You mustn't pay him a bit of attention. He talks a jolly talk, but the fellow is pure rogue underneath, I assure you.”
Arielle arched a brow. “I thought he is your friend, Max.”
“Well, yes, he is, but you needn't dance with him on my account.”
“I did not do so in the first place. He asked me to dance and I accepted.” Peering up at him, she cocked her head to the side, confusion making her already elegant visage even more delectable in the shadows. “What is wrong with you this evening, Max?”
Chapter Five
For the remainder of the evening, Max forced himself to ignore Arielle (she was waltzing with Lord Huntingdon near the dais where the orchestra played), to stop counting her dance partners (there were twelve), and to play the gracious host at his own ball.
He smiled, he danced with the ladies, he chatted with the matrons and mothers and even, for more than a few minutes, with the staff. But neither his thoughts nor his gaze were ever far from the lady he had coerced into coming here tonight - with the promise of giving her her freedom - and damned him if he didn't regret every minute of having done so.
After Arielle had quite finished taking him to task for being angry with her over doing exactly as he had asked her to do, she had reminded him he needn't worry about her in the least because as soon as his grand ball came to an end, she would be out of his life for good - except for the annual pension he had promised her, he needn't give her another thought, she had said.
And therein lay the problem, Max admitted. After tonight, he wasn't sure he would ever be able to get her out of his mind.
This Arielle was so different from the one who chose to assist the staff when she could spend her days doing anything she pleased.
This Arielle was a lady, a gorgeous, desirable lady, and although he hadn't really paid much attention to the fact before, tonight her laudable performance with his guests and subsequent popularity with half the males in London had practically smashed him over the head with the truth of all that she was.
Oh, he wasn't such an inattentive ass he hadn't noticed what lovely eyes she had before. Nor was he so callous he had never acknowledged her brilliant wit or her gentle way with practically everyone she met. But this side of the Arielle he knew was as different as night is to day and promised so much more...
While he had spent much of this evening silently brooding off to the side, he still watched her in awe. If he hadn't known the truth of her status, he would have to admit that she would fit the role of duchess most consummately. And that bothered him because if he had noticed, surely every other male in attendance had.
Still, there was one tiny bit of a saving grace for the evening. No one knew who she was. He had introduced her simply as "Ari," dropped a few chosen phrases about her being as lovely as a princess ought, how her accent had certainly disappeared, and how sorry he was about her parents and, as the two of them had counted on and previously agreed, the gossip of the crowd had done the rest, filling in the details as they were passed from guest to guest.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his mother headed in his direction and ducked hastily behind a column to avoid the conversation he knew she wanted to have.
Glancing at his watch, Max sighed with relief. Two minutes until twelve. It was time to call it a night. The dancing and mingling would go on until the wee hours of the morning for the others, he knew, but for Arielle and himself, it was time to quit the ballroom for the less disruptive solitude of a small chamber on the third floor at the top of the stairs.
* * *
Arielle saw him striding across the ballroom, a look of fierce determination in his eyes, and excused herself from the group with which she had been chatting to meet him near the doors leading out onto the terrace.
Without a word, Max took her hand in his and pulled her outside, down the stairs, along the long path that wound around through the garden and then up to a set of stairs which led up to the third floor. He did not stop until he had opened the door to her small suite of rooms and followed her inside.
Exhausted, both from the dancing and the distress of playing a part into which she truly did not think she fit, Arielle dropped into the plush wing-backed chair near the now empty hearth, tugged off her gloves, and sighed in relief.
She leaned down to remove the slippers he had bought for her and wriggled her tired, stockinged toes. “Oh, that feels marvelous, Max. So wonderful, in fact, the only thing I can imagine could possibly be more so at this moment would be a long, thorough massage.”
Her hands moved downward toward her left foot to administer just that, and Max caught them in his own, pulling her up from the chair and against his chest.
His eyes were dark. Turbulent, with flashes of something hot and dangerous inside. Arielle said nothing, merely relaxed her hands in his and waited.
Chapter Six
Arielle felt her lids slip down over her eyes, closing out the fierce, concentrated look on Max's face an instant before his lips touched hers.
Exhaustion forgotten, her fabricated role a distant memory, she relaxed against him and returned his kiss. His lips moved slowly over hers at first, sliding, softening, but then, when his tongue slid out to tease the seam of her mouth and she met it with her own, everything changed. His arms came around her body, pulling her close while, at the same time, his mouth opened over hers.
Ignoring the small but insistent voice of warning at the back of her mind, Arielle gave herself up to the moment, tasting him, teasing him. Despite knowing the regret she would surely feel later, for now, she allowed herself a time to simply feel.
To memory, she committed the taste of him, the feel of his body pressed against her, the gentle sweeps of his lips and tongue against her own, for surely this would be the only time she could know him so intimately.
Every touch, every shared caress, each softly murmured sound that bespoke his enjoyment of the kiss seemed to brand itself into her flesh, her mind, though she cursed herself for feeling it all so intensely because she knew this moment would stay to haunt her for as long as she drew breath.
The memory seared its way into her mind and she knew it would forever serve as a reminder of what she could not have, what was not and would never be hers to cherish, and as it steeled itself insidiously inside her heart to wound her in times of weakness, she also knew she would treasure it for an eternity.
Max was first to break their kiss, though he did so with obvious reluctance.
“My God,” he whispered into the quiet of the room, his voice ragged. “How could I not have known?”
Fighting against the poignancy of the moment, Arielle chuckled low, a seductive sound that rose from deep inside her chest, surprising even her.
“Perhaps you preferred blissful ignorance to certain knowledge in order to maintain your sanity?” she teased, looking up at him with slumbrous humor in her eyes.
Sanity, yes, he agreed silently, and dipped his head for more. But there was nothing sane about the riot of emotions running amok inside him. He felt both the comfort of familiarity and the thrill of unique discovery while questioning the wisdom of his actions throughout every moment of their blindingly passionate kisses.
He should at least attempt to stop the madness, he knew, and yet the sweetness of her lips, the warmth of her body pressed so trustingly against his, the thrill of learning how well matched they were for each other, physically as well as conversationally, sent Max back to her lips time and again for yet another taste.
Her fingers had come up to tangle in his hair while his hands roamed lower, curving around the firm but gentle slope of her bottom. He pulled her ever closer and his lips left hers to explore the expanses of skin he'd craved to taste earlier - the sensitive spot on her neck beneath her ear, the soft mounds of the tops of her breasts exposed by the neckline of her gown, and the warm valley in between.
“Max?”
Her voice, sounding every whit as breathless as he felt, penetrated the silence, halting his exploration. Reluctantly, he lifted his head and straightened, putting her away from him lest he be tempted to kiss her yet again. Drawing in a deep breath to hopefully chill his ardor and bring him to his senses, Max nodded. “We will talk tomorrow.”
He backed away to her door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway before turning again for one last glimpse of her loveliness. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses, her neck abraded by the scrape of his roughly stubbled chin. He would need to shave more often, he thought, his eyes noting how her chest rose and fell beneath the bodice of her gown.
He closed them against the enticement simply looking at her caused and somehow managed to walk away, closing her door gently behind him.
After a moment, Arielle raised her fingers to her lips in silent wonderment. Max had kissed her. He had kissed her and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the doing of it.
Max. Had kissed her.
“What have I done?”
The question slipped out unheeded and Arielle dropped back into the chair from which he had pulled her up only moments ago, stunned, as a thousand thoughts of dismay tumbled through her mind.
She pushed them stubbornly away.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry over what had happened between herself and Max and the repercussions of the evening. But for tonight – just tonight – she would sleep with a smile upon her lips and dream a dukish dream about some other her in another lifetime in another world where Max would be the prince of her dreams and she would be free to be his princess.
Chapter Seven
By the time Max sought her out in her chambers the following afternoon, Arielle had more than recovered from the devastating effect of his kisses from the night before, well enough, at least, to greet him with a bright smile. “What took you so long, Max? I have been waiting for you.”
She reached for his hand, pulled him over to her chair and pushed him into it before crossing the room to sit at her writing table, where she drew up a sheet she had been scribbling notes on. “We have three choices for you. Lady Lucinda Ellerton, Lady Emily, the marquess of Boutwycke's eldest daughter, and Lady Clarissa Theomorton. Tonight, you will narrow those choices down to one. But first, we should talk about your requirements - in a woman, Max - meaning those attributes you require, as a man, aside from the obvious ones your bride will need to be able to fulfill her role as the new duchess of Rothminster.”
He arched a brow. “I rather thought we might talk about last night, Arielle. I...”
“Last night was a smashing success, Your Grace. Do you not agree? In the few hours of my attendance, I was able to narrow your choices from hundreds of potential eligible ladies to three. I also managed to avoid being denounced as a charlatan, and to enjoy a bit of dancing in the doing of it. I, for one, would definitely deem that a success.” She grinned. “Your friend Drew is delightful, by the way. Once this choosing of a bride for you is done, I shall have to get to know him better.”
“Andrew,” he corrected. “Preferably Atlindale, if you must address the fellow at all, and absolutely not.”
It was her turn to arch a brow. “No? I hardly think you in a position to direct my friendships, Maxwell. In any case, the marquess behaved as a perfect gentleman in my company, so there is naught for you to fret your ducal head over.”
He said nothing in response, so she turned her attention back to the paper in her hand. “Well? What are your requirements, Your Grace?”
Max reached for the paper and tossed it without a thought into the basket beside her writing table. “At the moment, my requirements for the particular female at hand are her attention and none of this blather about becoming friends with Marquess Atlindale after my ball. Arielle, what happened last night...you were so...”
“Lovely? Tall?” She laughed at his look of bemusement and shook her head. “Don't be so confused, Max. I suspect that gorgeous creation of a dress and those delightfully unique shoes you bought for me had a great deal to do with it.”
She penned attention and not a blatherer onto the sheet. “I do believe your guests truly thought me some visiting royal princess from the way they reacted. Would it not be lovely if, someday, we could reveal our charade, just to see the look on their faces?”
Gesturing with her hands, she orated the revelation. “The perhaps not so honorable duke of Rothminster admits to having paid his mother's ward to dress up and deceive the entire ton simply because he found the chore of choosing a bride to be far too tedious to see to himself.”
“You were so passionate, Arielle. Sensuous, even. We have to discuss how we shall deal with this new development in our relationship. I-”
Arielle shook her head again, this time in denial. “There is nothing to be done, Max. You kissed me. I enjoyed it. We both shall go forward with our lives.”
She shrugged and his eyes narrowed.
“You kissed me back, Arielle.” He stalked forward, took her hands in his and twined their fingers together before holding them up between their bodies for her to see. “You twined these elegant little fingers of yours into my hair and held on as if you never wanted to let go. You did more than enjoy my kisses. You reveled in them. Admit it.”
Arielle matched his narrow-eyed glare with one of her own. “And give you more fodder with which to grow your already over-extended ego?”
She shook her head yet again. “I am sorry, Rothminster. I have admitted I enjoyed your kisses. You shall have to make do with that.”
Even as she tried to diffuse the situation with humor, she knew Max could see right through her ploy. Finally, sighing, she leaned her head resolutely against his chest right above their joined hands. “We cannot let a few surprising kisses change things between us, Max. You have a duchess to choose and I-” She fought back the sudden surge of tears that threatened. “I won't be in your life, once all of this is finished, so please, don't make this harder for me than it already is.”
Raising her head, she pinned him with a glare. “Besides, Your Grace, this whole role-playing situation was your idea from the beginning. Don't you dare try and weasel your way out of your promise now s
imply because I was better at it than either of us expected. We've one more night to get through, and you're the logical one, so I fully expect you to-”
“To what?” He watched her carefully, still holding her hands.
“Your logical mind should connect the dots readily enough. Even if I wanted to explore this new attraction between us, it would never work. You will soon be married to a woman of equal status and stature, and you know how softhearted I am.”
She looked away, unable to risk his reading her emotions in her eyes. “You would go off to enjoy your marital bliss and I would be left to nurse a broken heart. And since you are not the callous man some people think you to be, I know you could never countenance being the source of my pain. You would spend the rest of your life mired in guilt for...”
Max laughed, cutting her off. “How do you know I would feel guilt, Arielle? Perhaps I am the sort of man who indulges in a brief moment of passion and then walks away without a backward glance? Or, who is to say I would not be the one left with a broken heart, one I assure you would not so easily mend?” He raised their hands up to flick teasingly at the end of her nose with his forefinger. “Perhaps you have enchanted me, Arielle, and now, for me, no other woman will do?”
She scoffed. “Highly unlikely. It was only a kiss, Maxwell, and you have had more than your share of those over the years. Mine is no different than the scores of others in which you have indulged.”
He knew she desperately wanted him to believe her words, but looking down into the conflicted depths of her gaze, he was not so certain they were true. At length, she pulled against his grip and he released her, though reluctantly.
“May we go back to our plans for the ball tonight? Please?” she asked, retrieving her page of notes from where he had tossed them – in the waste bin.
Fancytales: The Once Upon A Time Collection Page 9