His skin felt alive beneath her fingers, and she raised her head to kiss the taut muscles of his chest. She could hear his rapid breathing above her own, feel the urgency in his movements as he tugged at her gown, his hands moving over her with new purpose.
When his fingers brushed the most intimate part of her, Cat gasped in shock. But he murmured soothing in her ear and soon she forgot everything except the sensations building within her until she cried out with unimagined pleasure.
Chapter Thirteen
Ransom loomed over her, breathing hard and clinging to the last vestiges of his control. He had never meant for things to go this far. He had intended to taste her charms, to gauge her responses, and enjoy himself while he did so. But not this much.
For Catherine Amberly still seemed to be an innocent, and despite all his suspicions, if she was who she claimed... Ransom's conscience struggled against nearly overpowering need as he looked down at her.
Her gown and chemise were pushed aside to reveal silken skin, flushed with pleasure. Her golden hair fell loose and glistening in the sun, her rosy lips were slightly parted, her green eyes closed.
Ransom shuddered, straining against a desire such as he had never known, alarming in its intensity. And that, probably more than anything else, stayed him, at least until he heard her soft whisper.
"I love you, Ransom."
The declaration acted upon him like an icy wave, chilling him to the bone and ridding him of any lingering desire. If she was acting on Devlin's orders, there was always the possibility that she intended to entrap him. And if she wasn't... he could just as well be entrapped.
What if she should reveal details of this afternoon to her aunt? The idea made Ransom grimace, for he had little faith in that sweet but whimsical lady's good sense. The way she prattled on, the story might get out and Catherine would be ruined, a social outcast, a pariah to all except the bravest of her peers.
Gone would be her way of life, along with her aunt's hope for an advantageous marriage. Perhaps some dull shopkeeper might be persuaded to wed her, a mesalliance that would provide an alternative to spinsterhood. But the notion of the nubile beauty in his arms spending her days as the wife of some nondescript bourgeois wrenched at his gut.
Ransom frowned at such imaginings. No one need know of the afternoon's indiscretion, and Catherine would probably go on to snag some rich codger like Claremont, take dozens of lovers, and never worry her pretty head about a thing. Unfortunately, this scenario held as little appeal as the previous one, and Ransom tried to get a firm grip on himself.
Even as he decried her future, he refused to consider a third possibility - that he could wed the girl himself. At the thought, Ransom rolled away and grabbed for his shirt.
As delightful as was the prospect of the passionate Miss Amberly gracing his bed on a permanent basis, Ransom had sworn off marriage long ago. And he was not about to change his mind over a woman whose motives were suspect. Had she set out to snare herself a duke or worse? Ransom shook his head.
And as for her whispered declaration, that was something he wanted no part of at all.
She was sitting up now, straightening her clothes, but Ransom refused to look at her. It's not as though he'd taken her maidenhead. He had given her pleasure, that was all, he told himself as he helped her to her feet, murmuring politely. And someone who swam alone in the ocean nearly naked couldn't be all that innocent...
And yet even as he helped her into the gig, determined to absolve himself, Ransom remembered how often she had claimed not to want his company, and he felt the unfamiliar sting of guilt, as well as something else he couldn't even name.
***
When Cat returned home, she couldn't face her aunt. She didn't trust herself not to come completely undone or blame Amelia for throwing her together with a known seducer. And yet she couldn't regret what had happened, only what had followed.
Hurt as she was by Ransom's cold withdrawal, Cat had not been surprised. She remembered all too clearly his rejection of his cabin boy. With Ransom one could never get too close... And she could only blame herself for blurting out the truth of her feelings.
Resolved not to show her weakness, Cat had adjusted her clothing and insisted on going home. If Ransom expected a mewling, clinging female begging for his affection, she had proven him wrong, keeping her head held high until she reached her room.
When the maid called her for supper, Cat pleaded a headache, and when Amelia herself came to the door, Cat pretended sleep. She was not ready for her aunt's probing questions about the picnic, for despite her often flighty exterior, Amelia could be sharply astute. And Cat was in no mood to dissemble.
She spent a restless night dreaming of Ransom as he had been on the Reckless, at ease and at his best, and skipped breakfast, delaying the inevitable conversation with Amelia until luncheon when she finally appeared downstairs.
"Oh, Catherine, I'm so glad to see you," Amelia said. "I was worried. The maid said you were sleeping still, and I didn't want to disturb you. How are you feeling?"
"Fine, now," Cat said, bending over and kissing Amelia on the cheek. If she hugged her aunt a little too closely, the lady appeared not to notice, demanding instead that she sit and eat a good meal to chase away the lingering effects of any megrims.
"I'm so glad," Amelia said. "Not that you were ill, mind you, but I was afraid you might be angry with me."
"Oh, aunt, how could I be?"
"Well, you told me to stop interfering between you and the duke, but when he came looking for you, I couldn't very well lie to him. And then when he asked if he take a picnic, well, I naturally... I mean, we had plenty here, and I saw no reason for his grace to go to any trouble, for you know Lord Claremont's cook is so temperamental. So I knew he would have a difficult time of it there, and I really couldn't imagine him going to an inn for the food-"
"It's all right, really," Cat said, holding up a hand to halt Amelia's chatter. "The meal was fine. Perhaps the sun and the heat was a little too much."
"Well, I'm just thankful that you have recovered in time for Lord Claremont's ball this evening."
Cat blinked. Too late, she realized her error, but perhaps she could suffer a relapse. "Aunt, I just don't know whether I feel well enough..."
"Oh, but you simply must go," Amelia said, chattering on about the social event of the year.
Cat, too, had once looked forward to an occasion, which now could only be bittersweet. How could she face the guest of honor knowing what they had done together had no more meaning to him than any of his other dalliances? How could she say goodbye to the man she loved yet again?
But Cat was loathe to disappoint the woman who had taken her in, without regard to her situation, and she was not one to hide herself away, like a coward. So it wasn't long before Amelia was fussing over their preparations and making sure she was dressed with the utmost care.
The sea-green tulle of Cat's new gown was a little darker than was strictly fashionable, but the color matched her eyes, and Amelia crowed in approval. Although the square neckline was cut low, Cat refused the jewelry that her aunt pressed upon her, wearing only a pair of pearl earrings and leaving her throat and arms bare.
On a whim, Cat had the maid wind through her hair a chain of tiny shells she had collected in her travels. Wrapping a shimmering blue-green shawl around her shoulders, she joined Amelia, her spirits lifted some small measure by the prospect of a fancy ball, if not by all those in attendance.
While the Molesworth carriage rambled up the lane to the great house, Ransom was beginning to regret his easy acceptance of Lord Claremont's hospitality. He had been bored stiff by his genial host, and tonight promised to be more of the same as he was introduced to guest after guest, including an alarming number of unmarried ladies and their mamas. The reason he had quit this existence came back to him in a rush as he stood by, uttering inanities: he detested such functions.
With an impatience he had not felt in years, he longed for Catheri
ne's arrival. And the possibility that she might not appear or wish to see him set his teeth on edge.
"Your grace, do say you will be dancing this evening," said an enormous woman in a white turban, whose name he could not recall. "All the young ladies are so looking forward to a dance with you." She practically simpered, fluttering a handkerchief so powerfully scented as to offend his nostrils.
"Yes, your grace, do take a turn around the floor," Lord Claremont urged, obviously basking in the attention afforded his visitor.
"Your grace." A servant at his elbow produced the requested glass and Ransom nodded in gratitude. Excusing himself, he ducked into one of the receiving rooms, then strolled through the rest of the house, sipping his drink in an effort to ease the tension that gripped him.
Wandering into the dining hall, where a late supper would be served, Ransom hailed a servant for another drink and drained the glass before turning his attention to the ballroom. His gaze swept the crowd and the entrance for Catherine, an odd sense of anticipation catching him unawares. He could only liken it to his feeling upon sighting another ship, when the expectation of battle and the challenge of capturing a vessel lay before him.
His lips curved as he imagining capturing this prize: the lovely Catherine, once again wild with passion beneath him. But since the object of his desire wasn't in view, Ransom had to be content with his imaginings. Where was she?
Irritated at his impatience, Ransom sought out a partner for the waltz, choosing a young girl of not more than sixteen whose porcelain hair framed a pale, heart-shaped face that neared perfection. Her conversational ability, however, was limited to monosyllables.
His next partner was more mature, a sophisticated woman with rouged cheeks and a twinkle in her eye. But he disliked the bold way she licked her lips, and her innuendos were so lacking in wit with that they left him cold. After refusing a not-so-subtle invitation to her bedroom, he decided that if Catherine did not arrive soon, he would grab a bottle and duck into the gardens, seeking his own company.
"Who are you looking for?" his third partner asked as they swept across the floor. When he raised his eyebrow in response, she was not chastened. "You seem more intent on the doorway than on your steps, though you dance very well."
"Thank you," Ransom said, dryly.
"You needn't name her, your grace," the young lady said. "Gossip has it that you have been seeing a lot of Catherine Amberly."
"I never respond to gossip," Ransom said, with a quelling look.
But Miss Westland failed to be quelled. In fact, she nodded toward the entrance. "And there she is!"
Ransom's eyes flicked, emotionless, over Catherine just as the dance ended. Although his first impulse was to rush to her side and question her tardiness, he resisted the temptation. As the strains of the waltz faded away, he returned his partner to her companions, a look of icy disdain his only response to her knowing smile.
Retreating from the ballroom, he got another drink and moved to a vantage point where he could see Catherine without drawing attention to himself. And a warmth that could not be attributed to the liquor coursed through him at the sight.
She resembled a sea siren, her iridescent cloak the color of the ocean and shells woven through her hair. Not a piece of jewelry adorned her throat or arms, and the effect was one of extreme sensuality, as though she were naked but for the frothing waves of blue-green.
How could he have thought the white-haired china doll beautiful? Catherine glowed with life from the top of her shining golden hair to her slim fingertips, making her more attractive than any woman he had ever seen, here or throughout the world.
"Ah, there you are, your grace."
Ransom's scrutiny was interrupted, and he frowned as he whirled upon the man who spoke. He had been introduced to Mr. Grayson earlier, and now the man presumed upon that brief acquaintance to present him to a dowager who claimed they were in some way related.
She appeared to be slightly deaf, for she ignored his demurs and listed an interminable number of kinsmen, searching for the connection. Finally, exasperated beyond endurance, Ransom agreed that his mother's brother - who had died in infancy - might have married the lady's cousin. By the time he escaped, however, the object of his interest was no where to be seen.
***
Her second glass of champagne in hand, Cat slipped off to the portrait gallery and rued having accompanied Amelia to the ball. Their carriage had broken down on the way, an ill omen that had tempted her to walk back home.
But Amelia had insisted they would make a grand entrance and that anticipation never hurt anyone. Yet Cat had arrived only to see Ransom dancing with Cordelia.
The two had made a striking couple, and Cat knew that the auburn-haired beauty was intelligent and witty, a favorite with any man who valued more than a pretty face. Perhaps she would succeed where Cat had failed, winning the captain's heart.
Cat shook her head, dismissing the unwelcome jealousy. She knew that Cordelia would be looking for her, wondering why she had not hurried to greet her friend. But she did not trust herself to speak, haunted as she was by the memory of Ransom leaning over her, his chest bare, his eyes warm with desire, his mouth tasting of strawberries and wine.
What a fool she had been for succumbing to his seductions, she thought, her fingers tightening around the glass. She took another swallow, hoping to dull the pain.
Caught up in her misery, Cat did not spare a thought for the other revelers. In fact, she had thought herself alone and tensed when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Miss Amberly! Hello!"
Cat turned to see a thin, blond-haired stranger hurrying along the gallery toward her. "I have been looking for you. How nice to find you, at last," he said.
Cat nodded slightly, though it was not customary for a stranger to approach without a proper introduction.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," he said. "My name is Richard Blakely. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance."
"Do we, sir?"
"Yes, I think you know the duke quite well," Blakely said, pausing long enough to add an extra layer of meaning to the words. I've known him a long time. And I usually find that his friends... interest me greatly."
"Do you?" Cat asked. "Well, I certainly can't claim to be a friend."
"No? Then I have been misinformed. Forgive me," he said, bowing slightly. "Please, sit down." He motioned to a small gilt and brocade sofa, one of many that lined the walls.
Curious, Cat complied. Another gentlewoman might have hesitated to join a stranger in a deserted gallery, but Cat was confident in her ability to protect herself. She gave no thought to how it would look, and she certainly had no idea that Ransom was searching for her.
He was stalking the rooms, his jaw clenched. Where the deuce had she gone? Inwardly raging, he wondered why he was losing his temper over a simple female. Calm, cool, and controlled, he prided himself on ignoring trivial matters, and the whereabouts of a woman, no matter who she was, qualified as trivial.
Turning, he nearly collided with an officious servant who presented him with another drink. "Your grace, if you are looking for Miss Amberly, I saw her heading for the portrait gallery... with a gentleman."
Ransom raised a brow at the fellow's tone, effectively dismissing him, and scowled as the man disappeared into the crowd. What the devil?
With a puzzled frown, Ransom turned toward the portrait gallery, instinctively watching his back as he entered the dimly lit corridor. At first, he saw no one. A few steps gave him a better vantage point, however, and he soon spied her.
Out of sight of the other guests in the quiet of the shadowed gallery, the seemingly innocent Miss Amberly was seated cozily beside Richard Blakely, Devlin's favorite sycophant.
Ransom felt as if someone had kicked him in the chest, and only great force of will kept him from staggering backward at the blow. Straightening, he kept rigid command of himself as he watched Catherine Amberly sip champagne and report to her master's right hand man.
<
br /> Ransom burned the image of the two of them into his brain in an effort to dull his desire for her. Even now, he felt it, and he could only admire Devlin's choice, for no other female had so piqued his interest and aroused his appetites, all while seeming an innocent.
The instincts Ransom had come to rely on had played him false this time, for he'd become as enthralled as some damp-palmed schoolboy, panting to steal up a maiden's skirts in the grass. His pride stung at the thought that he should look so foolish, especially to Devlin, whose laughter was probably shaking the entire Indies.
It was time to attend to that devil, Ransom thought, his mouth twisting into a grimace. Revenge had never held much attraction, but Devlin's games had become too much.
What had been the plan, to make Catherine his mistress? She had refused that suggestion, but would she acquiesce now that he was leaving? Or perhaps that was not the goal, and Devlin had hoped...
Ransom shook his head. Surely, even Devlin could not think to ensnare him into marriage. And yet the entire business - the supposedly gently-bred girl who allowed certain liberties and the aunt who conveniently ignored convention - might have been arranged with that in mind.
With a low laugh that would have chilled Cat to the bone, Ransom looked down at his glass and loosened his violent grip on the fine crystal. The sharp pain in his chest eased to a low throb while he concentrated on how to locate his nemesis.
Lately, Devlin traveled from one hiding hole to the next, covering his tracks with expert care. But Ransom had an idea how to discover where he was skulking. First, however, he had another reckoning ahead.
Smiling grimly, he turned on his heel and slipped into the shadows to wait.
***
Cat had nearly finished her champagne before she realized that something was not quite right. She was already a little light-headed from the sparkling wine, but she was alert enough to become suspicious of her smooth-spoken companion as he inched closer to her.
A Heart's Masquerade Page 16