The elaborate meal ended, and the company adjourned once more to the ballroom, where they would dance into the morning. Angelique meant to leave then; she even placed a guiding hand on the sea captain’s arm to steer him gently toward the front hall, but he took hold of her. It was he who guided her through the ballroom, past the dancers, and out onto the balcony beyond.
“You are presumptuous,” she said as he took her in his arms.
“Are you complaining?” he asked, drawing her close as the strains of the second waltz of the evening filtered in from the open windows.
“Simply observing a fact.”
She did not speak again, for his hands were on her, and the warmth of his body surrounded her with the scent of cedar. In that moment she did not feel like a woman of nine and twenty, but like a girl having her first dance in the arms of a man she wanted.
How long had it been since she had felt this way?
Perhaps with Anthony, long ago, though with him she had always been guarded, always careful, for she had known during all the years of their liaison that she loved him and that he did not return that love. She had known it, though she had lived in hope. Hope that he would value her, hope that someday he would see her as she was and love her for herself. Anthony had seen her, he had known her, but still, he had never loved her. Perhaps that was why it was so difficult to let him go.
But that night, as she danced with a stranger on the terrace of Claremore House, Anthony Carrington might as well have vanished from the earth. All she felt were the strong arms of the man who held her, the scent of his body, leather, and sea salt closing in around her, cocooning her in an illusion of warmth and serenity.
The music ended, but still they moved across the terrace beneath the shadows of the linden trees as the rising moon shed its light on them like a blessing. The sea captain drew her into the shadows along the edge of the terrace.
The warm candlelight of the house glowed from the windows and doorways they left behind. The sound of laughter followed them, and as Angelique listened, she heard a new set of dances beginning.
She turned away from all that, away from her life as she knew it among the London ton. He drew her deep into the shadows, and she let him. She raised her head to the man who stood beside her, offering herself to him, seeking a few moments’ respite from the life that she knew, the life she was growing tired of. He did not disappoint her.
Five
The sea captain’s lips were soft, sheathing his strength in silken pleasure. They moved over hers in lazy contemplation, not as if he would devour her, but as if he had all the time in the world to savor the taste of her, to feel her body warm beneath his hands.
A breeze blew in from the garden, chilling her under the thin linen of her shift, beneath the soft silk of her gown. When she shivered, he drew her closer still, opening his mouth over hers, drawing her mouth open beneath him so that he could feast on her even as he kept her warm.
Angelique felt herself drawn into him bit by bit, little by little, as if he were a conjurer who offered all she had ever desired. She followed where he led as he brought her deeper into the shadows, off the terrace altogether, into the darkness of the garden beyond. Between the flowering bushes and hedgerows, not even the moonlight could reach them.
He kissed her in earnest then, his hunger coming to the fore, driving her to answer him. She felt her desire rise as a wave might swamp a ship, but she did not go under. She floated along the surface of that wave and shivered as it carried her higher, bringing her deeper and deeper into the realm of pleasure.
She gasped beneath his hands as his coarse, calloused fingers dove beneath the scalloped bodice of her gown. This was no gentleman who wore gloves when on a hunt. This was a man who worked the rigging of his ship himself, a man who carried his own load and who burdened no one. The touch of his calloused palms on the softness of her breasts made her lose her breath.
He moved to stand behind her, and she leaned her head back against his shoulder, letting him touch her as he would, savoring this man she did not know as his hands caressed her body beneath its casing of silk. His hands ran over her curves again and again, one hand on the top of her gown, the other beneath her bodice. He did not untie her laces or even loosen them, but grasped what he could, for her ample bosom was pushed high by her corset, raised high for a man’s contemplation or for his touch.
His lips played along the edge of her jaw as his hands cupped her breasts. She gave herself over to the feeling of his hands on her body, knowing that she would never see him again. This moment was a stolen one, and she was bound to savor it.
It was he who drew back, who righted her gown before turning her to face him.
“I would not take you here in the duke’s garden.”
She laughed, and this time the sultry sound was not calculated to appeal, nor was it feigned. Angelique leaned back in his arms, raising her hands behind his neck to toy with the ribbon that bound his hair. She could almost see that long hair falling around her as he leaned over her on the soft sheets of her bed.
She sighed then, for she knew that she would not bring this man into her home, that night or ever.
“You will not take me anywhere,” she said.
Still, her deft fingers slipped the ribbon out of his hair. His hair was bound also by a leather band, so the silk of the navy blue ribbon caressed her fingers, almost as soft as the waves of auburn it held in place. She lowered her arms and slipped the ribbon inside her bodice, a trophy of war.
“This has been a pleasant interlude,” she said. “And now, I must depart.”
His chuckle was like molten lava on her skin. Her own desire rose to meet it, like a flower turning toward the heat of the sun. She had to force herself to lower her hand and to take a step back from him.
“‘Wouldst thou leave me so unsatisfied?’”
It was her turn to laugh at his clumsy attempt to quote Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, while filled with lovely poetry, had never been one of her favorites.
She pressed one more kiss along his jaw, trailing her lips to his mouth. She thought him in control of himself until his mouth opened over hers, devouring her again as if she were a sweet that he had a powerful craving for. She trembled once before she reminded herself of where she was. Angelique drew back.
“I must go,” she said.
“Must you? Then let me come with you.”
His hands smoothed over the tops of her breasts again, and she trembled for one moment beneath an onslaught of pure, unadulterated fire.
“Believe me when I tell you that I would let you come with me,” he said.
His voice was thick with desire, as heavy as the gown she wore. The double entendre hung in the air between them. Her stays had cut off her air long since, and she fought now to bring her breath back to steadiness. For the first time since Anthony, she fought for self-control.
She could not remember the last time she had wanted a man so badly. But she could not have him, she would not have him, and she knew it.
“I have an etching or two at home,” she said. “No doubt you would benefit from surveying them.”
“I have benefited already.” He reached for her again, but she knew that if he touched her, she might give in to her own lust. She danced backward, out of his grasp.
“Or I could show you the art my husband collected. He had quite a taste for paintings of horses and dogs.”
The stranger laughed, his voice still thick with desire for her. She could not see his face, but she could feel the warmth of his smile from where she stood.
“I did not know that you had a husband, Angelique.”
She shivered at the sound of her name on his tongue. “He is dead,” she said. “His art outlasted him.”
“As even bad art will,” he quipped.
She laughed a little at his jibe and took another step back.
“No doubt we would,” Angelique said, backing down the path, straightening her gown as she went. Her long hair, falling in curls across her shoulders, was a lost cause, and she knew it. “But alas,” she said, “I must leave alone.”
He moved close to kiss her again, but she drew back, and this time he let her go.
“I hope we meet again,” he said.
Angelique walked away from him for the second time in one day. She tried to stop herself from looking back, but this time, she failed.
“I do not think we will. But thank you for the ribbon.”
She drew the length of silk from her deep décolletage as she stepped into the light of the terrace. She could hear the sound of music, but it was distant, almost drowned out by the beating of her heart.
She raised her arms and tied her long hair back with the ribbon she had stolen.
She did not ask his name. She held her tongue and turned away, sliding through the shadows into the safety of the house. She moved quickly to the front door, where the duchess had her carriage waiting for her.
Angelique did not hesitate but climbed inside and rapped on the roof, that her driver might pull away quickly. But she need not have bothered. The stranger with the hot, calloused hands had not followed her. He had taken her at her word. He had let her go.
Six
She left him flat.
James Montgomery could not remember the last time a woman had done that. He thought back over the indiscretions of his youth and realized that a woman never had. Nellie Graham had left him with a cock stand when they were both twelve years old. After frolicking in the stables of his father’s country house, the lass had run away, afraid of what had come up under her hand.
He had finished himself off that day, but not before his balls turned blue with wanting. They were practically blue now.
James stood in the shadows of a duke’s house, trying to bring his body back under control and failing. He did not swear under his breath, but laughed a little, a low caress on the air. His hands flexed into fists and back out again, as if he could still feel her body between his palms.
He had been a fool to let her go.
She talked too much. That was one of her faults. And he had let her. He usually didn’t give a tinker’s damn what a woman said, in bed or out of it. But that night, beneath those linden trees, he had fenced with her, sparring with her as he might have done with any man.
He corrected himself. Few of the men he knew were intelligent enough to fence with him like that, verbally or otherwise. He wondered if Angelique Beauchamp played chess.
He wondered what she was like with a blade.
That thought simply made him harder, so he banished it. Of course, like the best and worst of thoughts, it lingered without his say; it stayed in his mind without his permission. For once, he wished he was a man of the Orient, given over to meditation to maintain his self-control. He wondered what the Lord Buddha might have said about a woman like Angelique.
He doubted that the Siddhartha had ever met a woman like her.
James went back inside alone. The orchestra was still playing, this time some mincing French dance he had never bothered to learn. He caught the eye of several young ladies, each of whom giggled when he looked at them. He smiled and bowed slightly, but quickly moved on. Each of those girls reminded him of his sisters, if his sisters had ever wasted their time learning to simper.
As he made his way through the crowded ballroom, he caught the eye of more than one matron. It seemed the women of this rarified part of London rarely got to see a real man, for they were all intent on drinking him in. He stopped by a column and let them, waiting long enough for his hostess to come and greet him. He did not have long to wait.
Maybe he could quench his desire in her.
“Captain Montgomery, the duke is ill abovestairs and cannot receive you.”
“I am sorry he is under the weather. I hope he mends quickly.”
The Duchess of Claremore smiled, her own auburn hair catching the light of the chandelier overhead as she lowered her gaze. “When a man is five and seventy, illness is to be expected. Or so his doctor tells me.”
She raised her eyes to his then, and he was caught for a moment in hazel flecked with green. James leaned closer to her, taking in the hint of lavender water on her skin. He breathed deep, waiting for his body to respond, but it did nothing. If anything, what was left of his arousal from the garden deserted him completely.
“Please give His Grace my regards,” James said, bowing to her.
The duchess looked displeased at the fact that he would not follow her into a dark corner or come upstairs with her once the rest of her guests had gone. Still, in spite of her displeasure, or perhaps because of it, she took great pains to bid him farewell, nodding to him, ever the gracious hostess, as bloodless in the end as all those other fops seemed to be.
All save Angelique.
James walked out of the ballroom with the stride that, on the sea, ate up the deck beneath his feet. He took his bicorn hat from a waiting footman in the hallway and discovered the Earl of Ravensbrook watching him as he waited for his carriage. The pretty blonde who had been with the earl at dinner was nowhere in sight.
“So you found her,” Ravensbrook said.
“So I did,” James answered. He shifted on his feet, wishing he had worn a weapon. As it was, he had only his boot knife on him. He swallowed hard, and it was as if he could hear his mother’s voice shrill in his ear. He could not skewer an earl at a dinner dance. It would be unseemly.
It had been so long since he had cared for niceties that he almost laughed at himself out loud. As it was, he kept his eye on Ravensbrook and his back to the door.
“And you leave alone,” Ravensbrook said.
“So it would seem.” James wondered for a moment if he was going to make it out of that entrance hall alive. But then the blonde appeared and wrapped her arm around the earl’s waist. She smiled quizzically at James, but did not speak, as they had not been introduced. It took James a moment to realize that this tiny woman was the earl’s wife.
“Good night, Captain,” Ravensbrook said, as if that ended the matter.
James sketched his third foolish bow in an hour, turning toward the door. “My lord.”
It took all his nerve to turn his back on that man, but he did it without hesitation. He had seen only a few men look at him with murder in their eyes. He had been forced to kill most of them. James knew he could not kill the Earl of Ravensbrook in public with the knife in his boot.
He wondered for a moment if Pembroke had been right, if the earl would murder him in the street somewhere, or if he’d pay some flunky to do it.
If James had any sense, he would be back on the sea by dawn. But he had no sense. He only wanted to see Angelique again. Things were not finished between them.
Not by a long shot.
It was good that nerve was one thing James Montgomery had in abundance.
Seven
Angelique woke late with the sun shining in her eyes. She had not drawn the curtains closed over her windows the night before, and now she lay in a shaft of sun, blinking against the onslaught of the light. She rolled over, burying her face between the feather pillow and bolster. She sighed and stretched, reaching for the man who had made love to her in her dreams. She opened her eyes and found that her ship captain was not there.
She sighed and sat up, pushing her long midnight curls back behind one shoulder. Angelique accepted her morning cup of chocolate from Lisette, sipping from the delicate china. She felt the touch of the man on her body still. She felt the delicious ache of unsatisfied desire in places that she had almost forgotten about.
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br /> “Will you bathe, Madame la Comtesse, before you see Monsieur Smythe?”
“Indeed,” Angelique answered. “Has he been waiting long?”
“Only an hour, Madame. He is in the library.”
Angelique set her hot chocolate down on a tray. “I had better not keep him waiting much longer, or he’ll be peevish. There is little that is more annoying than a peevish man.”
Lisette smirked at that remark as two girls from the kitchen brought up Angelique’s silver hip bath half full of hot water. Two more girls followed, bringing silver urns of hot and cold water with them. Silver did not hold warmth or cold worth a damn, but Angelique liked the look of it. As a widow, attached to no one, she was her own master, and she could please herself. The thought was not as much comfort in the light of this particular morning as it usually was.
She rose naked from her bed and slipped into the tub. Angelique sighed at the feel of the hot water on her skin as Lisette bathed her back. Before she came out of the tub to dry off, her bed was already in order, its sheets removed and new ones put in their place, its duvet of satin arranged as she liked it, as if the man whose name she did not know had never touched her in her dreams at all.
Dressed in a morning gown of dark blue silk, Angelique sat behind the gilt-edged desk in her library across from her man of affairs. George Smythe was a decent sort, intelligent enough to carry out her orders to the letter, but not so intelligent that he might try to think independently or try to make decisions for her.
She had spent five years sifting through clerks and lawyers before she had found a man who would serve her without question. Smythe liked things in order and did not mind taking those orders from a woman. As far as she knew, he was unique in this. She paid him double what anyone else would have and sent his wife a stuffed goose every Christmas Eve. Those small gestures seemed to keep him happy, and he served her better than the men on her ship had once served her father, long ago.
Much Ado About Jack Page 3