by Колин Глисон
He hesitated a moment before stepping into the dance, and she allowed him to direct her as they moved forward. The first few steps were stilted, as if he had to discover or learn the rhythm, and even then, they didn’t spin and whirl with the same smooth alacrity as some of the other dancers. For some reason, she liked the fact that he wasn’t so very practiced at the waltz.
Nevertheless, Maia felt as if she floated on a cloud, held steady by the firm grip on her hand and waist. Even with the tall shoes and the unfamiliar three-beat step, she hardly stumbled at all.
She glanced up at him to find her partner looking out over her shoulder, as if scanning the room. This gave her the chance to examine what little of his countenance was exposed by the mask; namely, the shape of his chin and the formation of his mouth. Even his ears and hair were covered by a black tricorn, and the collar of his cloak came up to shadow his neck and the edge of his jaw.
“Hatshepsut, I presume,” he said, glancing down at her as they began their second turn about the floor, still relatively slowly and carefully. “An exceedingly original choice of costume, despite the fact that she dressed as a man on many occasions.” His voice was low, hardly more than discernible to her over the sounds of conversation and music.
“Baring my lower appendages would not have been appropriate, even in the spirit of accurate costuming. But you are correct,” she said, keeping her own tones pitched low in hopes of disguising her identity. Although her partner definitely wasn’t Alexander, she also sensed that he was someone she knew. “I am Hatshepsut. Everyone else thinks that I’m Cleopatra.”
“Fools, all of them. Where is the asp if you are meant to be Cleopatra?”
His comment surprised a little laugh from her, and she saw his lips move, relaxing into fullness from their hard, serious line from a moment ago.
“But of course, no one truly knows what Hatshepsut looks like,” she admitted. “Or if she was anything more than a queen regent.”
“Indeed. But we expect to learn more if the stele from Rosetta is ever translated.”
“One can only hope! Until we can read hieroglyphs, there will be holes and blank spots in our knowledge.”
“I find it remarkable that you are even aware of Hatshepsut’s existence, let alone such details about her questionable reign,” he said after negotiating a particularly tight turn that made her a bit dizzy. “As well as the importance of the Rosetta Stone.”
Emboldened by her continued anonymity…and perhaps by the champagne punch…Maia launched into a candid speech that she would never have imposed on a gentleman under different circumstances. They preferred to talk on their own topics, not that of their partners. “I’ve indulged my fascination with Egyptian history for many years now. It started when I read my brother’s copy of Biblioteca Historica in order to help him with his Greek. Ask me about the Babylonians or the Indians, and I know little about them. But if one reads Herodotus or Diodorus, for example, there is much to be learned about the Egyptians. And now that more antiquities are being shipped back from Egypt, I can actually see them in the Museum. That makes it all the more real.”
“You assisted your brother with his Greek?” Was there a note of humor in the knave’s voice?
“I didn’t like it any better than he did, but I was determined…” Maia’s voice trailed off as she realized how she’d been babbling. She bit her lower lip and swallowed. One of the things that had put off some of her early suitors had been her tendency to lecture and overexplain. Not that the knave was a suitor, of course, but she well knew that gentlemen did not like women who talked. Alexander was an exception, and he had indulged her interest in Egyptology by taking her to the British Museum on two different occasions.
Of course, he didn’t have the foggiest idea who Hatshepsut or even Rameses III were, but that didn’t bother Maia.
“Very interesting.” The knave seemed to stop whatever else was about to come out of his mouth and clamped his lips together.
As she looked up at him, Maia realized suddenly that when one was confronted by a masked individual, one’s attention tended to focus on the parts that were exposed—in this case, his mouth. And she found those lips to be more fascinating than they really should be, tracing their shape with her eyes, memorizing them. Wondering what it would be like to kiss them, for they seemed soft and full and very mobile.
“Careful,” he said suddenly, his hands tightening on her, and Maia realized she’d become somewhat dizzy. The room had a bit more spin than the dance steps warranted, and she clutched the top of his arm, her face warm beneath her own mask, her heart suddenly slamming in her chest.
Oh. Maia blinked and focused on something over his shoulder—anything to turn her mind from the sudden, unexpected thoughts about his mouth. She couldn’t remember feeling this odd before.
“How many glasses of champagne punch, Hatshepsut?”
Her attention flew back to him and his gaze fixed on hers, shadowed and dark behind small round eyeholes. His intense regard knocked the breath out of her as if she’d been punched. Or perhaps it was the champagne punch that made her feel breathless and warm and loose.
“I’m not tipsy,” she retorted, forgetting to keep her voice low.
Those lips quirked into something that might have been an almost-smile, and he replied, “Naturally. Perhaps some air would be in order?”
She suspected that he didn’t believe her; and in all fairness, she wasn’t certain whether to believe herself. She was feeling rather odd, in a pleasant, tingly sort of way. “Perhaps it would be best, though I am loath to cut short my rare opportunity to waltz.”
Without another word, he drew her from the dance floor, managing them through the other swirling partners. Oddly enough, once removed from the smooth rhythm of the waltz, Maia felt even warmer and lighter in the head, and she actually bumped against him in mortifying clumsiness. He tightened his arm and led her away from the crowd, where she was able to draw in cooler, cleaner air devoid of attar of roses—which seemed to once again be this Season’s favored scent, as well as every other of the last years since she’d been out.
Maia’s heart hadn’t ceased its heavy pounding, and in fact seemed to increase as the Knave of Diamonds directed them away from the loud, close ballroom. Toward an alcove down one of the corridors, near which an open window offered a waft of breeze.
Perhaps it was because there was no other competition for her attention, for she was away from the music filling her ears, the mishmash of the smells associated with such a crush, and the need to concentrate on the unfamiliar dance steps…that Maia found herself overly aware of the strong arm to which she found herself clinging.
Literally clinging.
How many glasses of champagne punch had she had? There’d been one before the court jester…or perhaps two? And then another—
“I do hope you aren’t about to cast up your accounts on my waistcoat, your majesty,” he said, easing her away from him a bit, even as he steadied her step. Those high-soled shoes were rather an inconvenience.
“I beg your pardon?” she demanded, suddenly indignant. “Of course I shouldn’t do such a thing.”
No, indeed not. She simply would not allow it to happen, no matter how odd she felt. And she did feel a bit odd.
She blinked hard, realizing that she, the very proper Miss Maia Woodmore, was using the Knave of Diamonds to keep the floor from tilting and, quite possibly, her knees from buckling.
Pulling away from the knave, she found that she was able to stand on her own, even on the platformlike shoes that put her face just…a bit…below…his.
Maia looked up from the brocade waistcoat and the ruby-studded, bloodred neckcloth that was much too close to her face, willing herself to focus on the matter at hand—which was…well, she wasn’t certain. They hadn’t been conversing, exactly, had they?
Her eyes traveled over a stiff black collar that brushed his jaw, hiding the full shape of his face, then beyond a square chin…and to that same mouth
that had fascinated her as they spun gently, if not smoothly, around the dance floor.
It was a mouth that, when relaxed, boasted a full lower lip and a slanted upper one—soft and smooth without being the least bit feminine when it wasn’t flattened grimly.
“Hatshepsut?” Those lips moved, firming in something like exasperation. “Do you need to lie down?”
“Of course not,” she retorted, annoyed again. “I am perfectly capable of holding my cups. I merely got a bit dizzy from the dancing. It was so very close in there.”
“Very well. As long as you don’t—”
“You might be much too tall, sir knave, and a bit overbearing—” she heard herself commenting, the words simply pouring from her “—but, despite what nonsense comes from it, you have been blessed with a well-formed mouth.”
There was a pause for a moment, and then he replied, “Ah.” The syllable sounded a bit strangled.
“I’m not an expert on mouths, you know,” she continued, vaguely wondering why she was so fascinated by his lips. “One doesn’t normally examine them quite as closely as one might think, unless the rest of the face is masked, and excepting if one is intending to kiss said mouth…and even then, one might not even have the chance to do so before the kiss commences.”
“Ah,” he said again after she paused.
“Of course, I’ve only been kissed by a limited number of pairs of lips,” she said. Purely for clarification.
“And how many pairs would that be?” His voice rumbled deeply. Those lips were rather flat again.
She paused, pressing her own lips together in thought. Her mask shifted as she did so, and Maia was grateful for the reminder that she was still blissfully anonymous. “Perhaps three. No, four. Hmm. Perhaps…no, four.” She wouldn’t count Mr. Virgil. He didn’t deserve to be counted, and the very thought of him made her feel ill. She looked up at her companion. “Four, my lord knave.”
Their eyes locked, his so dark and shadowed behind those small holes that she could hardly fathom that they could have such a hold on her. But they did. Her stomach felt as if the bottom dropped out, leaving her warm and nervous in a very pleasant way.
Thanking God and all the angels in heaven for the fact that she was masked and completely anonymous, she whispered boldly, “But perhaps there might be a fifth.”
And Maia held her breath.
3
In Which The Knave Of Diamonds Has An Exceedingly Unpleasant Experience
Dimitri couldn’t breathe.
The sudden surge of blood, pounding and insistent, filling his vision, stunned him.
The force of need, of a long-renounced instinct, suddenly burst free. His fingers trembled, his fangs threatened to shoot forth, bulging inside his swelling gums. He had to lower his eyelids to hide the hungry red glow lest Miss Woodmore see.
Foolish, damned, stupid, mad bastard.
What in Luce’s hell had he been thinking, taking a woman like her away into a dark corner? Especially a woman who riled up his ire as easily as his frustration?
But he had no more thoughts; they scattered like a shattered goblet as her gloved hand rested against the ruby-colored glass pin adorning his neckcloth. Taller somehow, she lifted her face the fraction that she needed to, putting herself there. Right there. A breath away.
Saliva pooled in his mouth. His skin flushed beneath his mask. It had been so long since he’d wanted to kiss a woman. He tried to fight it away, but the Mark on his back raged and burned hotter, reminding him of how he’d denied himself unnecessarily. Her lips beckoned, plump and pink, and he wanted to see if they tasted as sweet and lush as they looked. The searing heat blazed even stronger now that Lucifer felt him wavering, and it radiated down Dimitri’s back and through his limbs.
Embattled by pain, overwhelmed by desire and long-denied need, he couldn’t keep himself from bending to her, covering her lips.
She surrounded him: her spicy, sweet scent, her confident demeanor, her small hands, the pool of her sparkling gown. Her mouth…that entity that alternately exasperated and teased him, with its top lip that was just a bit fuller than the bottom…softened beneath his, fit to his lips, and gently brushed across his to one side. Her mouth was warm and lush, and she left a little wake of prickling, a dusting of pleasure on his sensitive mouth…and then she lifted away.
He went back for more, no longer fully master of himself. He found her lips again and took a longer, deeper drink from her taunting mouth. She made a soft, delicious moan that sent a new blaze of desire shuttling through his belly, her lips moving desperately against his. The world was red and hot, and the scent of her floral spice filled Dimitri’s consciousness.
Perhaps it was this—the recognition of the tantalizing scent, its familiarity and corresponding forbiddance—that enabled him to grasp the last wisp of control and drag himself away. God and the Fates, not her.
Not anyone, but most of all, not her.
Fingers tightening into each other, gouging through the gloves into his palms, he stepped back, his heart pounding in his ears, his breathing much too loud. His fangs were out of control and fighting to be free, and he had to turn away, closing his eyes to hide the proof of the demon he was.
His ruthless control regained—albeit tenuously—he cleared his senses of the heat and sweetness he’d tasted, swallowed hard. Tried not to breathe too deeply, for fear that scenting her would make it begin all over.
And the crack that had begun to form in his ordered world he snapped viciously together.
Terrified by what she might see in his eyes when he opened them, Dimitri was weak with relief when he saw that she had turned slightly away. Looking down, he noticed her hand still somehow settled on his chest. She seemed to be wavering through her own battle for control.
Or, more likely, stability.
Dimitri wasn’t certain whether he ought to curse the champagne punch that she’d indulged in, or to be grateful for its intoxicating properties.
“And so that makes five,” he said, relieved that his voice was cool and steady. Emotionless. He barely remembered to keep it low, to a mere murmur, to further obscure his identity. Fate protect me from that at least. “I wonder if, at the next masque, you might attempt to make it an even half dozen pairs of lips to taste?”
At that, she looked up at him and he nearly went for her again. Her lips were swollen and glistening, half-parted with surprise beneath the curve of her mask. He blinked, drew in a breath and focused on the roaring pain blazing over the back of his shoulder. A satisfying reminder that he was, despite it all, still in control.
And still in defiance of the devil’s will.
Then in an instant her lips allowed a smile to flicker over them and she surprised him yet again when she replied, “No, my lord knave. I think it might be prudent to stop at five.”
“Indeed?” He had to offer her his arm in order to get her back to the dance, away from the temptation of this secluded alcove, and the mere thought of what had just transpired.
He had some blood whiskey in the coach. That would help steady him, dull the awakened need. Later, he could stir up some trouble in the depths of Vauxhall. He’d had a very satisfactory brawl in St. Giles the night after the Lundhames’ ball, where he’d tossed five blackhearts into the River after they’d tried to stick him with a knife and relieve him of his purse. Never say he wasn’t doing his part to clean up the thieves of London.
“Yes, I do believe I shall stop at five,” she replied as they walked along. She wasn’t weaving like she had been earlier.
“’Tis a shame that my fi—my husband’s kisses were never quite so…potent. Perhaps it’s best if I keep this memory as my last random tasting.”
Dimitri kept his mind blank, refusing to allow himself to absorb her words and the variety of implications therein. He didn’t even need the reminder that she was betrothed. That fact simply didn’t enter into the equation of his base stupidity; his actions had nothing to do with Miss Maia Woodmore in particular.
It could be any woman who tempted him thus, for he rarely indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. And even then, it was brief and impersonal. No kissing was ever involved.
“Very well, then,” he replied, “Hatshepsut. And here we are, back to the party. I release you to your dances and your subjects, knowing that there is no longer a chance that you might be coerced into sampling the kiss of a highwayman or Romeo or some other character.”
And then, suddenly eager to be far away from the shimmery golden gown and its well-kissed occupant, Dimitri released her arm and slipped into the edge of the crowd, already tasting the blood and alcohol to come, the energy bounding beneath his skin.
Maia watched the knave ease into the crowded ballroom, both relieved and disappointed by his flight. Her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand, and her lips felt as though they were twice their size.
They still tingled when she slipped the tip of her tongue over them, and she felt a shaft of tingling heat when she re-imagined the kiss.
How could I have been so foolish? What is wrong with me?
But she already knew the answer, and once again, Maia was blessedly grateful for the mask that obliterated most of her features, and the other aspects of her disguise. The drink, along with the heady knowledge that no one could know who she was, had turned her into the same sort of capricious young woman who’d nearly gotten herself ruined three years ago.
Thank God that He, or Fate, or something, had intervened and brought Corvindale onto the scene before she’d made a foolish mistake with Mr. William Virgil. Only, she wished even more fervently now that it had been anyone but her new guardian who’d saved her. The details of that night were so very vague and foggy, but one thing she did recall with absolute clarity was the earl’s furious, dark eyes.