by Gina Conkle
“Should I worry you’ll take advantage of me, sir?”
“Something tells me that doesn’t happen easily with you,” he said, eyeing a lock of her hair falling loose.
His hand traced her spine to her shoulder, finding the warm flesh where the white-blond curl settled on her collarbone. Her body quivered, and the tender reaction shook him. Another arrow of heat shot to his groin at the image of his mouth planting a hot kiss where the curl met skin.
Miss Tottenham’s blue-green stare reached his, dark and liquid. Her lips parted for him and him alone.
Across the room, violins sought soaring notes. Music stretched. Strained rhythms reached for high peaks, as taut as Cyrus was from head to heel. His abdomen squeezed behind the placket of his breeches.
Miss Tottenham’s mouth was accessible…tempting. His head bent lower. The small, dark space between enticing pink lips captivated him—lips that said saucy things, lips that needed kissing. Her warm breath came faster, brushing his chin.
He inched closer. Ever so slowly, her mouth softened, opening more. His lids drooped. A fraction of space separated her lips from his.
A baron’s booming laughter blasted them apart. The man spun by, his elbow hitting Cyrus.
He jerked his head upright, taking a half step backward. The oblivious man saved him from doing the unthinkable—kissing a woman for all to see in the middle of a ball.
Blood rushed his ears. He tugged his jabot, his body hot and constrained. His impulses galloped near out of control, running roughshod over rational thought. He stretched his neck and blinked at the ceiling, sucking in more air. The crowd of dancers pressed them. Everywhere light and noise jangled his singed nerves, and he lost the allemande’s movements.
They weren’t in a wharf-side tavern, nor was his dance partner a woman of coarse manners to be kissed in public display.
“Miss Tottenham…I…” His voice trailed off, his mouth pressing into a sober line.
She surprised him, taking a half step nearer to begin the next intricate turn. “Don’t.”
She looked to where their hands joined for the dance, curling her fingers intimately with his. This was no delicate crossing of fingertips, but holding hands. Her simple, affectionate act wrapped around him.
Violins and voices, noise of a hundred shoes scraping the floor enveloped them, but Miss Tottenham’s breath came heavier too, moving the inviting flesh plumped high from her bodice. She was just as caught up in the moment as he, yet offered tender forgiveness.
Her smile was part country maid and pure temptress.
“Of course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn’t she?”
Her voice came low and warmly textured to his ears. Was she trying to take back some semblance of control? Encourage more blatant behavior? He grinned, ready to cede the night to the beguiling enchantress and find his way to the nearest bed with her.
His pulse throbbed. Flirtation spiraled in the space of one dance, turning the ground beneath his feet into hot and perilous quicksand. And he liked it. Each step invited another curious touch, another flirtatious move. He wasn’t sure who had the advantage, but he wasn’t about to back away from his intrepid exploration.
Short of kissing her now, how far could he go?
Emboldened, Cyrus traced one finger over the architecture of her collarbone. Her body twitched with a delicate shiver; a faint flush painted the upper curves of her breasts. Within the silken mask, her dark-fringed eyes turned a deeper hue.
They raised their joined hands for a new arc, all part of the dance, but they pushed the limits of contact that polite Society allowed. Intimacy shrouded them. He dipped his head close to hers, his breath fanning flaxen wisps of hair.
“If I had to trust a woman…let her have the advantage,” he murmured, “I’d choose you.”
Miss Tottenham gasped. Her lashes shuttered her eyes and she turned her face from him.
Is she in pain?
“Mr. Ryland,” she whispered. “Please…”
His head jolted at the sudden change. Gone was the coy, confident woman. She slipped away in spirit as did her unfinished plea. In those few seconds, hot flirtation cooled. Rapidly. The rest of his body, however, hadn’t gotten the message, his bollocks clenching with painful want.
Miss Tottenham looked beyond the doors into the black night, withdrawing from him though their bodies engaged in the dance.
The sensual hunt was over.
What happened?
They made another rotation, this time in silence. Miss Tottenham twirled, coming back to him with a smile pasted on her face. An unseen wall erected itself between them.
Why couldn’t he make the pieces to this puzzling woman fit?
Courtesan or not, he was certain the potent attraction was mutual. Equally diverting was his ease with her, an instant comfort. He wanted more.
Had he played his hand too much? Come on too strong? Or did something else vex her? Women were complex creatures, requiring a deft hand. Was her change because he’d been too forward in so public a place? Or because he said words of a more personal nature?
His limbs moved stiffly, compensating for the ache inside his breeches, but he’d take his time, alter his strategy. And that took him back to his original plan: learn more about his elusive guest.
“By looks and speech, you’re a woman who can hold her own. But other than your name, hair color, and eyes, I know next to nothing of you.” They stepped together again, and he grinned at her. “Even a hunter gets a scent of the prey.”
“Want to sniff me, do you? I suppose that makes me the fox to your hound.”
She’d snapped out of her brief fracture of distance, but his fair-haired guest was decidedly cooler, despite the flush touching the exposed parts of her cheeks. Her life vein throbbed low on her neck. His stare fixed on the inviting spot, a spot in need of much kissing. He’d find a way to warm Miss Tottenham up again. Tonight. The first moment they were alone.
Their bodies brushed together. He breathed her in, or tried to. All of him knotted with want and frustration, causing his legs to move with sluggish determination through the allemande’s steps. Patience, he needed patience.
“You’ve got to give me something before the unmasking. It’s only fair.”
“Fair?” she asked, her eyes flaring. “Is that word in your vocabulary?”
Maybe she had him there. His gaze locked onto her lips and the tempting, creamy skin not covered by the mask. Miss Tottenham’s skin…her softly angled jaw, her slender neck, down to her small breasts pressed upward—all of her glowed.
She vibrated with life and something indefinable he couldn’t name. Around them the music swelled, reaching for another crescendo. This time the turn of her body was not the practiced move of a flirt, simply the loose flow of a graceful woman.
“Very well. I can toss a tidbit.” She looked to where her fingertips crossed politely with his. “See that?” She tipped her head at their hands. “The scar near my thumb?”
He turned his attention to their hands, the allemande’s final notes drifting over them. His fingers curled under her hand, cupping her loosely.
She angled her thumb to give him a better view, and he honed in on the star-shaped scar. Dancers jostled around them, bumping her closer. Little more than an inch of space separated them. More loose blond wisps fell from their pins, framing her dance-flushed cheeks. With each breath, her body made contact with his.
His thumb stroked the unusual pink mark at the base of her thumb, and then slipped around to massage her palm. When she looked into his eyes, another shock went through him. Miss Tottenham’s strawberry-painted mouth opened a fraction with definite invitation. Again. His mouth curved triumphantly: he was regaining lost sensual territory.
“You’re very thorough in your study, Mr. Ryland,” she said, breathy and soft. “I
don’t think my hand’s ever had such tender attention.”
Her skirts caressed the length of his legs. The music stopped. They weren’t moving, but he held her close as though the dance would continue, her breath’s rhythm melding with his. The floor thronged with men and women, revelers laughing and mingling. Many removed their masks.
Surrounded as they were, he settled in a private world with Miss Tottenham.
He liked having her in his thrall, just deserts for the way she tempted him. Long brown lashes rimmed her darkened eyes. He searched her face, the small tip of her nose; her mouth curved and open.
“The scar,” he reminded her. “You were telling me about it.”
“The scar?” The pink-red flesh of her lips rounded gently.
Was she as lost in the moment as he? He squeezed her hand, and one finger tapped the star-shaped mark. She dipped her head, cheeks flushing anew, but when Miss Tottenham looked at him again, her tender smile was open.
“When I was seventeen, I cut my hand climbing a tree.” Her body brushed his, but her small, rounded chin snared him, the pert feature tipping up. “And despite the scar, I’ve no regrets. That day was wonderful. A woman who seeks to look and be perfect like some doll on a shelf hasn’t lived.”
“A bold proclamation,” he said, warming to her haughtiness. “But I’ll have to bow to your wisdom about dolls on a shelf. Never bothered with them.”
Her laugh whorled between them. The white tips of Miss Tottenham’s teeth nipped her lower lip. He glanced at her hand again, his thumb rubbing careful circles over the mark.
A scar. Women weren’t supposed to have them. They were supposed to be soft-skinned, elevated creatures with men mucking through the hard places. But life left marks, those seen and unseen.
Of all the things she could have said, Miss Tottenham shared an imperfection, a flaw over an accomplishment, which made her all the more fascinating. The picture of a proper young woman teetering between girlhood and the demands of maturity warmed him. He savored the image of her laughing in a tree, and he wanted more of the grown woman before him.
His eyes narrowed on her demi-mask. “It’s midnight. Time for the unmasking.” He was done with the flimsy barrier. It was time he saw her.
All of her, if he had his way tonight.
Her hands jerked free of his and bracketed her face. “The unmasking…”
Visible parts of Miss Tottenham paled. She took a half step away from him, backing into a laughing lady.
“Beg pardon…” she said, giving the reflexive courtesy.
Moving backward, her hands framed her mask. Did she plan to keep the disguise in place?
Around them, the crowd of dancers thinned. The colorful horde made a slow exodus around Miss Tottenham, drawn to midnight’s cooler air on the back courtyard. Outside, a row of footmen stood sentinel with trays of champagne at the ready.
Lucinda’s birthday.
A twinge struck him. There were duties to attend as brother and as host, duties he’d tossed aside in favor of getting lost for a time with a certain woman. Cyrus scoured the room for his sister, aware that a toast was expected. He turned back, reaching for Miss Tottenham.
“Stay with me.”
But another feminine voice reached his ears. “Mr. Ryland.”
Cyrus twisted around, looking into hazel-green eyes framed by a bronze silk mask. The young woman facing him equaled the pinnacle of London’s pursuit of perfection, her auburn tresses and good manners pinned properly in place.
“Lady Churchill.” He bowed.
He was certain no saucy retort ever left her lips.
“If I may have a moment of your time,” she said, her light touch slipping from his arm. “I wanted to speak with you about what happened in the garden.”
His neck and shoulders tensed, constricting him better than any wretched jabot. “No need. I’m the one who should apologize. That you were subject to my unsavory exchange with Lady—”
“No, Mr. Ryland.” She lowered her voice, a needless thing with all the noise. “You have always been a gentleman with me. I wanted you to know—”
Lady Churchill quashed her words upon seeing her mother’s approach. The Duchess of Marlborough’s perceptive eyes took measure of the loose jabot. The grande dame frowned fiercely, skirts swirling about her ankles in her forward press.
Lucinda walked a pace behind the duchess, mouthing I’m sorry.
There was no escaping the requirement of social parley with a duchess once she had a man in her sights. His feet were rooted to the floor, and he was ready for the inevitable.
He scanned the herd of people over his shoulder, finding Miss Tottenham melting into the mass beyond the open doors.
“Miss Tottenham?” he called, but she didn’t answer.
The mask stayed on. She wasn’t looking at him. With movements less graceful, her focus went beyond him as if he weren’t there.
A new line of footmen marched by from the kitchens, bearing more trays of champagne. His masked guest skirted the orderly servants, skimming the wall and potted plants on the other side of the room. Where was she going?
His body tensed, his every instinct for the chase, when a fan thumped his shoulder.
“Mis-ter Ryland.”
His mouth firmed, but he turned around and bowed low from the waist. “Your Grace.”
“There are proprieties to be observed.” The Duchess of Marlborough’s stiff, imperious voice demanded attention.
He glowered at the ivory fan, which the grand dame wielded like a scepter. She had the good sense to tuck the offending item into the folds of her skirt. His patience hung threadbare over what would be another attempt to foist her daughter on him. He had run out of gentlemanly refusals and was about to say as much.
Lady Churchill studied the lace flaring from her elbows, tugging on impeccable threadwork. Her mouth drooped such that he guessed she was less than enthusiastic about this meeting. For that reason alone, Cyrus held his tongue from the unwise lashing he wanted to give; the young lady couldn’t be held accountable for her overbearing mother.
“You’re right. There are proprieties to observe when a brother celebrates his sister’s birthday.” He gave his sister a tight smile and motioned to the courtyard. “Lucinda, why not take our guests outside where it’s cooler? We’ll raise a glass in your honor as soon as everyone’s gathered.”
From his peripheral vision, a lithe form in pale blue and silver silk exited the ballroom for the main hall. He bowed again.
“Please enjoy the courtyard. I’ve something to attend, but I’ll be out shortly.”
His body moved of its own accord, pursuing Miss Tottenham. The duchess blustered at his retreating back, but her complaints were lost in the ballroom chatter. He went on alert, hunting down his mystery woman. Alarms of concern went off inside him. Did someone scare her?
The man she hid from earlier?
Was that the reason for her strange turn when they danced? His heels slammed the floor with his hasty exit. Protective instincts surged. He would take care of her.
“Miss Tottenham.” His voice rose above the din.
Heads turned. Cyrus threaded past those guests. Ahead of him, Miss Tottenham took brisk strides through the long, wide entry hall. She looked over her shoulder and slammed into a plant pedestal.
Frantic hands saved the fern from falling over, but verdant fronds caught her hair. A cascade of snowy tresses fell loose. She swiped the leaves free and continued her rapid progress, greenery swaying in her wake. Two guests moved across his path, wanting some of his time, but the woman he wanted was slipping away.
“Claire?” he called out again, raising a hand to hail her. “Claire, wait.” His voice boomed in the cavernous hall. He didn’t care that he broke cardinal rules of social protocol right then.
Didn’t she know he would protect
her?
Miss Tottenham jolted to a stop. Pale blue skirts swirled wide when she faced him. She raised a hand as though she would push him away.
“No.” The single word bounced off the high ceiling.
Her eyes, cool and remote, froze him, every muscle locked by the icy refusal. In the blink of an eye, she grabbed handfuls of her skirts and ran.
She sprinted as though the very devil nipped her heels, racing for the open front door. Her footfalls echoed. Guests mingling in the entry hall paused to witness the unfolding tableau, their hushed murmurs and curious stares following the minor drama. Two footmen milled near the open door, but when Miss Tottenham sped their way, both servants snapped to attention.
And she ran headlong into midnight, the darkness swallowing her whole.
He blinked at the empty doorway.
The drive to chase her loosened his limbs, but what followed came in nightmarish seconds.
Belker moved into the hall, the butler’s stern forehead wrinkling. The man said something, but Cyrus failed to hear words in his rush to the doorway. Blood hummed in his ears. He had to reach her.
There was movement…a servant coming around a large support column. Then chaos struck.
Cyrus collided with a footman bearing a full tray. The wide salver tipped, dumping the contents. Champagne showered Cyrus. Glassware splintered everywhere. The silver tray crashed on marble tiles, ringing a loud, metallic spin. Mouths gaped. Guests were shocked to silence at the display.
“Sir, my apologies…sir…” the footman stammered.
Cyrus checked the footman and himself. No cuts. His heart pumped hard but not from fear of glass splitting a vein.
“No harm done.” His body ran hot but his voice was cold.
She had vanished. He’d lost her.
Disbelief twisted into another blazing emotion. The acrid taste of having hosted a pretty deceiver settled over him: the mysterious Miss Tottenham had played him for a fool. Oh, she was good; he’d give her that. He fell—and fell rather hard—for the ploys of an artisan of flirtation.