Candice Hern (10 page)

"May I have this dance, Faerie Queen?"

A flicker of wariness passed over her eyes for an instant, but she nodded and took his proffered hand. She wore gloves of pink silk so diaphanous they were nearly transparent, hardly worth wearing, for he could feel the warmth of her skin as though she wore nothing at all. He brought the silky hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. They trembled slightly, which made him smile.

He placed her hand on his arm and led her to the dance floor where the lines had formed for the next dance. "You know who I am, do you not, madam?"

"Yes, of course. Dick Turpin, is it not? Or perhaps Tom King?"

He grinned. "For tonight I am simply an unnamed highwayman. And you are ..."

"Titania."

"Of course. You look beautiful, my queen. Did you do this for me? Because you knew what was to happen between us this night? Did you dress like this to entice me? If so, you have succeeded. In fact, we could skip the dance and —"

"Are those real?" She indicated the pistols at his waist.

"They are. Is this real?" The question gave him an excuse to touch her hair, which he did. Soft. Silken. It even smelled sweet, as if all those tiny flowers were real and not made of silk. "My God, it is. You are positively brazen tonight, Titania. It suits you."

They took their places at the bottom of the line just as the music began. They did not speak as they moved through the steps, but Rochdale took every opportunity to touch her, rubbing clandestine little circles on her palm with his thumb whenever he held her hand, giving her waist a quick squeeze when he twirled her. And he took great pleasure simply in watching her move. She was well-named, a light and graceful dancer. Not one of those boisterous and energetic dancers, like so many others tonight, she was elegance personified, every move lithe and supple, almost sensuous. The remarkable dress floated and swirled about her in the most tantalizing manner as she moved. He could not take his eyes off her, all the time imagining her slender white limbs tangled with his, that long, loose hair tumbled upon a pillow.

Whoever thought he'd be eager for a prim, do-good, sermon-quoting prude to warm his bed?

And what a jumble of contradictions she was. Dressed to entice, yet wary and reserved, almost unapproachable. She allowed the costume to reveal her body, yet she was still wrapped up in her mantle of fierce propriety. But the costume was an important step. Perhaps during the past week her anxiety over the kiss had changed to anticipation. Perhaps she had decided she'd liked kissing him after all, and looked forward to doing so again. Whatever the reason, Grace Marlowe was a changed woman. And might be even more so before the night was over.

Other men were equally captivated by the Faerie Queen. More than one cast a hungry glance in her direction, though she seemed not to notice. Rochdale experienced a stab of annoyance that her revealing costume, surely meant for him alone, nevertheless allowed every slavering fool in the room to ogle her. He'd hoped to see all that golden hair falling loose around her shoulders in private. Now, every man in the room enjoyed the glory of it.

The pang of jealousy passed in an instant, and Rochdale laughed at his own foolishness. He did not deny his desire for Grace Marlowe, but she was the project of a wager, not the object of a romantic pursuit. Once he'd had her and won Sheane's horse, he'd go back to the lusty, accommodating women he was accustomed to.

In the meantime, he enjoyed what he saw and couldn't wait to see more of her. All those other ogling idiots could undress her with their eyes all night long. It was of no concern to Rochdale, for he was the only one who was going to undress her with his hands, the only one who would taste every inch of her porcelain skin, the only one who would wrap himself up in her golden hair. Maybe not this night, but soon.

His thoughts must have been written clearly on his face, for after once intercepting his hungry gaze, she never again lifted her eyes to his.

When the dance ended, Rochdale took her hand and pulled her away from the line. "Come. Let us forgo the rest of the set. I have something to show you."

"What?"

"You'll see." He placed her arm on his and they threaded their way through the dancers and finally through the main doors to the ballroom. A man dressed as Caesar made a suggestive remark and leered at Grace as they passed. Rochdale stopped, placed his hand on the butt of a pistol, and glared at the blackguard. Caesar backed away and disappeared into the crowd.

The corridors and other salons, including one set aside for cards, were almost as crowded as the ballroom, with masked revelers laughing and drinking and generally behaving in a more uninhibited manner than would have been typical if they were dressed in normal evening clothes. Costumes did that to a person, gave them license to do and say things they might not otherwise. Would Grace's ethereal costume have a similar effect on her? Lord, he hoped so.

He took her through a series of rooms until he finally came upon the door he sought. He opened it and gestured for Grace to enter. She shot him an anxious look, but went inside. He followed her and closed the door behind him.

It was a small anteroom with only a table in the center and a few chairs against the walls. The fire was lit and a tray holding a decanter of wine and two glasses sat on the table. The latter had been the result of a few coins slipped to an accommodating footman. But the fire had been lit earlier, so the room was meant to be used by guests. Probably for just such an assignation as this one.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?" she asked.

"Yes. Not so much to show you as to bring you here. I thought it the perfect private place for collecting on our wager. May I pour you some wine?"

"Please, let's just get on with it."

"
Tsk
,
tsk
, Titania. Why the hurry? Let's enjoy ourselves." He passed her a glass of claret, and she took it.

He circled the table, placing it between them, and watched her as she took a swallow. And then another. Dutch courage, he presumed. Despite the alluring costume, she was as tense as a thoroughbred before a race. He hoped to hell she was not planning to toss back the entire decanter. He wanted her conscious, by God.

"You never answered my question earlier," he said.

"What question?"

"About whether you wore that dress just for me."

She emptied the glass and placed it on the table, but did not answer.

Rochdale flashed a smile. "So you did wear it for me. I am honored. And delighted to have nudged you out of your tight-laced gentility. You look marvelous, you know. Beautiful. Extremely desirable."

A nearly transparent pink shawl, soft as thistledown, hung from the crooks of her arms, and she tugged it up to wrap across her décolletage.

"No, don't cover yourself, Titania. Don't have second thoughts about your costume. It was the right choice. The perfect choice."

"It wasn't just for you. I simply wanted to wear something different for a change."

"Or perhaps you wanted to be yourself, your true self, for a change. Is this the real Grace Marlowe — this ethereal, brazen creature — and the Bishop's Widow the guise?"

She shook her head vehemently, then lifted her chin at an imperious angle in an obvious effort to claim her identity as Bishop Marlowe's widow.

"Whatever the reason, I like this change." He removed his mask, then walked around the table to where she stood. "I like it very much." He reached up and carefully removed her mask. Then he took both her hands to pull her toward him, slid his hands up to the bare flesh above her elbows, and drew her closer. "Very much, indeed. You look positively delicious. Come, let me taste you."

He brought his mouth to hers and kissed her.

She stood stiff and unmoving, thoroughly uninvolved in the kiss. Was she punishing him for his impertinence? Or punishing herself for responding to him in the carriage?

Come on, Grace, old girl. You know you want it.

He went to work on her lips, using all his skill and seductive powers to relax her, entice her, unlock her. He slid one arm gently around her waist, while the other crept up her arm and around her shoulder right into the golden depths of her hair. He pressed her closer, tighter, then nipped her lip with his teeth until her mouth parted open ever so slightly. He took advantage at once and teased his tongue inside.

He knew the instant her restraint changed into something else entirely, something hot and sweet at the same time. God, he could almost smell her arousal through the fine pores of her perfect skin as her tongue answered his. He deepened the kiss and she followed. Her arms were now around his neck, clinging, pulling him down to her. Dear Lord, she was amazing, taking as much as she gave, setting him on fire.

And suddenly, she was gone. She'd pulled away so fast he hadn't been able to react, and now she skittered around to the other side of the table, out of his reach.

"Enough," she said. "You have got what was owed you. No more, please."

He smiled at her discomposure. By God, he had rattled her good and proper. No, she had rattled herself, which was even better.

Progress!

"All right," he said. "No more. For now. But you cannot deny that you enjoyed it."

"You are a practiced seducer, Lord Rochdale, and know exactly how to make a respectable woman let down her guard. But you have had your fun and won your wager. We're finished." She picked up her mask and began tying in on.

"Allow me to hope that we are not. You are a beautiful and fascinating woman, Grace."

"I did not give you leave to use my Christian name, sir."

"No, you did not. I'm sorry. I simply thought that after such a passionate interlude we could be less formal. But it shall be as you wish, Mrs. Marlowe."

"Thank you. Now, I must get back to our guests. And I ... I have to go over the contributions to see what was brought in."

"Enough for the new wing at Marlowe House, perhaps?"

"That would be wonderful. We could help so many more families, but it is unlikely we will raise so large an amount tonight." Her voice was tight, clipped, giving nothing away. "Now, I must go."

She walked to the door, but he reached it before her. "Let me check first to insure no one is about. It would not do for you to be seen coming out of a closed room with me."

She sucked in a sharp breath. "No, no, it would not. Thank you."

Rochdale opened the door a crack and peeked out. A friar and a gypsy girl strolled past, heads bent together in intimate conversation, oblivious to Rochdale and everything else. Once they had rounded a corner out of sight, he opened the door. "It's all right. You may leave safely now."

Grace hurried past him, but Rochdale placed a hand on her arm. She turned to look at him, her smoky eyes haunted and confused.

"May I call upon you again?"

She frowned and shook her head. "No. I'm very busy. Please excuse me."

And she was gone.

Rochdale went back inside and poured himself another glass of wine. He tossed it back and congratulated himself on the progress made tonight. That kiss had unnerved her — hell, it had very nearly unnerved
him
— and she was confused. He needed to make the next move before her head cleared. He had devised a plan, too. He knew her weak spot, and his plan would play right into it.

Grace made her way back to the ballroom, outwardly collected — a forced attitude that was as natural to her as breathing — but thoroughly shaken inside. Perplexed. Bewildered. Utterly ashamed of her reaction to Rochdale's kiss. For the second time now, she had allowed him to coax an unnaturally wanton response from her.

When she had first seen him, dashing and dangerous in his highwayman gear and looking at her as though she were a ripe fig he wanted to bite into, all secret thoughts anticipating his kiss crumbled away, and suddenly she was afraid. She had hoped he would notice her costume. She had wanted to show him that she was something more than prim and proper. She had wanted him to look at her with admiration.

Now, that look of much more than uncomplicated admiration frightened her. Grace felt foolish for thinking to let Rochdale, of all people, see a glimpse of the girl she had once been before learning the potential evil of her feminine nature. His open desire made her afraid of what he might do to her. Grace would never, of course, allow him to know of her anxiety, so she held tight to her composure and had been determined to remain stiff and uninvolved, to give him what she owed him, her lips and no more.

A shiver had danced down her spine when he leaned in to kiss her. Her first instinct had been to turn away and not allow it, but she had given her word and so she had not pulled back. Instead, she had come face-to-face with what she now realized she'd been most afraid of — her own unbridled reaction to his lips and tongue and hands.

She let him take her mouth and rip away her common sense. Before she'd become completely lost, however, there had been an instant of candid acceptance that she wanted to feel those wild sensations again. Even with this horrid man, whom she disliked and disdained. After a moment, after her part of the bargain had been honored, she had known she should end it. Instead, heaven help her, she'd found herself delaying the end, promising herself she would stop him soon. In a moment. Just one more moment.

It had taken a supreme act of will and a rush of pure disgust at her wanton behavior to finally push him away.

But it was too late. All those feminine frailties the bishop had taught her to keep in check had been let loose. She had never felt more sinful. All because she had enjoyed Rochdale's mouth on hers, the touch of his tongue to hers. He'd kissed her ravenously, and more thoroughly than she would ever have dreamed, using his tongue to acquaint himself with parts of her mouth she could never have imagined a man might want to know. Surely
that
was sinful, for it ought to have disgusted her, yet she'd loved it and, if she was perfectly honest with herself, she would love to experience it again. And again.