Mastering the Marquess (17 page)

His groin tightened.

It was a pity that skirts had grown fuller over the last year. Between the balloon-like sleeves and belled skirt he could not determine the true outline of her figure.

But still, he knew her.

He just could not remember when or how.

He waited for her to turn, waited to see her lovely face, for he was sure it was lovely.

Had he fucked her?

Normally he didn’t forget his adventures, but how could a man be sure that he remembered them all?

His body was certainly responding as if it knew her well—and she was across the room, across an ocean of chattering faces.

Shifting uncomfortably, he held his breath and waited.

Was it him? How could it not be?

She knew it was.

She might not be able to understand what was being said—there was too much noise for that—but she knew that timbre, those tones of command. Her breasts grew heavy just hearing him, her nipples straining against her corset.

When the footman held out the punch she almost dropped the crystal cup. Her fingers were shaking, and not with fear. Desire filled her.

She closed her eyes for the briefest second, bringing the cold liquid to her mouth, feeling the chill against her lips, the hard glass against her growing softness. Could anybody see the change in her, know the thoughts that filled her head?

If it was him, if it was Charles—and she knew that it was—then it was meant to be. Her willpower could hold out no longer. If he invited her to ride in his carriage, then ride she would, whenever and wherever he wished her to go.

It was hard to swallow the sweet drink. Her throat did not wish to work, her tongue to do
anything but lick her lips in invitation.

And still she did not turn.

What if he did not know her? What if he looked at her and saw only a stranger?

Could she tell him who she was? Did she dare?

Could she approach him as herself? She knew his desires—could she play upon them? Could she seduce him? Perhaps she could …

What if he was married?

He’d said he wasn’t, but …

Oh heavens, she’d never seriously considered that.

Or what if he didn’t want her, what if he’d wanted only the game, the mystery? He’d certainly never invited anything else—not that she’d given him the chance.

Her body cooled more with each additional thought.

It was far better not to know. She’d been right in her actions. She should keep that one night locked in its secret room, guard it as carefully as treasure, allow nothing to tarnish it.

No matter what happened in the years to come she would have that, have that moment.

She gulped another mouthful of punch, placed the half-full cup back on the table.

Leaving was the only option. If she left she could pretend this had never happened, pretend that nothing was different than it had been this morning, even earlier this evening. Tomorrow would be soon enough to proceed with her plan.

Only.

Only, she was not a coward and that was a coward’s way.

As if by heavenly design she heard the voice again, low, rumbling, deep—and laughing? She’d never heard him laugh. It seemed so unlike the dark man she remembered. And yet …

If she was ever going to face him, it should be now.

She didn’t know what would come next, but she would take it as it came.

If a price was demanded, then she would pay.

Keeping her face stiff, trying to stem anticipation, she turned back toward the dance floor, toward that deep beckoning voice.

She was turning. His breath caught, waiting, anticipating. Surely if he saw her face he would know her, remember her. And there must be something to remember, else why was his body stiffly at attention, forcing him to let his coat fall forward—disguising the physical mark of his interest.

Her features were delicate: a small pointed chin, a slender nose, arched brows, eyes of chocolate brown—and lips full and moist, lips of sin on the face of angel. He could not see her clearly from his position across the room, but he did know them, know her.

Could it really be
her
?

And those lips were smiling; a feeling of anticipation radiated from her as she turned. Time stopped as he waited to see what had her looking like that, smiling like that.

He’d never seen that look upon her face before.

Was that why had it taken him so long to recognize her? The web of braids should have been enough of a clue. He’d remarked on them once, commenting that they were as restrained as she. A wry smile twisted his mouth.

But her smile was not restrained now, full of wonder, full of …

But even as he had that thought, her face changed, not in an obvious way, but subtly—the hope leaving it, the secret inner glow banked and put away.

Her eyes were settled somewhere in the crowd, somewhere he could not see.

He was old.

Old and with a belly.

He was talking now, discussing the breeding of some strange farm animal, but there was no mistaking that it was he who spoke, he whose voice tickled at her inner memories, the secret chambers of her mind.

The height was right, or almost so. She’d remembered him taller, but she knew that could be a trick of memory. This man could have been him, been Charles, in height and general structure.

But he was old.

And had a belly.

And gray hair. Yes, it was thick and curled almost exactly as she remembered—as she remembered touching, remembered running her fingers through, remembered pulling as lightning sparked through her body.

But he had a belly.

Perhaps all else could have been hidden by dim candles and firelight, but she’d admired that body, thought of it as a gift of the gods.

This could not be him.

Even a month of Christmas dinners could not result in this great a change.

She was wrong again, had allowed herself to wander down a foolish path again.

Disappointment welled within her.

A tear rose to her eye.

She’d been so sure. So confident that this time she was right. Her eyes might have deceived her, her own desires fooled her, but her ears? Surely, she could not have been so mistaken?

Only she was.

And the worst was that she knew this man, had talked to him in the past, laughed at his strangely piercing sense of humor.

She didn’t know him well. Her place had been well removed from his, but she knew him.

Mirth.

The Duke of Mirth.

A man old enough to be her father.

Chapter Thirteen

Geoffrey could only stare at the woman as he watched the warmth slip from her face, as he watched those plump lips tighten and then relax.

It seemed impossible that his body had responded in such a way to her.

Lady Brookingston was the wife of one of his school friends.

The first time he’d seen her had been at a ball similar to this one. She’d been standing next to John, shoulders straight, head perfectly poised, her face slightly defiant as she gazed about the room. But she’d greeted him graciously, her gentle smile seeming to evoke in him a quiet peaceful feeling the likes of which he’d never known.

He’d thought at the time that Brookingston had found a perfect wife, a wife who would help bring tranquillity into the chaotic world in which they all lived.

He’d found her attractive, in a well-bred sort of way—quite young, with refined features, sleek but unremarkable hair bound tight to her head, and a good enough figure, though nothing that would make a man turn his head and follow her with his eyes.

He’d been drawn to her, he could not deny that, but it’d had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the soft grace that seemed to surround her.

Or had he been lying to himself—had she always possessed that something that called to his body, that made him wish to nibble at her neck, and then lower?

There was no denying that a few moments ago he would have been ready to take her into the gardens, find some hidden spot, and plunge into her without further preliminaries. His mind had filled with images of her pressed against a low stone wall, her skirts up, her white thighs parted, her moisture glistening beneath the night sky.

But, damn, that was not what he saw now. All he saw now was his friend’s wife, a woman he’d thought was all a wife should be: proper, restrained, controlled, a woman who would never cause a man doubt, never cause his blood to boil—for any reason.

And yet there were those succulent lips, lips that spoke of anything but restraint. How had he never noticed them before?

Why was he noticing them now?

His body cooled and fired at once. He could not lust after Brookingston’s wife—or should he say widow? His friend was long in the grave.

He tried to remember if he’d seen her since the death, and couldn’t.

Well, what did it matter? He’d pay his respects to her and that would be it. There was no reason to let his mind dwell on her, even if his body had its own ideas.

“She does have something about her, doesn’t she?” The voice came from behind.

Geoffrey turned and observed his friend and neighbor, Stephan Perth, the Earl of Duldon. “I am not sure to whom you refer,” he replied.

“Lady Brookingston,” Duldon answered with a nod of his head. “It’s the first affair she’s been to in years, since long before Brookingston’s death. She’s always been one to prefer the quiet and the country—or so rumor goes. But now she’s back, and you know what that means.”

“No, I can’t say that I do.” Geoffrey felt his back stiffen at his friend’s informal tone.

“She’s husband hunting. It’s the only thing that brings that type back to Town once they escape. She’s looking for a man to warm her bed. I’d be interested myself if it was just that, but she’s the type to think the vicar needs to be involved. Still, if what I hear about her income and estates is correct, it’s no wonder that half the men here are looking her over.”

Squelching the anger that erupted at his friend’s words, Geoffrey calmly focused his attention on Duldon’s face, ignoring the strangely tempting Lady Brookingston. “Income?”

“Apparently she brought quite a portion into her marriage, a portion that remained hers after Brookingston’s death. And then she inherited more from a maiden aunt or some such. Plus, Brookingston’s estates were largely unentailed and rumor has it he left all he could to her. The lady may be worth a bloody fortune—or so rumor says.” Duldon leaned back against the wall, crossing one booted foot over the other. “Not that it matters to you.”

“Rumor? Since when have you listened to rumor?”

“I listen all the time—particularly to the financial ones. They may not always be completely true, but they normally give an indication of what is happening or what is about to happen. It’s amazing how much a man can learn simply by keeping his ears open and his face still.”

Geoffrey resisted the urge to snort. If there was one man who knew finances, it was Duldon. Geoffrey had never been sure how he did it, but Duldon always knew which way the markets were headed and which ships full of goods were due in. If it were possible he would
have even sworn Duldon knew which ships’ goods had spoiled long before they even drew near shore. “And are the rumors true?” He turned back to gaze at Lady Brookingston, whose eyes still remained locked on someone hidden by the crowd.