Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (16 page)

His hips ground against her in a rhythm that had her blindly reaching inside his evening coat and under his waistcoat. Isabel grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer. Vane’s hand cupped her breast as his thumb caressed her nipple until she thought she could not bear it.

Their tongues tangled and all Isabel could think was that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more of him. Suddenly her clothes were too confining and she despised the limitations of her body. She wanted him inside her, so deep he would always be a part of her. Isabel wanted to drink him as if he were a potent wine until she was drunk with pleasure. Allow him to cover her like a sheet until his scent clung to her skin, marking her as his.

Vane sensed her frustration. The frantic rocking of his hips told her that he hungered for the easing only her body could provide. Unlike her, he intended to do something about it. Without warning, he tore his mouth away from hers and ripped her pelisse robe and chemise with one violent tug, exposing her left breast.

No,
she thought wildly,
the rules.

She had forgotten that rules meant nothing at all to a Lord of Vice.

Every cell in her body was vibrating with need when his mouth latched onto her exposed nipple. He suckled as if he was starving for succor only her body could provide. Isabel tried to push him away in a feeble attempt to make him stop, but felt helpless as a ripple of pleasure rolled down her body. Her legs parted automatically, allowing his manhood and the damp muslin to rub the sensitive flesh between her legs.

Suddenly, instead of pushing him away, Isabel was struggling to pull him closer. She bit her lower lip to prevent herself from screaming. The frantic pumps his manhood was striking against her womanly core were her undoing. Her breasts and womb pulsed with a startling pleasure she had been unaware her body was capable of.

Vane did not lift his head until she was breathless and too weak to fight him. He kissed her tenderly on the lips and allowed her to stand without his assistance.

“You…” Isabel gave up speaking. She sagged against the door and tugged the torn pelisse robe over her exposed breast. She pretended not to notice the several bite marks on her pale flesh.

A part of her was pleased to note that Vane was not unaffected by that madness that had claimed them. His shirt was ripped, and the prominent bulge in his trousers looked painful to her untrained gaze. She tensed, waiting for him to demand more from her.

“I will take my leave. Good night, Isabel.”

Vane was leaving.

“
That
was a farewell kiss,” Isabel said, bewildered by the hurt and anger she heard in her voice. Her lower lip quivered. She stepped away from the door so he could leave. If he stayed, she might be tempted to dent his skull with the iron poker.

It was either that or cry.

Vane opened the front door and hesitated at the threshold. “That wasn’t a farewell kiss.”

Isabel stared at him, mutely willing him to leave before he confessed something that would make her despise him for the rest of her life.

“I never expect to take—No.” He gave her a sheepish look. “It is too late for this discussion. And I promised. One kiss and I would leave.”

“A farewell kiss,” Isabel prompted, finding her voice as her eyes filled with tears.

The scoundrel had the audacity to grin at her. “What you might want to ponder as you climb into your chaste bed is what would have happened if I had stayed. I doubt either one of us would have been happy with the consequences.”

Isabel winced and closed her eyes.
Lady Netherley. Delia.

When she opened her eyes, she discovered that he had already shut the door. She took a deep breath.

She gasped when the door abruptly swung open. Vane leaned against the door frame. “Have you received an invitation to Lord Fiddick’s masquerade?”

She seemed to live her life in half measures. She was almost betrothed to Mr. Ruddel, and this evening she had almost been ravished by a madman.

“No, I do not believe so.”

Vane winked at her. “You will. And do not disappoint me by not attending. I will not be pleased if I have to search London for you. Nor will you.”

Isabel waited until the door closed before she sat down on the bottom step of the staircase.

Chapter Nineteen

Two days before Lord Fiddick’s masquerade ball, a box arrived for Isabel. She recognized Vane’s bold handwriting on the note his servant hand-delivered.

“His Lordship wanted me to convey his high hopes that you will accept his gift, Miss Thorne. He was most specific that the costume is for you, and not for your sister.”

Alone in her bedchamber, she removed the lid and peered inside. Bemused, she broke the wax seal and read the words scrawled within.

Behold the witch who bespells men into beasts.

—V

Isabel picked up the white mask encrusted with gold spangles and glass beads and brought it up to her face. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she began to laugh. She was still laughing when Delia walked into the bedchamber.

“Mrs. Allen said there was a delivery for you,” her sister said, mildly offended that Isabel had not told her about the mysterious box. Delia paused as she noticed the mask.

“It appears I no longer need a costume for Lord Fiddick’s masquerade,” Isabel announced, withdrawing the mask from her face. “Even so, I can think of an embellishment or two that will improve the impression I hope to make.”

*   *   *

Vane and Saint stood near the balustrade of the gallery overlooking the front hall. Impatient, he had been waiting for Isabel and Delia to arrive.

“Is there a significant meaning to the masks you have chosen this evening?” Saint inquired, his mouth twisting into a knowing smirk.

At Vane’s suggestion, the Lords of Vice were wearing formal evening attire and half masks representing various beasts. Saint was a hawk, Dare an owl, Hunter a lion, Sin an alligator, Reign a fox, Frost a snake—his choice amusing everyone. Vane had claimed the wolf mask for himself.

“It seemed appropriate since most of the
ton
believes we are beasts walking about on two legs,” Vane explained to the marquess.

“Very true,” he said, his forearms resting on the top of the railing as he surveyed the crowd below waiting to greet Lord and Lady Fiddick. “Have you seen Regan, Juliana, and Sophia’s costumes? The ladies collaborated and are attending as the Moirae. I believe Sophia is portraying Clotho, Juliana is dressed as Atropos, and Regan is Lachesis.”

Vane’s attention kept shifting back to the Fiddicks’ front door. “The Moirae … are they not depicted as old crones in Greek mythology?”

All three women were exceptionally beautiful. Even masked, no one would mistake them for ugly hags.

Saint chuckled. “I never said that they were striving for an accurate representation.”

A small commotion below had both gentlemen leaning over. Vane grinned at Saint as he realized that Isabel and Delia had arrived. Even masked, he would have recognized them: Very few women matched their willowy statures. Delia strode through the threshold first wearing a light blue round dress with silver netting. Isabel had told him that her sister would be attired as a sea nymph. Her costume evoked approving murmurs from nearby guests.

Saint apparently approved of Delia’s costume as well.

“Hmm, this hawk might make an exception and plunder the sea for prey this evening.”

Before Vane could reply, Isabel entered the front hall. Her half mask in place, she had donned the white stola he had selected for her. To cover her bare arms, a gold silk palla was pinned at her right shoulder and draped across her body.

The guests around her started to laugh and applaud when they glimpsed her small companion.

“By God, is that a
pig
?” Saint clapped, enjoying the spectacle as Isabel used a plaited leather tether to lead her pig toward her host and hostess. “Who is Isabel supposed to be?”

Neither Vane nor Saint had noticed that Frost had joined them. Lifting his black reptilian mask from his face, he peered down at Isabel, his eyes glittering with undisguised appreciation.

“Is it not obvious? The lady is Circe.”

*   *   *

Her grand entrance had been shared with a pig.

Isabel would never forget Lord Fiddick’s expression when she handed him the pig with her compliments. It seemed the most practical solution, since she did not relish strolling about the ballroom with an animal nibbling on the hem of her dress all evening.

Masked guests circled her, slowing her progress to the ballroom. Had Vane witnessed her entrance? She had searched for him, but of course everyone was masked and he had not revealed the nature of his costume.

She had lost Delia before she had greeted Lord and Lady Fiddick. There was no sign of her pale-blue-and-silver costume. By the time she had reached the ballroom, an hour had passed. During her search, she had stumbled about Lord Sinclair and his wife, Juliana; received numerous invitations to dance, one of them from the Duke of Huntsley; and spent half an hour standing beside Lady Netherley in the hope that Vane would find her.

Eventually, the tight mask and the overly warm ballroom took their toll on her high spirits. Excusing herself from the small group of people surrounding the marchioness, Isabel left the ballroom and ascended the large staircase. She removed her mask. Someone had mentioned that several rooms had been prepared for guests seeking solace from the music and confusion, and it was exactly what she needed before she renewed her hunt for Vane and her sister.

What Isabel had not expected was to find them together.

Her hand still poised to open the door, she silently stepped to the side so the couple could not see her. The large mirror mounted on the wall provided her a glimpse of their reflections without risk of discovery.

Both of them had removed their masks.

“You are not being very discreet, Delia,” Vane said, and Isabel could hear the humor in his voice.

“Nor are you,” her sister countered. “I suspect neither one of us is burdened with such principles as Isabel.”

Isabel recoiled as Delia spoke her name. They were speaking too softly for her to hear everything that was being said. She tilted her head and closed her eyes to concentrate. Her desire to eavesdrop on their private conversation had nothing to do with her own confusing feelings for Vane. Lady Netherley would want to be apprised of these latest developments.

“I do not feel reasonable,” Vane muttered. “What do you want, Delia?”

Her sister laughed smoothly. “Perhaps you are asking the wrong question, my lord. Here, allow me to demonstrate.”

Isabel’s eyes opened at the deafening silence. With dread, her gaze sought out the mirror and her heart stopped. Entwined in a passionate embrace, Vane was kissing Delia.

A soft gasp escaped Isabel’s lips.

Her body tensed as Vane tore his mouth away from her sister’s ravaged lips, his hand still protectively clasping Delia’s shoulder. “Who’s there?”

Isabel backed away from the partially opened door. A confrontation was the last thing she desired. Whirling away, she hurried down the corridor.

“Isabel!”

She ignored Vane’s order to halt, and made her way down the staircase. When she reached the landing below, she brought her half mask to her face and moved through the crowd. With her face covered, no one knew who she was, and Isabel was grateful for her anonymity. Stepping behind an alabaster column, she watched from afar as an unmasked Vane searched the sea of guests. A look of pure frustration darkened his features, but he had yet to give up his search for her.

Isabel strolled away from the column, and used the steady stream of merry revelers to conceal her movements, though the ruse was unnecessary. Vane had decided to search other parts of the house for her. She did not realize she was holding her breath until pain in her chest forced her to exhale.

“Pardon me,” a gruff, unfamiliar gentleman muttered as he tried to pass by her. Noting her attire, he stiffened, and Isabel braced herself for a stern lecture on the choice of her brazen costume this evening.

“Are you Miss Thorne? Miss Isabel Thorne?”

Isabel’s mouth parted in surprise. Although she had only glimpsed him from a distance, she was positive this masked harlequin was her grandfather Lord Botly.

Unprepared for this inevitable encounter, she meekly replied, “No, my lord. I am Circe.” She curtsied and moved away from him.

Isabel would rather risk running into Vane than confront her indomitable, unforgiving grandfather who had preferred to ignore her and Delia’s existence. He probably had come to warn her off. After all, this was his world, not hers.

But it could be her sister’s world if Delia and Vane married.

“No, damn you, I did not mean your costume. I—”

Isabel did not hear the rest; Lord Botly’s explanation was muffled by the surrounding noise. She made her way toward the main staircase. With no sign of Vane, she descended the stairs, all thoughts centered on fleeing the house before she was caught again by the two gentlemen she intended to avoid.

Collecting her cloak from a helpful servant, Isabel continued out the front door with her half mask in place. Once the wind caught her hair, an ominous sign of the storm that was approaching, Isabel belatedly noticed that the congested coaches and carriages all looked more or less alike in the gloom. Undeterred, she strove onward, ignoring the curious stares from coachmen and footmen, hoping that when she reached the end of the long, snaking line of equipage she would find a hackney coach willing to drive her home.

A brutal gust of wind caught her skirt and cloak like a sail and pushed her sideways. Casting aside her half mask, Isabel struggled with her unruly cloak. A drop of cold rain hit her on the forehead, and she glanced up at the dark sky.