He caressed her hips, leaving her mouth to kiss her cheeks, her ear, her throat. Her whole body trembled in his arms, pliant and eager. He swept one hand upward to her breast and returned to her mouth. She let out a moan as he palmed and teased her nipple.

  He could take her now, make her his against the broad tree at her back or on the soft, spongy ground by its roots. Either way, he would make it sweet for her, show her the ways to pleasure.

  “Harry,” she whispered helplessly against his lips.

  “Meg…” Meg. This was Meg.

  He groaned with profound frustration and gently detached his lips, pressing his forehead to hers while his breath came in pants. “What am I doing to you?”

  “Don’t you know?” she said innocently, and at last, he could smile.

  “Too well. And this is not the time or place. I’d ask you to forgive me, except you invited me.”

  He expected a denial or at least a push to be free, but instead, a shaky laugh broke from her.

  “I’m afraid I did. You looked at me so…so—”

  “I often look at you that way.”

  “Do you?” she asked with a hint of hope that caught at his heart and filled him with wild new promise.

  “And I will do it again.” Briefly, he kissed her once more and forced himself to reach for her riding habit. Before he could change his mind, he threw it over her head and turned her to fasten it. She submitted to his ministrations with unaccustomed docility, but when he couldn’t resist kissing her nape, she moved her head in bliss, and triumph surged through him.

  This, at last, was what he had wanted since he was sixteen. To touch her, move her, win her. But he was a man now, and he knew arousing her desire was not winning her. It was only the beginning. But by God, he would enjoy the journey.

  “Perhaps no one would notice if I rode astride,” she said, almost steadily. She moved away from him, lifting a brush from the nearby boulder, and began to brush out her locks.

  “Your legs will show,” he pointed out. “We’ll take the saddle off, pretend the girths are broken or something, and walk the horses the rest of the way. If I carry the saddle, no one will notice it’s a man’s. Hopefully.”

  She nodded and began to repin her hair in a slightly softer but hardly tidy style. He wanted to take the pins from her and help, but he didn’t trust himself to touch her again. The hat at least hid much. Harry helped her cram the boy’s clothes into the saddlebags, and then they walked the horses toward the path and the house.

  The silence between them could have been awkward, considering the liberties he had taken. And been granted. But somehow, it was companionable, with just an edge of excitement.

  “Harry?” she said abruptly.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you for coming with me. Although I meant to, I’m not sure I could have done it on my own.”

  “Oh, I think you probably could. I just didn’t want you to.”

  A smile lit her face. “Well, it was more fun with you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Meg was playing with fire. She knew it. But when he had turned and stared at her so…hungrily, wicked curiosity had, not for the first time, gotten the better of her. And instead of covering herself, she had let him look, just to see what he would do. She didn’t know if she was tempting him or herself, but she had been unprepared for the onslaught of passion that had followed.

  Thrilled, but unprepared.

  Such heat, such wild, heady pleasure, and deep, heavy desire… For Harry. Her old friend and ally. This, she thought in wonder, this is what I ran from six years ago.

  It seemed she no longer wanted to run. She walked the rest of the way back to Calvert Court at his side, in a strange bubble of stunned happiness. Every sense was aware of him at her side, every movement, every brush of his arm, every smile, every look.

  Oh yes, the fire had burned them both, and she rejoiced in her effect upon him. Even recognizing the danger, knowing how close she’d come to total surrender, how close he had come to… She closed off that line of thought with a little thrill of delight.

  Harry.

  She wanted to extend their time alone, but Harry did not slow down.

  “You’ll need to sleep today,” he warned her. “Apart from anything else, you’ll have an exhausting evening switching from Martha to Meg and back again.”

  “Oh, well, at least I have the excuse of my recent indisposition for looking hagged this morning.”

  A spontaneous smile lit up his face. “You look anything but hagged. But you don’t want to fall asleep in your supper plate.”

  A snort of laughter escaped her. “Martha would never forgive me for that.”

  His smile began to fade. “On a more serious topic, make sure never to be alone with Garrow or with Aline. At least until we know what the devil they are up to.”

  *

  “Oh, thank God, my lady,” Mathews gasped when Meg finally made it to her bedchamber. “I was afraid you’d been gone all night, for the bed doesn’t look slept in. I couldn’t bear it if I lost both of you!”

  “You’ve lost neither of us,” Meg assured her. “And you may be easy about my sister. She is well.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’ve seen her?”

  “How can I have?” Meg replied evasively, for she didn’t want the girl spilling anything to Calvert. “Now, having been seen in the breakfast parlor as Meg, I had better go down as Martha and make sure all is in hand for the party tonight. After which,” she added with relish, “I am going to sleep.”

  Somehow, she made it through the day until luncheon, when she particularly noticed Captain Garrow had joined them, looking none the worse for his nighttime expedition.

  “Where is de Vere?” he asked Calvert once. “He hasn’t left us, has he?”

  “Lord, no, I think he’s resting,” Calvert replied without much interest. These days it took a lot of effort to keep the worried frown off his face, which made Meg feel a little guilty. But only a little. “His wounds, you know. He never makes a fuss, but he’s not fully recovered.”

  Garrow looked skeptical but said no more.

  *

  Wakened by Mathews after about five hours of sleep, Meg felt she could have enjoyed another five. However, she staggered out of bed and allowed herself to be bathed and dressed while she discussed with the maid the several changes between Meg and Martha that she planned to perform tonight. She knew she would have to keep her wits about her to pull this off without getting muddled. Most definitely, she must not slip into reveries about Harry and the thrilling interlude in the woods.

  She began as Martha, warmly welcoming her guests to the drawing room. Although there was a ballroom at Calvert Court, Martha had, apparently, been saving that for the grand masked ball next week. So, the partitions between the drawing room and the salon next to it had been drawn back, and the furnishings removed or rearranged to make a good space for music, dancing, and chatter. Across the hall, the dining room was set up for an informal supper, and the small room next to it furnished with card tables.

  As Martha, she presented several young gentlemen, including Mr. Ives, to single young ladies whom they had not met yet. And when the dancing began, she did her duty by several dowagers, who seemed gratified by her attention. It was as she was about to slip out of the drawing room so that Meg could make an appearance that Mr. Ives caught her.

  “Not dancing, sir?” she said lightly. “I presented you to the most charming young lady.”

  “How can you suppose I would wish to dance with anyone but you?”

  “Sir, you are foolish and, I suspect, uncivil.”

  “Come, we can join the waltz when we like.”

  She met his gaze. “But I do not like.”

  “Why, because your husband is watching? Don’t be afraid. I shall be discreet. No one will know that we flirt.”

  She hoped she pulled off Martha’s most glacial stare. “Mr. Ives, supposing I had either the time or the inclination to flirt, it would not be with you. Play the wallflower if you wish.” She walked away, though not before she had seen the flush in his cheeks.

  Satisfied she had depressed his pretensions, she crossed the hall to the card room, afraid to flee too early in case Ives still watched her. After the quickest tour, she flitted into the dining room where the servants were setting out some of the cold, covered dishes. Then, satisfied there were no guests visible or able to see her, she left by the connecting door to the next salon and fled to Mathews in the cloakroom at the end of the hall.

  They had become quite practiced in the speedy changing of gown, jewels, and hairstyles. It took a bare five minutes for “Martha” to become Meg, dressed in pale blue rather than Pomona green, and with a solitary gold chain around her throat instead of the emeralds and diamonds affected by Martha.

  Mathews scanned her critically and nodded. At the last moment, she handed her the older of the two fans on the table. Meg dangled it from her wrist with her tiny reticule and, with a grin of gratitude, returned to the ballroom.

  Here, she was almost immediately asked to dance by Captain Garrow. She could hardly refuse, although her blood chilled with the knowledge that he had followed them to Cliffstone the previous night. She remembered, too, his vile, drunken behavior to his wife when they had first met and had to school her features into a civil smile. The man made her flesh crawl, and she had no difficulty whatever in believing he was up to no good. Although what exactly his intentions were, she had no more idea than Harry.

  Harry, she noted, was strolling around the room with a Miss Musgrave on his arm. She gazed up at him with sparkling eyes, and he smiled as she talked. A pang of jealousy twisted in her stomach, and she squashed it severely. Harry was never uncivil. But it was she he had kissed. And in such a way…

  Garrow’s words dragged her back to the present.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said apologetically.

  “I was saying, I thought Lord Harry had left us when I saw him riding out last night.”

  “Did he ride out in the dark?” she asked as though amused. “He takes odd notions. To be honest, I think he finds life at home dull!” She was about to turn the subject when another idea came to her. “Why are you so concerned for him?” she asked. “He has assured me he has quite recovered from his wounds. His family says the same.”

  “I’m sure that is true. It is his wounded spirit that concerns me. Has he said nothing to you about Major Dewar’s death? His final words, perhaps?”

  “No, just that he promised to give his ring to Mrs. Dewar. The same ring,” she added on impulse, “that was taken by the highwaymen.”

  “Highwaymen?” he repeated, startled.

  Meg could have sworn that startlement was genuine. She itched to speak to Harry on the subject. “It was on his journey here,” she said carelessly. “But you needn’t worry. He got the ring back.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Dewar will be grateful,” Garrow said in a distracted kind of way.

  As they parted at the end of the dance, she noticed Ives watching her. He made a movement in her direction, and she had to force herself not to bolt in the opposite direction, for Meg was not supposed to have met him yet. She was glad when Calvert stepped into her line of vision and asked her to dance.

  “I’m asking too much of you,” he said abruptly. “I never imagined this would go on for so long. We will just have to tell everyone the truth.”

  “I’m afraid we are rather trapped in this masquerade.”

  “Why doesn’t she come home? I shall go insane with worry.”

  In fact, the puffiness and faint redness of his eyes spoke of too little sleep, and there was deep tension in his almost permanent frown. She quashed her instinctive pity for him, for he had brought it all upon himself through his selfish hurting of Martha.

  “You should not worry for her safety,” she said at last. “I don’t. But I think you must resign yourself to a long wait. And Selwyn, even when she comes back—as I believe she will, eventually—things will never be the same.”

  He paled. “You mean she no longer loves me?”

  “You’ve given her little cause to.”

  “I know.” The words were barely audible. “And if I’ve killed her love, I’ll never—” He broke off with a weary smile. “Forgive me. A party is no place for such a conversation. To be frank, Meg, I wish all these people to Jericho.”

  “Well, since we can’t wish people away—or back—be so good as to tread clumsily on my gown so that I have to repair it, and Martha may come back for a little.”

  “I don’t know how you keep it straight.”

  “I couldn’t without Mathews. And to be frank, I may still stumble before the evening ends.”

  As the dance ended, Calvert stood obligingly on the hem of her train, and she duly fled to fix it.

  “Sorry,” she told Mathews, pushing the gown up over her head. “It’s just a little lace at the bottom. Can you fix it before Meg needs to come back?”

  “Of course,” Mathews scoffed, throwing Martha’s green dress over her head. Meg threaded her arms through and straightened the gown while Mathews laced it up. Meg removed the pins from her hair, leaving them on the table.

  Mathews turned to her hair, expertly brushing and pinning it into the more fashionable style adopted by Martha. The earrings and the necklace were replaced, the fans and reticules swapped over.

  Meg drew a deep breath for strength.

  “Lady Calvert,” Mathews warned.

  Hastily, Meg changed her posture and walked languidly to the door, thinking herself into Martha’s character.

  Meg still needed to make an appearance at supper, and then she would be Martha again for the evening.

  As Martha, she drifted into the ballroom just as the next waltz was beginning. Her gaze swept the room, making sure no young lady was left without a partner or at least company of some kind.

  “Oblige an old friend,” Harry murmured, appearing from nowhere to sweep her on to the dance floor.

  He appeared perfectly cool and collected, but at his first touch, heat surged through her body to her cheeks. Why was it when he held her in the waltz, it felt like an embrace?

  Because of those moments in the woods.

  And if she wasn’t careful, she would betray that not only to him but to everyone in the room who cared to look.

  A hint of sympathy dawned in his amused eyes. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Two more changes,” she murmured, “and I am home. I think I shall sleep for a week. Oh, Harry, Captain Garrow did see you ride out last night. He asked me again about what Major Dewar might have said before his death to upset you. And I’m afraid I mentioned his ring, but truly I think he knows nothing about it or the highwaymen, so you may be right about Aline. Although I am loath to admit it, for I do like her.”

  He blinked. “Thank you for the dispatch.”

  “I thought you should know,” she said lamely.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I do love you, Meg Winter.”

  Her feet stumbled, missing a step. “Don’t say such things without warning. I might believe you, and then where would we be?”

  “Why don’t you find out?”

  “I am not so foolish,” she said breathlessly. “What are you up to, Harry?”

  “Flirting.”

  She tilted her chin. “With Martha?”

  “That’s a very Meg gesture. And you know I can tell the difference.”

  She held his gaze, trying to cover the fact that her pulse was racing. “Martha would flirt back.”

  “Well?”

  She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes.

  Harry grinned. “That is Martha.”

  Playing the part of her sister gave her the courage to ask, “What did she say to you? When we left her last night?”

  He considered. “I don’t think I’m going to tell you that. Yet.”

  “Was she outrageous?” she asked lightly.

  “Yes and no.”

  It became more of a test to maintain Martha’s smile. “You are not giving much away.”

  “Exactly. Can’t we just enjoy this moment?”

  Her breath caught at the heat in his eyes. The memory of their encounter in the woods flooded her, the strength of his arms, the hardness of his body moving against hers, the magical tenderness of his kisses. His hand…

  “That is better,” he said softly.

  She swallowed. “Are you still flirting?”

  “Only with you.”

  She couldn’t help but smile, though she turned it hastily into one more appropriate to Martha. Over Harry’s shoulder, she saw Mr. Ives watching her, and was glad when Harry turned her in the dance.

  Was it Aline who had told her Harry was a wonderful dancer? He was. Far more graceful and practiced than the enthusiastic youth of five years ago who had not, in any case, known how to waltz. No one had then. Now, it was delicious. Even Harry’s slight lameness did not show. The dance seemed to absorb it, as it absorbed her.

  But it was coming to a close. The whole evening is worth the trouble, just for this waltz with him. But somehow, she curtseyed with Martha’s teasing civility and hurried off to catch up on her social duties as hostess.

  As she sat for a cozy chat with Mrs. Sanhurst and Mrs. Knowles, she felt a prickle between her shoulder blades, as though someone was watching her. She hoped it was Harry. However, she doubted it, for a moment later, they were joined by Mr. Ives.

  “Good evening, ladies! I have come to beg Lady Calvert for the supper dance, which is just forming.”

  Clever, she thought resentfully. It was harder to refuse him in the hearing of others, and his smug expression told her he knew it. What had Martha ever seen in this man? It proved once and for all that they did not like the same people.

  “You must excuse me from dancing,” she said carelessly. “But we may take a turn about the room before I make sure all is ready for supper. By your leave, ladies…”

  “I cannot imagine why you pursue me,” she said while preserving her amiable countenance for the benefit of those who might be watching. She laid the very tips of her fingers on his proffered arm. “I thought I had made it clear I have no desire to converse with you beyond the merest civilities.”

 

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