Unmasking the Hero, page 8
“No, but you have asked me that before, and it isn’t your turn.”
“I made it so because your questions are too difficult. Would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
Startled by the promptness of his answer, she didn’t know whether or not to take him seriously. The ballroom was not so well lit as those she was used to, and his eyes seemed an odd amber color, at once seductive and wicked.
“Would you do something for me?” he asked softly.
For no good reason, her heart plunged into her stomach, causing chaos inside her. She swallowed. “If I can. I owe you a debt.”
“No debts between us,” he said swiftly, as, maddeningly, the music came to an end. He released her and bowed. “Walk with me.”
She curtseyed. “Now?”
“It’s as good a time as any while everyone is milling about.”
“My friends will miss me.”
“You won’t be long. I promise not to ravish you in the moonlight. Unless you would like me to.”
She ignored that, although she took his offered arm somewhat warily. “Are you going to show me what you talked of in your note?”
His lips—well-shaped, firm lips, as mysterious and as attractive as the rest of him—quirked. “Yes.”
“Five minutes?”
“Less if you wish.”
Reassured, she allowed him to lead her through the throng and out one of the side doors into a sweet-smelling garden. Honeysuckle and something light that might have been hyacinth. Another couple was coming toward them, and he steered Grace around a quieter path beneath a chestnut tree.
“I never thanked you for the bracelet,” she said abruptly.
“There is no need.”
“Why not? Because you took it in the first place?”
She caught the white flash of his teeth in the darkness. “Yes.”
“Why did you take it?” she asked curiously.
“So that I could see you again.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t know whether or not to believe him, let alone trust him. All her trust was limited these days, in any case. “I ask because I could pay you for what I would like you to do. If you are short—”
“Let there be nothing as sordid as money between us. What is it you need of me?”
“Something a little like this.” She waved her hand toward the masked couple and the pavilion. “I would like you to attend a masked ball.”
“With you?”
“No, though I will be there. And I’m afraid I cannot invite your wife because I would like you to be as mysterious and charming there as you are here. I would like you to flirt with me and perhaps be discovered alone with me, if I can arrange it correctly.”
His face turned toward her, but they had paused under the tree, and the branches blocked the lantern light. She could not see his expression.
“Why?” he asked. “Am I to make someone jealous?”
Her smile was lopsided, though he probably could not see that either. “Sadly, such an outcome is doomed to failure. But a little humiliation, a little rumor of cuckolding would suit me well enough.”
“Then we are going after your husband? He humiliated you once, perhaps?”
Humiliation was only the beginning of what he had done to her, but she would not admit that to a stranger, let alone one she wished to use against him.
“Does he deserve it?” Rudolf asked lightly.
“Oh, and more,” she said cordially. “Will you do it?”
He appeared to think about it. “Very well. I’ll do it on one condition.”
“What?”
He smiled. “A kiss.”
She had certainly walked into that one. They stood alone beneath the tree, and as he leaned closer, a breeze disturbed the leaves, and light flickered over his masked face.
A kiss. Where would be the harm in a kiss? With a stranger who looked and moved and spoke as he did, reminding her she was a woman, a wife who had known only a taste of passion.
How does he kiss? How would it feel?
His head dipped, and her breath caught. She moved back the way they had come. “No. I do not bargain with kisses.”
“Of course, you do not, and I am a scoundrel to ask.” He walked beside her, his stride easy and unhurried as before. “Now you know the worst of me, and I’ll do your bidding without the kiss and hope only for a smile.”
“You are teasing me,” she said severely.
“I am. And my five minutes is up. But I still mean it. Dance with me again?”
“Now?”
“Why not? Your friends will see you on the dance floor.”
That was true enough and would give Bridget another dance with her husband, whom she loved.
“What is your favorite fruit?” he asked as they reentered the pavilion, and she laughed at the resumption of the silly game.
“Raspberries. What is yours?”
“Peaches. Where were you born?”
“Here in London. Where were you?”
“I don’t actually know. No one ever told me.”
“Then where were you educated?”
He swept her into the dance once more, and the warm tingles in her stomach intensified and spread. She had done the right thing, but somehow, she regretted the loss of his kiss. Now, she would always wonder.
“In the best and most expensive school in my country,” he replied. “Where were you educated?”
“At home, of course, with a governess.”
“Was she old and fierce and disapproving?”
“No, she was fluttery and kind and well-read and worth ten of the wealthy people who abused her before she came to us. She teaches my sister still.” Which was too much information. “What is your favorite animal?”
“My horse. Yours?”
“The dog who licked my nose as a child.”
The questions went on with the dance, increasingly light and amusing. She had a feeling the answers he gave were honest, because occasionally, like her, he refused to answer, presumably because he would not lie. It didn’t seem to matter. He intrigued her and made her laugh, and the dance flew past too quickly. Though he never held her too close, she had never been so aware of a waltz partner, every casual brush of his fingers on her hand, her waist, every movement of his body, guiding hers, so close and yet never touching.
“And now,” he said reluctantly, “I return you to your friends. Or will you join me for supper?”
“I shall return to my friends,” she said firmly, placing her finger in the crook of his arm. A thought struck. “Drat, what was it you meant to show me?”
“My haircut,” he said in apparent surprise.
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
He only smiled, bowed to Bridget, and wandered off.
Chapter Eight
“How long is it until midnight?” Lord Arpington grumbled. “I’m starving.”
“I believe supper is included in the price of the ticket,” Grace said. “We can go and look for it if you like?”
“Why not?” Bridget said. “That fellow in blue keeps looking at me. I’m sure he means to ask me to dance.”
“Then I’ll punch him in the nose,” her husband said staunchly.
“Definitely supper time,” Grace murmured.
In the end, they found a buffet supper in a large room upstairs. It had probably been quite magnificent at the beginning of the evening, but a plague of locusts had clearly visited since then, and the remaining choices were not wide. Nevertheless, the three of them helped themselves and each other to a few morsels, the ladies piling things willy-nilly onto Arpington’s plate while he courteously searched for the tastiest bites for them.
They found an empty table by the window, and Arpington went off to find wine to drink with it.
“What are you up to, Grace?” Bridget murmured as soon as he was out of earshot. “I know you went off alone with the bracelet man.”
“Nothing happened,” Grace assured her. And God help her, she was still sorry. It might have been her last chance of a kiss. A proper lover’s kiss such as she had only known with Oliver a long, long time ago. Besotted and naive, she had imagined these kisses betokened his love as well as hers. And though she had swiftly learned better, the memory of those kisses could still melt her bones. Physical reaction, physical desire…
There was a special cruelty in one night, one taste, and then total celibacy.
“But you would have liked it to,” Bridget said shrewdly. “Oh, Grace, why now? Why wait until he is home? You have had two years to succumb to the charms of handsome men.”
“I shan’t succumb,” Grace said, amused. “It isn’t what you think.”
“I’m not sure yet what I think. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. His name is Rudolf, and he is not English. But I believe he is a gentleman.” A gentleman who steals jewelry? And gives it back…
“Does he know who you are?”
“Of course not.” Not yet. But when she told him where to come for her masquerade ball, he would guess. And when he was there, he would know. And then she would send him back to his wife. And he, being a gentleman, would go.
But stupidly, dangerously, she already felt the loss of excitement he had brought her. Bridget was right. In the two years of Oliver’s absence, she could have pursued any number of discreet affairs. She had never been tempted. She wouldn’t be tempted now if she didn’t have a plan of petty revenge.
Wouldn’t I?
There was something about Rudolf, her masked stranger. The way he looked, the way he moved. An honest thief, an opportunist, a manipulator. But one who had let her go when he could have easily have stolen the kiss he wanted. And more. And yet, she had felt in no danger. Not from him. From her own weakness, yes. From the loneliness of her own future.
What would she do after she had punished her husband? Live with his wrath? Apart from his wrath, more likely. He did not need an heir. Phineas was his heir, and Phineas had brothers if there were no heirs of his body.
Bridget’s fingers closed over her wrist. “Come back to me, Grace. You’ve been odd and tense and different ever since we knew he was on his way home. In fact, ever since you came here the last time. Don’t fall in love with this man or whoever you imagine him to be.”
“I am no longer that foolish,” Grace assured her. “But what a pity we can’t all have a husband like yours.”
“I second that,” Lord Arpington said, sitting down with the wine. “You see, wife of my bosom? You are indeed a lucky woman.”
If Grace had hoped to see Rudolf in the supper room, she was doomed to disappointment. She did glimpse him through the window in the garden, with a group of people to whom he appeared to be listening rather than talking.
It came to her gradually that she needed to speak to him again, to establish some means of easy communication, for she could not keep coming to Maida Gardens. For one thing, she had probably run out of tolerant friends to accompany her. Although the thought of coming alone, with no one to answer to, hide from, or look after—apart from Rudolf—was suddenly alluring.
Bridget was right. This man did present a danger. She had to draw back from that. An address to write to was what she needed. And then some distance from him and greater focus on her purpose. And then…
She would not think beyond that. She could not.
But as the huge wall clock crawled beyond half-past eleven, and they walked toward the ballroom exit, Grace glanced over her shoulder and saw the unmistakable figure of Rudolf moving toward the other door, the one that led into the scented garden.
He glanced back, and their eyes met, and then he walked on, vanishing through the door. Grace’s breath caught. She made a decision.
“Go on ahead,” she said to Bridget. “I’ll either catch up with you on the path or by the gate.”
“Grace—”
Ignoring her friend’s inevitable warning, Grace darted back through the courting couples and prowling groups of masked males. She avoided two outstretched hands and pretended not to see several lascivious smiles. And then she was in the blessed fresh air of the garden.
Which was busier now. A couple flirted loudly on an ornate bench. A group of young women competed to be noticed in their perambulation while an opposing group of predatory men watched them. It was all rather unsavory, she thought with distaste. Although, perhaps, it was merely a more blatant version of what went on in society’s ballrooms. There were marriage marts and intrigues everywhere.
A figure waited beneath the chestnut tree. She was sure it was Rudolf, and her heart thudded foolishly. She made haste toward him, praying that it was him, for she did not fancy her chances of fighting off amorous men in this place—not without violence, at any rate.
But as she drew closer, he moved, letting the lantern light find his masked face for an instant before he stepped back under the branches. It was enough. She quickened her step farther, and a moment later, his hands drew her into the welcoming darkness, close to him. He smelled of some exotic eastern soap that was almost familiar: lemon and cinnamon.
A taste of passion. She had known only a taste, and he was tall and strong and intriguing. His closeness aroused her unbearably. The darkness was her friend…
“Where can I reach you?” she demanded, hating the breathlessness of her voice. “To tell you about the service we discussed?”
“There is no need. Tell me where and when to come, and I will.”
Then I will not see you again, not before and not after. The thought filled her mind, even as she murmured her address and the date of the ball. No love for her, no possibility of it. Only loneliness stretched in front of her. And she yearned.
“Grace,” he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. A hint of wine on his breath. And coffee. She could smell his skin, too—strong spices, a hint of earthiness and warm male. It did not seem so dark now, for she could see the glinting silver of his mask and the steady intensity of his eyes as he gazed down at her.
End this now. Walk away. But it seemed she didn’t have the strength to do it twice in one evening. When his head lowered, she made no attempt to run. Her body seemed to be melting into a heap of desire, communicating only with his.
At the first touch of his lips, she gasped. At the first touch of his body against hers, his arms closing around her to hold her there, heat flamed through her.
But it was a gentle, tender kiss, caressing, achingly sensual. She had wanted it so much yet meant it to last only a moment. But everything in her leapt toward him. Her mouth parted for his, and for one glorious moment, she kissed him back, as sweet, hot desire seemed to fuse their bodies. He held her close with one hand at her back, the other at her nape. And she loved it all.
It was a moment. And it was wrong. It had always been wrong.
With a sob, she tore her mouth and her body free and fled.
*
She woke the following morning, her head buzzing with a very peculiar mixture of shame and happiness. She had known a very special kiss with a stranger, and she felt bold and desirable. And when all was said and done, it was only a kiss. Nothing to the infidelities of her husband. She told herself she had nothing to reproach herself with, and yet there was a lingering guilt. Because she had known it was coming and had let him. Had even kissed him back.
It was only flirting, only a kiss. But it was not truly fair on Rudolf, for she had no intention of beginning an affair with him. She liked him, and he deserved more than a woman’s vengeance. He deserved his wife’s love.
She had long ago given up dreaming of her husband’s. But she had some pride, some personal standards, and she would keep to them.
No more Maida Gardens, she told herself severely as she reached for the coffee on her tray. Today, she would send amended invitations to her party, requesting all her guests to masquerade as historical figures, with an unmasking at midnight and a costume competition.
And then Oliver walked into her bedchamber. Her own sense of guilt made her angry as did his careless, handsome appearance. He had not even troubled to dress properly, sauntering in without coat or necktie, or even waistcoat.
“It’s a little early, is it not?” she said waspishly. “Neither of us is dressed.”
“I believe we are married. Even the highest sticklers for propriety could not complain. Besides, it’s the only time I can be sure of finding you at home.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I got a crick talking to you yesterday in that impressive phaeton.”
“I shall bear that in mind the next time we meet in the park.”
“I’m sure you will.” He lounged on the edge of her bed, and she wanted to swipe him off.
It was easier not to look at him, so she sipped her coffee instead.
“I came to ask for your company this evening,” he said unexpectedly.
“I’m afraid I have engagements all week.”
“I was sure you did, which is why I came especially to ask you to cry off or at least go late to whatever event you are promised to. We are invited to dinner at Fife House.”
Grace set down her cup in its saucer. “The prime minister invited you?”
“Invited us.”
“Then I suppose I must go. Is it something to do with your recent trip?”
“Lord Liverpool is pleased with the outcome.”
“Then all must rejoice,” she said flippantly.
“Except you?”
“I see no reason why you should think so.”
“You have asked me nothing about it.”
“You have asked me nothing about my admittedly much more trivial life, looking after your estates and your houses.”
“That is true.” He picked up her coffee cup and took a sip before offering it back. “Since my return, we have not exactly spent enough time in each other’s company to ask anything.”
She took the cup from him and placed it firmly in the saucer. Spoiling her gesture, Henley topped it up from the coffee pot and withdrew.
“We could do better, Grace,” he said gently. “Spend the day with me, or at least a few hours. We can exchange news, big and small.”
Once, she had dreamed of him returning and speaking such words, a precursor to his abject apology, perhaps some important reason for leaving her that she had never thought of. But she had long ago recognized that she could not trust such words. She could not be the devoted little wife, picked up and dropped at his careless whim.
