A Midsummer Night's Sin (3 page)

Miranda was already struggling to push her arms
into the sleeves of the concealing domino. “Oh yes, yes, agreed! Most definitely agreed!”

“And if we’re caught out, I’ll tell everyone it was all your idea, and that you kidnapped me.”

“Reggie! You wouldn’t!”

“No, probably not,” Regina agreed. “But I was just now remembering the time Mama and I visited at Mentmore and you blamed me for tossing you into the ornamental pond.”

“And they believed me and not you,” Miranda said, tying the strings of the domino under her pert little chin before pulling the hood up and over her hair. “That’s because I look so sweet and innocent and you look…well, never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” Regina said as the horses drew to a halt outside a large building lit with flambeaux that cast strange shadows inside the coach. “I look so
what?
”

Miranda fidgeted on the seat. “Well, Mama says decadent, but Papa says exotic. And Justin…”

“Yes? My idiot cousin Justin says what?”

“He says you always look like you’re
ready.
And stop looking at me with your eyes all gone wide that way because I don’t know what that means, but Mama said he shouldn’t talk like that in front of me. Come on, Reggie. If we only have an hour, let’s make the most of it.”

“I suppose now I have Grandmother Hackett to blame for something else,” Regina grumbled as she tied
the strings of the scarlet domino around her throat and covered her hair with the hood. “All right, I’m
ready.
”

H
E WORE HIS DARK
blond hair parted on the side and allowed it to hang loose to his shoulders, covering the thin, golden strings that secured the mask to his head. It had been fashioned for him by the premiere costumer in Paris, following Puck’s own design. It fit him perfectly, as he’d submitted to the molding of what some would call a death mask so that the costumer could work with an exact model of his customer’s bone structure.

It was a three-quarter rather than a half mask, smoothly curving down over his nose and cheekbones and rising to his hairline, all of it hugging his face. The design was simple: no lace or frills or jewels or feathers for Puck. Instead, the impact from the mask—and it was considerable—came from the paintwork applied to its smooth surface.

His inspiration had been a Catherine wheel. Eight widening, pie-shaped wedges of dramatic color emanated from the center of the wheel, located at the bridge of his nose, rather in a pinwheel design, yet all sleek and of a piece. Painted gold gilt wedges cut down the right side of his nose and across his lower cheek, up and over his right temple, the left side of his forehead, out from his left eye and across his upper cheekbone. The reverse for the other four “blades,” all of those painted in deepest ebony.

All one saw of his face beneath mask and flowing
hair was his wide, full mouth, his leanly sculpted chin and a pair of amused blue-green eyes.

The result was mesmerizing. He’d planned for mesmerizing.

And he hadn’t stopped with the mask.

He was dressed all in black, even to his waistcoat and the lace at his throat and cuffs. He wore a full, knee-length, black silk courtier’s cloak lined with shimmering gold and carried a long, ebony stick bearing black streamers and a gold serpent-head top. A ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg and ringed by diamonds nestled in the spill of black lace that was his cravat. He carried a shallow, wide-brimmed, black musketeer hat adorned with a fat, curled black feather.

Paris had exclaimed over him when he’d first donned the costume; the lovely Lady de Balbec most of all, he recalled with a smile. She’d pleaded with him to leave the mask on, even as she eagerly peeled away his clothing and pulled him down on top of her, coyly begging the “masked stranger” not to ravish her. Women had the strangest notions at times, but that’s what made them all so delightful.

Tonight, as in Paris, in a ballroom filled with uninspired dominos and devils, kings and harlequins, milkmaids and fools, he was as startlingly different as night from day. He knew he’d draw attention. Why else had he bothered to come?

As he saw the Baron Henry Sutton (black domino, black mask—how very uninspired) and Mr. Richard Carstairs (court fool, down to the bells on his hat and
shoes), Puck swept one side of his cape back and over his shoulder, exposing the shimmering gold silk, flourished his hat and made them both an elegant leg.

“Gentlemen, my honor,” he said smoothly.

“Yes, yes, the bastard’s honor,” the baron groused. “What in blazes do you call that rigout?”

“Sin, gentlemen,” Puck drawled smoothly, making a small business out of adjusting the black lace at his cuffs. “I call it Sin.”

Dickie Carstairs lifted up his mask and scratched at the side of his nose. “He has a point there, Henry. Doesn’t exactly look like a day in May, does he? Can we go now? These bloody bells are giving me a headache. Or do we have to introduce him to anyone?”

“Unfortunately, that is the purpose of the exercise,” the baron said, casting his gaze out across the large ballroom.

Puck did the same. It was a rented room, as even Lady Fortesque wouldn’t dream of hosting such an affair in her Portland Square mansion. She’d been quite clever in the way she’d employed screens and tall, obscuring plants to cut the boxy dimensions of the place while at the same time providing privacy and secluded couches for those who wished a romantic dalliance.

Servants wearing satyr masks circulated with trays bearing gold-painted glasses filled with heady mead, and they were hard-pressed to keep the trays full, as whatever courage hadn’t been obtained by concealing one’s face behind a mask could be found in a glass or two of the potent, honeyed brew.

He saw a tall man dressed all in furs paying court to a bewigged and patched Marie Antoinette. There was a scattering of other costumes, but for the most part, the guests had covered themselves only with dominos and plain-to-clever masks.

After all, concealment was the order of the evening.

“All right, over there,” the baron said after a moment. “Let’s begin with the good king Henry Tudor, shall we? He’s actually Viscount Bradley, and no, he didn’t have to stuff his doublet with straw, although there may be some sawdust in his stockings, to give him a leg. He’s horse mad, if that helps.”

“It does. I shall apply to him for advice about setting up my stables. And who is that with him?”

“That’s Will Browning,” Dickie Carstairs informed him quietly. “Wildly popular. If he were to accept you, you’d at least be able to count the Corinthians as your acquaintance. But he won’t. No title but still too high in the instep for you.”

“He’s forever jumping a fence or shooting pips out of playing cards or milling down a man at Jackson’s, but he prides himself most on his fencing,” the baron added.

Puck ran his gaze up and down the tall, rather athletic-looking figure. “Does he now?” he said, smiling. “Then I shall have to challenge him to a friendly competition, won’t I?”

The baron shrugged. “Why don’t you just do that. Once you’re stuck in bed recovering from the pinking he gives you, Dickie and I won’t have to be bothered
introducing you to anyone else. Come along, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Over the course of the succeeding twenty minutes, Puck was introduced to no less than ten gentlemen of the
ton.
He was utterly snubbed by two, shook hands with three, three more had served with Beau on the peninsula and expressed delight in greeting the man’s brother. He had arranged a meeting on Sale Day at Tattersalls with Viscount Bradley, who had attended Eton with his father, and a fencing match with Mr. Browning, who had taken Puck’s measure, just as Puck had taken his, and declared that he looked forward to cutting such a brash upstart down to size.

Puck had, of course, failed to mention that he had studied with the famed Motet at the
Académie d’Armes de Paris.
Some things should be a surprise.

Now Puck was bored.

“You two fine gentlemen know no women?” he asked as Dickie Carstairs snagged another golden cup of mead from a passing satyr. “I do not ask that you introduce my unacceptable self to your sisters or your wives, who would not be in attendance tonight in any case, but are there no females present who might find it within their sympathy to invite me to their next small party?”

“Lady Fortesque,” Dickie offered. “But you probably already met her as you came in. Harriette Wilson and her sisters and a few other courtesans are probably somewhere about and a clutch of canaries from Covent Garden and some low-born actresses, as well. If
you’re looking for a tumble, nothing beats an actress, I say. The good ones even make you believe they like it. What?” He rubbed at his side, where the baron’s elbow had just jabbed him.

“Jack’s mother is an actress,” Henry Sutton said quietly and then bowed to Puck. “My apologies, Mr. Blackthorn. My friend appears to have left his brains at home this evening. However, to answer your question, no, as far as I can see, Lady Fortesque confined her invitations to the gentlemen and then populated the room with…amenable barques of frailty, if you understand my meaning.”

Puck allowed himself to be forgiving. “There are considerably more men in attendance, I did note that, yes.”

“And now there will be two less, although I am sure the number of females will swell once, as Mr. Carstairs so rudely pointed out, the theaters close down for the night. I can already see where this evening will go and do not wish to be any part of such public debauchery,” the baron said, bowing once more. “Enjoy your first taste of London Society at its most base, Mr. Blackthorn.”

Puck returned the bow, offered his thanks and watched as the two men took their leave, Dickie’s arms gesturing wildly as he most probably asked the baron what he’d said that was so upsetting. Dickie Carstairs, Puck had decided, most probably drove the wagon and dug the holes after Jack and the baron had dispatched the targets; he seemed qualified for little else.

He should probably go, as well, as the idea of
enjoying
himself in this overheated, painfully obvious setting for anonymous yet public liaisons did not appeal. He’d never been at a loss for female companionship when he’d wished it, and the very last thing he
wished
would be to bed an actress. He’d seen where that sort of folly could lead.

Puck turned rather abruptly, his mind having taken him somewhere he preferred not to go, and all but cannoned into one of the guests.

“I beg your pardon, I was not— Well, hello, beautiful lady.”

“How would you know? I’m wearing this ridiculous mask.”

Puck was taken aback by this pert answer nearly as much as by the clear disdain in the young woman’s voice; he hadn’t been dismissed out of hand by a female since he was thirteen. But that reaction faded quickly as his attention was captured by the most amazingly clear blue eyes framed by lashes so long and dark he could scarcely believe them real.

And that mouth. Not only pert, but wide, and lush, and definitely inviting. There was a small brown mole—no, beauty spot—at the upper-left corner of those sensuous lips, which only added to the overall impression of sensuality. Of carnal knowledge and the pleasures of sex. A woman wasn’t born with a mouth like that without knowing what it was for or how to use it.

He put his hands on her shoulders, noting that she
was rather tall for a woman, and boldly inspected the rest of her.

She was slimly built, her scarlet silk domino hiding most of the curves he felt certain were there but unable to conceal the fact that the breasts beneath it were wonderfully full and high and, he was equally certain, Heaven to touch, to tease, to taste.

Best of all, she was here. He leaned forward, smoothly insinuating his mouth beside her ear so that she’d be sure to hear him above the hubbub around them.

“We’ll dance, you and I,” he whispered, sliding his hands down her arms, cupping her slim waist beneath the domino even as he took her right hand and raised it to his lips.

Her fingers were cold, although the room was stuffy and overly warm, but she did not move away from him. Her gaze did slide toward the middle of the floor, where couples were gathering as the musicians struck up a waltz.

“No, not here. You’re much too exquisite for this motley crew,” he soothed, and then twirled her about, deftly maneuvering them toward the opened French doors and out onto the narrow, moonlit balcony.

Once there, seeing that the rather crude benches to either side of the doorway were occupied by amorous couples who didn’t seem to mind an audience, he let go of her waist but not her hand, turning her about to lead them down the wide shallow steps and into the meager, flambeaux-lit gardens.

She didn’t protest but just lifted her skirts and followed where he led.

It took some doing, but he finally managed to locate a small clearing devoid of other occupants. There was no bench, but the grass seemed plentiful enough, and there was always that stout tree trunk to lean her against as he got to know her better.

Know her body better. Intimately.

He already felt sure he knew
her
enough.

She was here, wasn’t she? She was apparently willing. What more did he need to know?

“What is your name, scarlet lady?” he asked her, looking into her wide, unblinking eyes, feeling himself becoming lost in those clear, swirling depths.

“I’d first know yours. Is it Mr. Black or Mr. Gold?” she said, showing spirit yet again.

Puck laughed. “It’s neither. My name is Robin Goodfellow.”

The truth was rarely believed, and it wasn’t now.

“Oh yes, I’m quite sure that’s correct. And I am Titania, Queen of the Fairies.”

“Ah, fair Titania,” Puck allowed, quietly surprised that she would know the characters from Shakespeare’s farce until he realized that she must be an actress. He was about to break his most sacred rule and tumble an actress. “Then you do not believe me?”

“No more than you believe me, no. But does it matter? I don’t imagine you’ve brought me out here for an exchange of names.”