Cynders & Ashe (4 page)

“However can I thank you?”

“Enjoy this night,” she told her, her blue eyes asparkle with mischief. “The reckoning will come soon enough.”

Enjoy this night.
Mrs Garraway’s encouragement filled Ella’s heart with hope as she slipped out of the retiring room and paused in the hallway, wondering which way to go.

Back to the conservatory and hope her knight would come to her? Or back to the ballroom where he had been summoned?

Of course, then she risked running into Lady Osborn, who would surely be searching for “Pamela” by now. No, probably best to go to the ballroom and make some muttered excuse about not feeling well.

Then again, she realized, she couldn’t confess to being too ill. Lady Osborn, in some rare pique of maternal concern, might decide to take her home.

No, that will not do, Ella decided.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t for her to decide. Just before she got to the ballroom, her knight came swooping out of an alcove.

“Good heavens, I thought you’d never come down from there.” He caught her in his arms again and kissed her anew. This time his lips were hungry and quick and ever so wonderful. “Whatever is it that you ladies do up there?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, thinking of Mrs Garraway’s advice.

“Would you like a tour of the house,” he offered. “I know for a fact that Lord Ashe shares your penchant for military history, and has a fine map room upstairs.”

“Do you think that would be right?” she asked, looking up the stairs. The retiring room was the first room of a long hall, but one never ventured past the safety of the retiring room into parts unknown.

Then again, ladies didn’t kiss strangers in conservatories either.

“Upon my honour, I know Ashe wouldn’t mind in the least.”

“If you don’t think Lord Ashe would mind,” she agreed, all too curious.

He took her hand, and then glanced around to make sure no one noticed them. They darted up the stairs like a pair of wayward children.

Down the hall they went and into the study, where there was only the glow of coals in the fireplace. It was a grand space, with a large map table in the middle – atop it were spread several charts and city plans held down with lead soldiers. The table was ingenious, designed so that roll upon roll of maps could be stored in the cubbyholes built into the base.

Bookshelves lined one wall, while a desk and chair took up another corner. A long, wide settee, with a chair opposite, sat before the fireplace.

It was the sort of place she could imagine a general plotting his spring conquests. Then her gaze flitted over to the rare light in her knight’s eyes. It was the light of another sort of conquest. And when he caught hold of her and kissed her, she knew she should raise her defences, flee for the safety of the ballroom, but all she could consider was that this was her last night here.

Then it would be off to Portugal, to a life as Mrs Garraway’s companion. And yes, the dear lady would do her best to marry her off to some officer or other, but Ella knew it would never again be like this.

Like this starry brush with the heavens. As if the Fates had brought them together to remind them of what could be had . . . And lost.

And so Ella caught hold of him and held fast to what chance had offered her.

It was wrong, it was foolhardy, but if she didn’t . . . oh, if she didn’t, she would regret it the rest of her life.

As her mother had said often enough,
If I’d had only one night with my Roger it would alone have been worth every bit of disgrace . . .

And that kind of talk was another part of growing up in army camps, travelling with soldiers, living far from the drawing rooms and strict society of London.

Ella, at one and twenty, had a pretty good notion of what happened between men and women. Having seen enough camp followers in her days, lived around the rough talk of common men, the physical act was no mystery to her.

So when her knight kissed her, carried her over to the settee, she wasn’t afraid. No, she was ever so curious. Ever so desirous – for he had awakened inside her an insatiable need.

They fell into the wide, warm depths of the settee in a tangle of limbs.

They kissed, deeply, hungrily, until it seemed to flame a fire of need neither could deny.

He kissed her neck, sending tendrils of desire dancing through her limbs. He freed one of her breasts and kissed it tenderly, taking the nipple into his mouth and sucking on it – first slowly, gently, then pulling it deeply into his mouth. At the same time, he tormented the other with his hand, bringing both nipples to taut points.

Ella arched beneath his touch, his kiss, for he was bringing her body to life. When his hand slid beneath her gown, ran up her leg, up her thigh, touched her so intimately, traced circles around the tight, throbbing nub hidden there, instead of being shocked, she gasped, for his teasing touch only made the torment so much more inescapable. She sought out his lips and kissed him, her hands ran beneath his surcoat, around his leggings.

Unlike breeches, his leggings left no means to conceal what was beneath them – a hard masculine line straining to be freed. And she ached to release him. Find her own release from this wild fire he stoked inside her. So she brazenly traced her fingers over his form, stroked him, boldly reaching inside his leggings to free him.

He moved, instinctively, atop her, poised to take her, fill her and then, suddenly, his eyes widened, as if he were awakening from a dream.

He brushed the hair back from her face, his breath coming in ragged sighs. “You’ve never—”

She knew what he meant. Never done this. Not trusting herself to say the words, she just shook her head.

He started to pull away. “This is madness. We shouldn’t . . . But dammit, my fey little beauty, you have bewitched me.”

And him her. “Then take me,” she whispered, feeling the morning tide pulling her away from him. “Please, I am yours,” she said, shocked by her own bold and impassioned plea.

“Then you realize what that means. If I have you now, I will have you for ever.” His mouth curved into a smile.

But how could she tell him there was no for ever for them. That tomorrow she would be well and gone from London. There was no time for him to save her.

Save from the bonfire of desire crackling inside her.

“This is how it ought to be,” she told him, reaching up and cradling his face. To reinforce her words, she arched her hips up to brush against him, nudge him to come closer, to fill her.

She pulled his head down and kissed him. They began again, kissing and touching and exploring and the fury of their early moments became an exquisite dance. And when he entered her, he did it slowly, allowing her to feel the pleasure of each stroke, so when he breached her barrier, it was over and done and then there was only pleasure . . . Sweet euphoric pleasure that surrounded them both, drove them both until once again they were riding that wild cadence that had ensnared them earlier but this time it brought them both to a heady release.

Ella gasped as the first wave of sensuous gratification came over her, filled as she was by him, covered by him, surrounded by him and so she caught hold of him and clung to him, as her body drowned in the sweet pleasure.

And she wasn’t alone, for he made a deep groan and stroked her wildly and deeply as he too found his release.

He collapsed into her arms and they clung to each other, marvelling in the starry world they had found in each other’s arms.

A little while later, he rose from the couch and pulled her up as well. Glancing behind her, he laughed a bit. “I fear I’ve broken more than just your wings.”

She caught a glimpse of herself and saw the real problem – there was no disguising the fact that she’d been tumbled. Besides her dishevelled curls, the lost petals in her crown, the wrinkled state of her gown, there was no mistaking the starry light of wonder in her eyes.

Oh, good heavens, that is what it means to be loved, she realized, her hands coming to her cheeks. She doubted very much that this was what Mrs Garraway had meant when she’d told her to enjoy herself.

Behind her, her knight took her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, then he tipped his chin up and kissed her. After a few more kisses, he tried to straighten out her flowered crown and resettle it atop her tangled hair. He finally gave up and laughed at his own lopsided attempts, handing her back the fairy crown. As she went over to the mirror to set it to rights and make what repairs she could, she heard him say, “I never believed in the legend, until tonight.”

“The legend?” Ella said, distracted by the tangle of curls before her. Oh, good heavens, she wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow to be sacked. Even near-sighted old Lady Osborn would be able to see what she’d done.

“The Ashe legend,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled on his boots. “About finding a bride at the ball. I had rather thought it a bit of madness cooked up to get reluctant heirs to marry.”

Ella stepped back and eyed her work – not bad, she almost looked as she had earlier, save one missing earbob. Turning to look for it, she told him, “Well, you needn’t fear such a legend, because I believe it only applies to Lord Ashe.”

Then there was a long silence, one that said more than a declaration of the truth.

Lord Ashe?
“No!” she gasped, as she slowly raised her gaze to his. He couldn’t be.

“I thought you knew,” he said. “But it is no matter, the only problem is my mother.”

“Your mother?” she forced past her suddenly parched throat.

“Yes. She’ll be crowing for weeks. She worked over that damned invitation list of hers and vowed I would find a suitable bride tonight. She left nothing to chance as she wanted me well matched. And now I am. Perfectly so.”

“And you think—” It was all Ella could manage to get out.

“That you are perfect? Yes, in every way.”

Ella groaned. “Oh, this cannot be.” He couldn’t be Lord Ashe.

“I thought you knew,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No, I never!”

“Does it make a difference?”

However was she to answer that? Did it make a difference to her? No, he was still the most wonderful man she’d ever met. But he thought her to be a lady. One of his mother’s eligible misses.

Not Ella Cynders, a mere companion. Make that a “disgraced-without-references-and-unemployed” companion.

Suddenly the blare of a trumpet pierced the solitude that had surrounded them.

“Excellent,” he said. “Time for the unmasking and our announcement.” He held out his hand for her.

“Announcement?”

“Of our engagement.” He drew her close again and kissed her forehead. “That was the point of the ball. So I could find a bride. And I have found you. If you think I am letting you go, you are most mistaken.”

“But I-I-I . . .” she stammered. “That is . . . Oh, the devil take me, this is happening too fast.”

He glanced at her as he towed her from the room. “Don’t you want to get married?”

“Well, yes,” she said without thinking, for she was too busy trying to find a way out of this muddle. She couldn’t be unmasked, couldn’t have him announce his engagement to a mere hired companion.

He’d be the laughing stock of London.

She had to tell him, and tell him quickly, that she couldn’t be his bride.

“I suppose you will want to tell your guardian first. Of course,” Lord Ashe was saying as he drew her closer and closer to the ballroom. “That is understandable.”

Tell her guardian?
She didn’t have a guardi . . . Ella’s panic had her digging her heels into the carpet. Not that Ashe noticed her reluctance. He all but carried her along, as if her leaden steps were nothing of note.

As for Ella . . . She had to imagine that Mrs Garraway’s ship wouldn’t be sailing soon enough to get her out of London. Lady Osborn would have her thrown in Newgate before the sun was up, for bringing this scandal down upon them.

If I can find Mrs Garraway, maybe she can help, Ella thought desperately. Maybe she can get me out of here before . . .

Just then they slipped into the ballroom and Lord Ashe turned to her, beaming. “Go speak to your guardian and be ready when I call for you.” He winked. “Just for a few more moments, and then you will be mine always.” Before she could stop him, before she could confess the truth, he turned and strode confidently, proudly, through the crowd, towards the dais where his mother was waiting for him to announce the unmasking.

Ella drew an unsteady breath as he moved away from her. The further he went the more she felt him slipping away.

“There you are!” Lady Osborn said, coming up from behind her. “Where have you been, Pamela?” And then she looked at the young lady she assumed was her daughter.

Ella had to imagine that her hasty attempt to salvage her costume and her tumbled hair had failed given the lady’s wide-eyed expression of horror.

“What have you done?” she hissed, coming closer and taking Ella by the arm, dragging her towards the door. “Who did this to you? Is it that wretched Lord Percy? Because if he thinks to press his suit in this sort of despicable manner, he is sadly mistaken. Your father and I will never allow you—” By now Lady Osborn had dragged Ella out to the foyer and had her pinned in an alcove. The lady stood so close that not only could she see every bit of evidence of Ella’s rumpled condition, but one other pertinent fact.

That the girl she held wasn’t her daughter.

“Ella!” she said, releasing her and stepping back.

“Lady Osborn,” Ella replied, tipping her head, and fixing her gaze on the floor.

The matron glanced around and then caught Ella by the arm, rattling her like a rag doll. “Where is my daughter?”

Ella bit her lip and tried to speak. She tried to confess the truth, but the woman was hurting her, her unforgiving grasp like a pair of steel pinchers.

“Never mind, I can guess.” Lady Osborn pulled her towards the door. “She’s run off with that wicked boy.”

Ella took a furtive glance at the ballroom, where Lord Ashe stood unmasked. She could see him scanning the room, looking for her.