Lady Dearing's Masquerade (18 page)

He had no intention, of course, of following her advice. So he told himself as he departed from their box and hurried toward the staircase, nearly knocking over a servant bearing refreshments.

To follow Livvy to the Pulteney was both risky and useless, his rational mind lectured as he plunged down the stairs and out of the theatre.

He bore down on the line of hacks, telling himself it was time to return to Russell Square. But his aunt might be awake, and he was in no fit state to speak to her. There would be no peace for him until he
knew
beyond a shadow of a doubt whether or not Livvy and Arlingdale were lovers.

Either she had lied to him at Rosemead or she was lying now.

Impatiently he flung himself into a hackney. When the driver asked directions, he hesitated a bare instant, caught between unbearable evils.

“Pulteney’s Hotel. And make it quick!”

Chapter 13

Jeremy flung a handful of coins at the hackney driver and dashed from the dark street into the Pulteney. Candlelight from the massive chandeliers above blinded him, causing him to cannon into some idiot loitering near the entrance. Muttering an apology, Jeremy moved on, suddenly aware that he’d no idea which of the Pulteney’s expensive rooms Livvy had hired.

In a stroke of luck he could only suppose came from Heaven itself, he recognized her maidservant—Alice, he thought her name was—disappearing down a dark corridor. He dashed after her, dimly aware of his lunacy in skulking around a hotel after a notorious widow.

This was what she had brought him to.

He followed Alice up the servants’ staircase and down a luxuriously carpeted hallway, keeping a discreet distance between them, then slipping into the deep embrasure of one of the doors to watch her scratch on the door at the end.

Straining, he barely caught the sound of Livvy’s voice. Though he could not hear the words, the soft tones plunged deep into his heart.

A moment later, Alice came back out and trotted back down the hall. Jeremy turned, pretending to be entering the doorway he’d hidden in, and she passed without noticing him.

The enormity of the risk he was taking slammed into him. Pain and exposure threatened, but he was so close.

Swiftly he padded down the hallway, entered the last door and closed it quietly behind him, then turned the key in its lock.

Gilded tables and chairs with delicately embroidered cushions stood before him on an elegant Aubusson carpet. Tasseled curtains were closed over long windows overlooking Green Park. The most luxurious of sitting rooms.

Empty.

And no sound came from the interior doorway that must surely lead to an equally luxurious bedchamber.

Nothing to suggest she was entertaining a lover.

His heart pounded a deafening beat as he passed through.  “Livvy?” he whispered.

A large four-poster hung with rose and blue silken curtains stood empty, the snow-white coverlet pulled back.

A small sound pulled his head around.

There she was, sitting at a dressing table. All he could see was the back of a peacock-blue silk dressing gown, glorious golden hair loose down her back, a silver-handled brush in her hand.

She was alone. Entirely alone.

He had known it. He had
known
it all along.

“Alice, is that you? What is it?” Her voice sounded muffled and weary.

“Livvy.”

She gasped and whirled in her seat to face him.

“Jeremy! My God, what are you doing here? Think of the scandal; if we are caught everything will be ruined!”

“Hush, Livvy.”

He came toward her, enraptured by her fragrance, by soft skin glowing in the flickering candlelight. How he’d missed her over these past weeks of numb misery and vain attempts to lose himself in estate and Foundling Hospital business. His eyes devoured her beloved features: the arching eyebrows, the lusciously curved lips . . . But her cheeks were as pale as the diaphanous nightrail peeking from her half-open dressing gown. Her beautiful blue eyes . . .

“You’ve been crying,” he said abruptly.

She averted her face. “It is not your concern,” she said coldly, but a quaver in her voice betrayed her. “You should leave now,” she struggled on. “Ivor—Lord Arlingdale—is going to return soon. You would not wish to—to meet him.”

“You are lying.”

“I’m not!”

He came another step closer. “Why are you doing this?”

Her swollen eyes closed and for an instant, her face became as serene as when she’d played that Mozart sonata.

In a moment of radiant clarity he knew. It was about the foundlings. About preserving the beautiful life she had made for herself and them. And she saw him as a threat.

He removed his
chapeau-bras
and his gloves and set them down on a commode, then removed his cloak.

“Livvy,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “At every masquerade ball there is a time for unmasking. That time has come.”

* * *

Livvy gripped the brush so tightly her hand hurt.

Deh vieni, non tardar, o gioja bella . . .

She turned back around in her seat, trying to thrust the beguiling melody from her mind.

“I think I understand it all now.” His voice came softly, close behind her. “It is another of your defenses, to allow everyone to think Arlingdale is your lover.”

She took a shuddering breath. It was like teetering on a knife-edge. He deserved the truth, at least part of it. But if she told too much, she would arouse all his protective instincts. They’d come so close to disaster already, but he seemed to have no idea why she had put on such a performance with Ivor at the opera. Perhaps his friends did not wish him to know.

She straightened in her seat. “You are right. Ivor is known for his skill with both sword and pistols, and while he escorts me I am free from harassment.”

“How long has this gone on?”

“Since the beginning. Whoever it was that wrote that piece in
The Morning Intelligencer
thought you were Ivor; he was known to have attended masquerades before in the guise of Death, and he is much the same height as you. When I sought him out—”

“You . . . looked for me?”

The raw vulnerability in his voice shook her.

“Yes.” The word burst from her. “I looked for you, and when I discovered that Ivor had blue eyes, and his voice was not as low as yours . . .”

She set down her brush and clasped her hands in her lap. How appallingly close she had come to making a most dangerous admission.

Jeremy came right behind her then; she could see him in the mirror. He took up the brush in one hand; with his other he gently lifted a strand of her hair and began to brush it. The tenderness of the gesture unlocked something within her.

“Why
did
you go to the masquerade?”

His hand warmed her neck as he gathered a strand of hair near the nape.

“When I came to London three years ago, everyone seemed to think I was looking for a new husband, or perhaps a lover. But all I planned was to attend the theatre, to shop and to renew some old acquaintances.”

He continued to brush, and she gathered the courage to continue.

“When I saw the advertisement for the masquerade, I thought it would be amusing to pretend to be a different person . . . a braver one . . . just for a night. It all seemed a grand adventure: the way you rescued me from the Turk, the way you danced with me, the way you made me feel.”

“How was that?”

His voice flowed through her in a soothing current.

“As if I were . . . precious to you.”

The brush glided over her scalp, his hands stroking her temples, her neck . . .

“Then, when we kissed, it all became . . . real.”

“Is that why you ran away?”

She nodded, letting out another shuddering sigh.

“And afterward, you met Arlingdale.”

“Yes. When he learned of the mistake that had been made, and the scandal, he was most kind. I assured him that it was not his fault, that I expected nothing from him, but he offered to protect me from some of the consequences. We have discovered many common tastes, and now enjoy an uncomplicated friendship.”

“And he never made a single attempt on your virtue?”

A faint thread of skepticism entered his voice.

“No. I do not know why it is, but Ivor seems to prefer coldhearted women for his mistresses. It is as if he is afraid someone will fall in love with him.”

“As are you.” His lowered voice resonated through her.

“This is not wise, Jeremy. You know the tale now, and I think you should leave, before we both plunge into folly.”

“No. There is more I must know. After the masquerade, if we had found each other, if I had asked it of you, would you have taken me as your lover?”

She closed her eyes, but it only made her more acutely aware of his hands moving down to caress her arms. She couldn’t think. Why did he ask? Would a lie be kinder than the truth? Everything was blurring.

“Yes.”

His hands stilled.

“So now you know what a weak-willed woman I am. You must despise me.”

He was silent so long her heart began to plummet. Then he spoke.

“Your marriage was . . . unhappy. It is only natural, is it not, to wish to love and be loved? To touch and be touched?”

She looked up at him, meeting eyes full of desire and a surprising empathy.

“I would not have asked you to be my mistress, Livvy.”

She closed her eyes again. “It is useless to think of what might have been. It’s too late now.”

“I love you.”

“How can you? You came here thinking I was with Ivor.”

“I never did. I told myself I was a gullible fool, but I never did believe it. I knew you were
mine.
”

His hands left her shoulders. Then his breath warmed her neck and she opened her eyes to see him kneeling beside the chair. Putting one arm around her shoulder, he drew her dressing gown open to reveal her nightrail. His lips caressed the curve between her neck and shoulder. She felt exposed, vulnerable, aching for him to continue.
To love and be loved. To touch and be touched.

Vieni, vieni . . .

There were reasons she should stop him, but she could not recall them. Instead, she leaned back as he trailed tender, hot kisses along her neck. When he cupped her cheek in his hand, she turned her face toward his, shorn of her will, and parted her lips to welcome his kiss. Slowly, tenderly, his tongue explored; shamelessly, she kissed him back. He pulled her against him. Desire gripped her; she moaned into his mouth as his hand played over her breast, rubbing layers of flimsy cotton against her nipple.

He drew her up off the chair and into a tight embrace.  The heat radiating from his black-clad body soaked through her thin nightrail. She lifted her face for more kisses, putting her arms around him, relishing the solid breadth of his chest, his heated touch as he cupped her bottom in one hand and with the other pulled her waist so close she could feel the hardness of his arousal.

A tremor shook her. She’d thought she would never want this again. She’d thought she was numb from years of enduring Walter’s brusque attentions. But Jeremy’s caresses had brought her back to tingling, delirious sensation, and—God help her—she wanted to try.

It might be different this time.

When he picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and began to carry her toward the bed, another tremor shook her. Now she remembered the risk they were taking. She remembered what was at stake.

Everything.

But he was already here. They could enjoy this one night—she could not deny them that—but it had to end there.

She turned her head to brush a tear against his shoulder.

He paused, right near the sumptuously draped bed, and stared down at her.

“Don’t cry, Livvy,” he murmured. “I love you. I want you, not just tonight, but every night and every morning of my life.”

“No, don’t say it,” she whispered.

He clutched her more closely against him. “I must say it. I don’t want you for my mistress. You deserve more. I want you for my
wife
.”

“I don’t wish to be married again. And the scandal . . . It is impossible.”

“No, it can’t be. Will you try?”

A sob burst from her. “No, no. I am yours for tonight, but there it must end.”

“That is not what I want. I want you to marry me.”

“No, it’s madness!”

“Sanity—”

She shivered as he bent his head to kiss her again, holding her so tightly to his chest that she felt every rough breath, the hammering of his heart.

He lifted his head again. “Marry me, Livvy.”

Desperately, she shook her head. “I cannot. Your reputation will not survive it. And then . . . the branch hospital, the foundlings, everything . . . will be ruined.”

“We’ll find a way,” he insisted, and covered her mouth again, stoking her desire until her entire body hummed with it.

“There
is
no way,” she gasped between kisses.

“You will not try? You are content to let it end, then, with just one night of pleasure?” He stared down at her, eyes darkened, breath ragged.

“Yes. That is all I want. It is all we can have.” Desperately, she shifted in his arms, twining one hand around his neck and lifting her face to his.

But he twisted his face away. “If I did what you ask, I’d be no better than any of those loose-screws who would make you their mistress.”

“No, you are not like them!”

“Then say you’ll marry me.”

“I can’t. All I can give you is tonight.”

Abruptly, he dropped her onto the bed. Her breath caught as she stared up at his ravaged features, his powerful arms bent, big hands clasping and unclasping.

“Damn it, you deserve more. We both do.”

He turned on his heel and walked heavily out of the room. She lay still as death, hearing his every movement as he gathered up his cloak, his hat and gloves, then left, shutting the door with chilling finality.

Then she pulled the covers over herself and curled up tightly. Unfulfilled desire coursed through her: excruciating, painful. Gusty sobs gripped her for a time, then ended as abruptly as they began.