Silk and Shadows (43 page)

"Better than that."

There was an odd note in his voice, and Sara looked at him askance, wondering if he had been drinking. She had never seen Mikahl intoxicated, but he was in a strange, volatile mood. He led her from the ballroom, then turned right into a dark corridor. In the middle of the passage, he opened a door on the right and ushered Sara into a sparsely furnished reception room lit by a single lamp.

She looked around doubtfully. "Should we be here?"

"Probably not." There was a key in the door lock, and he turned it before facing Sara. "I think this must be where unwelcome visitors wait—not much furniture and all of it uncomfortable. On the positive side, there is some open space, and the ballroom is on the other side of that wall so the orchestra can be heard quite clearly." He made a deep bow. "Will my lady dance with me?"

"Of course." Smiling, Sara held her arms up in waltz position. "But I must tell you that this is most improper.''

"To dance with my own wife?" He raised his brows comically as he swirled her across the floor.

"To steal away to a private room, lock the door, and hold a partner this close are all definitely improper." She relaxed in his arms, feeling that her feet scarcely touched the ground. Trust Mikahl to find a place where they could be private even though several hundred people were just a wall away. "Remember, the rule is at least twelve inches of space between partners."

"And I thought I had gotten the knack of correct behavior," he mourned, pulling her tight against his hard chest. "Truly this is a strange country."

Sara tilted her head back and laughed. "Of course this is a strange country. Two or three years ago, Lady Gough published an etiquette book saying that for true propriety, books by male and female authors must be placed on separate shelves."

"You are making that up!"

"God's own truth," Sara said solemnly, feeling deliciously pliant and yielding as they moved together almost as one body. "Unless the male and female authors are married to each other, in which case the books may rest side by side on the same shelf.''

"I shall never understand the English," he said, brimming with hilarity. "But doesn't the fact that I have been presented to the queen make me wholly respectable?"

"
Nothing
will ever make you wholly respectable," Sara said with conviction. He laughed and she felt the vibrations of his amusement from her breasts to her pelvis.

Mikahl slowed their waltz until they were drifting in a leisurely circle. Then he bent his head and kissed her. Sara welcomed his mouth, for dancing aroused every fiber of her being to tingling awareness. Soon they were turning around a single point, then they stopped dancing entirely, except for the passionate rhythms of lips and tongues and quickening breath.

When the music next door ended, Sara tilted her head back and whispered, "My yin energy is very strong now."

He grinned and walked her backward until she was against the wall that adjoined the ballroom. "Splendid, for I am feeling very yang."

He pulled off his gloves and slid them into his coat pocket, then began kissing her again. This time his hands roamed over her body, teasing and caressing his way down her torso.

"My old governess was right when she warned me that the waltz is a dangerous dance," Sara said weakly as she leaned back against the wall for support.

"A wise woman, your governess." He breathed soft warm air into her ear, with devastating effect. "What else did she warn you about?" Cupping his hands around her buttocks, he pulled Sara hard against him.

Feeling fire in her loins, she replied breathlessly, "To beware of wolves in sheep's clothing."

"Is that what I am, silken Sara?"

"More like a wolf in wolf's clothing." The orchestra struck up another tune. Sara felt the music pulsate inside her body, vibrating through her slippers into the sensitive soles of her feet. "My governess would not approve of you."

"Good, for I am sure I would not approve of her." Mikahl spread his palm over her mons veneris and moved it in a slow circle. The mount of Venus, the Cinnabar Gate.

"You are quite—quite shameless." Sara felt as if she was about to burst into flame. "Please," she begged, "let us leave now—I shall go mad if we don't go home at once."

"I admit to being shameless, but it is not time to leave. At least, not yet." He bent to lift the hem of

her gown, then straightened and slid his hand between her silk-clad thighs.

"A-a-h-hh," Sara breathed, her eyes drifting shut as waves of sensation pulsed through her. A good thing that this room did not have a decent sofa, or they would be on it disgracing themselves. The fabric of the black pantalets was so sheer that his warm hand might have almost been on her naked flesh.

Her eyes shot open as she realized that his deft fingers were indeed touching bare flesh, probing into her moist, intimate depths. "How… ?" After a moment she guessed that the pantalets must have an open seam. He had given them to her just before they came to the ball, and she had donned them quickly, not noticing.

"You devil!" Startled, her fingers involuntarily curled into his upper arms. "So that is why you wanted me to wear them. Were you planning this?"

He laughed, a rich, deep male sound of satisfaction. "Not exactly. I didn't know if this house had a place where we could be private. But if it did, I wanted to be prepared.''

A small, well-bred part of Sara's mind was shocked at the sheer carnality of what he was doing. It was one thing to lie with one's husband in a bed, or even in a private spot in the garden; but to do so in the middle of a ball, where half the people Sara knew, including her father, were within fifty yards of her?

However, the rest of Sara's mind and all of her body were beyond shock, except for the shock of loss when he lifted his hand. "Shall I stop, sweet Sara?" he murmured. "Behave with propriety?"

"Don't you dare!" she gasped. "The only thing worse than being depraved is being a depraved tease."

"Very well, my little vixen. One thing I have learned is to obey my lady's commands."

There was a sound of slipping buttons and loosening fabric. He gave a sigh of relief, then put his hands beneath Sara's buttocks and lifted her, bracing her be-tween the wall and his own solid torso. Acting more from instinct than conscious thought, Sara grasped and guided him as he slowly lowered her. She inhaled sharply at the fierce rightness of his entry.

"How does this feel?" he whispered when they were locked together, Sara's silk-stockinged legs wrapped tight around him.

"Splendid. Decadent. Quite, quite mad," she replied raggedly as she rotated her hips, feeling him deep inside her.

To her satisfaction, her movement annihilated his control, and he surged into her. "Ah, God, Sara, you are air and fire and heart's blood," he groaned, his breath roughening to match his strokes.

Sara's rustling petticoats foamed around them, and her cheek pressed into his shoulder as they melded into the ultimate dance. They were close, so close, both physically and mentally. Perhaps she should have been alarmed by her precarious position, but she was not, for she had absolute trust in her husband.

It was hot, sweet sex, made almost unbearably erotic by the knowledge that other people were so close. But they were private here and harming no one by their madness. It was an intimate universe of passion that filled Sara's heart, mind, and body, then shattered into a kaleidoscope of rapture. Her teeth sank into his shoulder, and she shuddered uncontrollably, her violent movements triggering a matching response from her husband.

Another dance ended in the ballroom, and the loudest sound was of their own panting breath and pulsing blood. The frantic tension drained from Sara like water from a spilled glass.

Gently Mikahl disengaged himself, then lowered her feet to the floor and embraced her. For long minutes they clung together, savoring closeness and regaining strength as the wall supported them both.

At length Mikahl said, "And you told me this ball would be a dull affair."

Sara gave an unsteady giggle. "I've never been to a ball quite like it." Stepping away from her husband, she accepted his handkerchief to dry herself, then began to check her appearance. "Do I look all right?"

Mikahl buttoned his trousers and straightened his coat, then brushed Sara's petticoats and skirts down smoothly. "Your gown is a bit rumpled, but no more than expected at a ball." He tucked a wayward lock of hair back into her chignon. "You look absolutely beautiful. As always."

It amazed Sara how cool and gentlemanly he could appear when just a few minutes before he had blazed with demanding passion. She knew that her own cheeks glowed with good health and bad deeds, and wondered if anyone would guess what she had been doing.

After drawing his gloves on, her husband offered his arm. "Shall I return my lady to the ball?"

The door rattled as someone tried to enter, then two gruff voices started discussing the situation.

Mikahl turned the key in the lock and opened the door to find two middle-aged men holding unlit cigars. Blandly he said, "My wife was a bit faint and needed to rest for a few minutes. But she's feeling better now, so we will leave you gentlemen to your smoking."

Then he led Sara away before the men could comment. She bowed her head and clung to his arm, barely managing to suppress her laughter until they were around the corner. "You have a rare talent for duplicity, husband mine."

"Nonsense," he replied as they reentered the ballroom. "Didn't you once tell me that social lies to spare other people from embarrassment were not only permitted but required?"

"Whoever wrote the book of proper conduct never imagined anyone like you," Sara retorted.

Mikahl paused. "I see Ross. I'd like to talk to him for a moment, then leave. Unless you prefer to stay longer?"

"To stay later would be very anticlimactic," she answered, then blushed beet red when she heard her own words.

"Sweet Sara, what a splendid double entendre," he said with delight. "If we weren't in public, I would kiss you again. But I am being very proper. I trust you will give me credit for how proper I can be." Scanning the ballroom again, he said, "Your Aunt Marguerite is by the door. Shall I meet you there after I've talked to Ross?"

Sara nodded. After giving her husband's fingers a quick squeeze, she started around the edge of the room. Proper, indeed. Mikahl could make a stone saint blush. And she loved him, dear God, how she loved him.

After the shattering confrontation with Peregrine, Weldon needed some whiskey to steady his nerves. Fortunately that could be found in one of the smaller rooms where men retreated for serious drinking. As he drank, he began to plan. Learning who his enemy was had restored Weldon's confidence, for it was easier to destroy another man than to overcome blind bad luck.

Piece by piece, a strategy emerged. The Duke of Haddonfield would probably lend enough money to repay the personal loans, for the duke would not like London society to learn what kind of man his son-in-law was. Then Peregrine must be discredited so that any accusations he made later would not be taken seriously. Weldon shook his head as he poured a second whiskey; the bastard had been a fool to tip his hand. If he had stayed in the shadows, he might have been successful, but now he was doomed.

After three drinks, Weldon decided that it was time to go home and consult Kane about what must be done. He was on his way across the ballroom when he saw Lady Sara and Peregrine emerge from a corridor on the far side of the room.

He stopped and stared, his expression darkening. From the way they looked at each other and unobtrusively touched, Weldon guessed that they had been kissing in a back room. Or even worse, for they positively reeked of sex. What a shameless slut she was.

The couple separated, Peregrine going one way, Sara the other. That was when the brilliant idea struck Weldon. He did not dare injure Sara physically, but he could tell her a few things about her precious husband: things that would humiliate the bitch and quite possibly destroy her marriage.

Best of all, he could do it with impunity, because prim little Sara would never be able to repeat what Weldon told her. It would be perfect justice in return for what Peregrine had done, with the added bonus of making Sara herself miserable.

Swiftly Weldon cut through the milling crowd, overtaking his prey just as the orchestra began again. "Sara, my dear," he said smoothly, taking her hand. "Will you dance with me?"

Sensing her reluctance, he said under his breath, "People are watching. If we have a nice, civilized waltz together, it will reduce any lingering scandal."

"Very well." Sara stepped into his arms, holding her body stiffly away from him and looking past his shoulder.

Weldon noted a slight reddening on her throat, as if a man's bewhiskered face had rubbed against the tender skin. And as he had guessed, the faint musky scent of sex hung around her. It added to his fury, but he kept his voice controlled. "Try to look as if you are enjoying yourself, my dear," he admonished. "And don't sulk. Remember, I am the injured party, not the villain of the piece."

She looked up at him, her brown eyes grave. "I know. That is why it is hard to face you. I owe you a great apology, Charles. I am thoroughly ashamed of my behavior. I have no excuse except that… I could not help myself."