Abigail hadn’t known. Dear God, she hadn’t known. She’d expected the act to be, well, something. Whether that something was horrendous or heavenly…there wouldn’t be such a fuss about it if it weren’t one or the other. Likely the latter. Her body could have experienced no stirrings urging her to partake if it weren’t.

But this—what it was. It was more. A man above her. Not just any man, but him. Their skin brushing. Their bodies pressed. The sounds of the bedframe and ropes withstanding their sport. The smell of him. The breathing. Her legs open, exposed in all the most sinful ways, open for him to press his hard penis inside of her.

It was a far cry from her own finger, certainly. An even farther cry from what she’d always envisioned. The closeness of it.

“Are you all right?”

Yet there came no pain, only an initial odd discomfort that quickly subsided as she adjusted. “Yes, my lord. Don’t worry. I like it.”

What a strange, earthy beauty there was to it—at once so curiously physical and so curiously divine.

This was supposed to be sinful? This was supposed to make her a harlot? Unredeemable in the eyes of society?

Rubbish.

Her entire life had been leading to finding herself in the carnal embrace of this man. And everything that came after would pale in comparison to this night.

His gentle thrusts assumed a slightly more frantic pace, until finally he pulled away completely, grabbed for the handkerchief tucked by his pillow, and—features contorted—used it to catch his essence.

Shucking the used linen to the floor beside the bed, he rolled to the side, drew the coverlet up over them both, and pulled her close against himself, idly stroking her hair. “Don’t leave. Not yet.”

“I must.”

“No.” He sounded as if he lingered in the half-world between dreams and wakefulness. “Never.”

Abigail stayed on her back staring at the bare rafters above. The sensation of him inside of her lingered.

The windows glowed with early morning light waking the world beyond the cottage.

The night was ended. “I have to go.”

He made no response. His breathing sounded softly.

The marquess was asleep.

With slow care, she extracted her limbs from his cradling grasp and eased her way to sitting.

The hairpins were still in the other room. Wearing nothing but the mask, she went to retrieve them, a sensation of boldness charging through her at walking through the cottage uncovered, rough stone floor cold enough to numb her toes. Her cloak hung from the peg by the door along with her reticule. The fire had died to its last glowing embers. Light from the new day was enough to blow out all the low-burning candles.

A thought struck her. She went back to her reticule and withdrew a letter, creased and worn, having been reread at least once a day for the past two years, though each curving word had been long devoted to memory.

Bending at the hearth, she kissed where he’d written her name. “Wherever you are, Edward, be well.” And she tossed it in. The paper took a moment to catch, but curled upon itself in to a black ball, surrendering to oblivion.

While she found her garments from the pile on the chair, the marquess slept on. Without him near her for heat, the chill in the air nipped at her extremities. Given that she had no maid, everything she wore had been designed so she could dress without help—even the made-over gown from her mistress.

Her mistress. That life had been hers for years, but seemed so bizarrely distant, as if it would take time to slip back into the assumed role after what she’d done here with the marquess.

The house would already be awake when she returned. Carter would be covering for her, but neither of them had expected the night to extend quite so long.

Abigail hooked the last hook of the gown and made do with sticking a few pins in a simple twist at the nape of her neck. Fully dressed, she took one last look at the sleeping man. Walking away from him was like leaving a piece of herself behind.

But what else was there for them? She was Abigail Sutton. Gamekeeper’s daughter risen to respectable companion of a well-regarded widow of moderate status. He was the Marquess of Harland. Their worlds were unthinkably distant. The single option might be for him to take her as his mistress.

Someday he would have to marry. Men like him always had a duty to their fortunes. A highborn lady of distinguished breeding would come into his life and he’d have no choice but to share that other woman’s bed to beget the heir.

And when he did so, Abigail would break. Even now the thought alone compressed her heart.

No. It was better this way.

At the door, she paused, hand on the frame as she studied him one final time. “My lord?”

No response. He was well and truly asleep.

Creeping back into the room, she brought a hand up to the tie of the mask, fingering the ribbon, but not pulling. Did she dare?

She did.

The case clock was beginning to chime the hour.

Outside, the icy air was still and silent. A layer of frost covered everything. The grey on the horizon was quickly warming to a rosy glow. Just enough coin remained in her reticule to secure a ride home. That was, if there were any hackneys to be found at such an hour.

Fear stabbed her insides. She was late enough as it was. She might not see anything wrong with what she’d done, but the rest of the world would mercilessly and relentlessly condemn her actions for the whole rest of her life. All she’d worked for would be lost.

Starting from the cottage, she stepped right out of her slipper. She balanced a moment, reaching back to see if her toe would catch the rim, but her only reward was almost toppling over. Arms splayed for balance, she hopped back once and stabbed her foot back inside the thing.

Abigail pulled her cloak about her more tightly. How many hours had passed while wearing the mask? Not so many to feel so exposed without it.

She glanced heavenward. Christmas. And there were so few stars left.

* * *

Harland reached out only to grasp at nothing. A lifetime of satisfaction at waking alone gave way in one fell swoop at one horrifying thought: When wouldn’t he wake alone?

He pushed up onto his elbows, one eye squinting open while the other stayed mostly squeezed shut, and, a lungful of air pulled tight inside his ribcage. Perhaps she’d decided to remain. Perhaps she’d stayed. “Are you here?”

Silence.

The cottage was empty but for him. As per always.

He fell back to his pillow and rubbed his stubbly face with both hands. The intention to ruin her for other men might have reflected from its target somewhat, for there was certainly no question she’d ruined him for other women. The thought of taking any other but his Miss S to bed made him recoil in disgust.

The fire had long since died out, leaving the air in the snug cottage bracing, but not wholly unbearable.

In the other room, he found the abandoned wine. Might as well. He tossed back the contents of his glass in two hard swallows.

His bare foot stepped on an odd little something resting on the floor. He lifted his leg to peer to whatever it was that stuck to his sole. As he did so, the object fell back down with the high note of a faint metallic clatter. A hair pin.

Leaving it, he went back to the second room.

But before he could take a step inside, he stopped in the doorway as if caught by a net. There upon her pillow she’d left her mask.