Chapter 23
It was an irrefutable fact that wearing a mask freed inhibitions.
Alistair was reminded of this over and over again as he stood by a Doric column in the Treadmore ballroom and dealt with the pressing crush of guests who greeted him. He was tempted often to place his hand over the letter he’d tucked into his pocket, but he refrained. Jessica’s words contained therein gave him the strength and patience to deal with the overly accommodating and facetious guests eager to make a good impression on the future Duke of Masterson. They apparently weren’t aware of how sharp a memory Alistair possessed. He remembered those who’d thought nothing of him when he was merely a fourth son. He remembered those who’d paid him to fuck them and made him feel unclean in the process. He remembered those who had inflicted pain and wounded his pride.
My beloved, determined Alistair,
Your gift and the words accompanying him both broke my heart and filled it with joy. When I see you next, I will show you the depth of my gratitude.
As for the masquerade, nothing could keep me from you. Then or at any time or event in the future. You have been duly warned.
Irrevocably yours,
Jessica
To his left, Masterson stood, so stoic and austere. To his right, his mother worked her charm on all who approached them. She hadn’t, however, written to Jessica. Not that he had truly expected her to.
“Haymore’s daughter is lovely,” Louisa murmured now, using her fan to gesture at the young woman walking away from them.
“I do not recall.”
“You met her scarcely a moment ago. She deliberately lowered her mask so you would see her.”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I will take your word for it.”
The orchestra in the balcony above signaled the onset of dancing with a few opening notes. The crush of guests somehow cleared the dance area by converging on the perimeters of the room.
“Beginning with a quadrille,” his mother said dryly. “I wish you had asked at least one of the young ladies you met to dance. It would have been polite.”
“I was exceptionally polite to every one of them.”
“You are a beautiful dancer. I enjoy watching you. So would everyone else here tonight.”
“Mother.” He faced her as the orchestra began to play. “I will not have every gazette and scandal rag speculating over the significance of my selection of dance partners. I am not on the market, and I refuse to give any impression that I am.”
“You haven’t even perused the wares!” she protested in a low whisper that was hidden beneath the enthusiastic surge of music. “You are infatuated with a beautiful, older, worldly woman. I appreciate the appeal, especially under the circumstances. Certainly her expertise at maneuvering through Society seems exceptionally valuable to you now. But, please, consider the long-term ramifications of your decisions. She is a widow, Alistair. She has far greater license than a debutante and can be useful to you outside the bonds of matrimony.”
Alistair inhaled a sharp, deep breath. Then another, fighting for control of the fury threatening to make an appearance in such a public place. “For both our sakes, I am going to forget what you just said.”
Glancing at Masterson, his jaw clenched when the duke appeared unaware of the conversation taking place right beneath his nose. “How far must this hypocrisy go before you absolve my mother of her sins? Hasn’t she paid penance enough?”
The duke continued to look straight ahead. Only a muscle tic in his jaw gave any hint that he’d listened at all.
Alistair looked at his mother and removed his mask. “I’ve damn well paid enough. I have wished for your happiness all of my life, Mother. I have tried to facilitate it in every way I can, but in this matter, I will not be swayed.”
Louisa’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. They cut him, but there was no help for her distress. Leastwise none that he could give her.
A swell of murmurs surrounded them at the same moment a ripple of awareness coursed down his spine. Anticipation slid through his veins, potently fierce and delicious. He looked at his mother’s face and saw the wide-eyed astonishment with which she stared over his shoulder. He pushed his mask into her lax fingers and began to turn about. Slowly. Savoring the fine tension he felt only when Jessica was near.
The sight of her struck him like a blow, purging all the air from his lungs. Red. She was draped in it. Wrapped in silk like a gift. Her shoulders bared, exposing creamy skin and the lush upper swell of her breasts. Her luxurious hair was styled into a mixture of upswept curls and long, glorious strands. There was something slightly disheveled about the whole, reinforcing the overall impression of sin and seduction and sex. The pristine white gloves that stretched midway up her arms did nothing to mitigate the overwhelming carnality of her appearance.
Although he knew from the dancing in progress that the music continued, Alistair couldn’t hear a single note over the roaring of blood in his ears. Nearly every eye was riveted to Jessica, who walked along the edge of the dance floor unimpeded, her stride slow and sensual. Erotic. Beckoning.
He sucked in a deep breath when his lungs burned. His chest was constricted with yearning, his gaze devouring every detail in a vain effort to appease the hunger that had grown ravenous over the many days without her.
A simple red satin mask was tied around her eyes and as she approached, she reached up and untied it. Letting it dangle from her fingers by the ribbons. Letting everyone get a good, long look at her while she looked at him. Letting them—the peers whose censure he’d feared she could not bear—see the deeply intimate manner in which she regarded him. Her gray eyes were luminous, lit from within by the surfeit of emotion she made no effort to hide. There wasn’t a person who saw her who could doubt what he meant to her.
By God, she was brave. She’d been beaten to deafness and disfigured into conforming to the dictates of the people milling around them, yet she came to him without any hesitation or reservation. Without fear.
There was no one else in the room. Not for him. Not with her looking at him in that way of hers that spoke more clearly than words—she loved him with all that she was. Completely, unequivocally, unconditionally.
“Do you see, Mother?” he asked softly, riveted. “Amid all of these lies, there is no finer truth than what is bared before you now.”
He was moving toward Jessica before he realized it, drawn inexorably. When he drew close enough to scent her, he stopped. There were mere inches between them, and the urge to reach for her, to pull her close, was a writhing thing inside him.
“Jess.” His fingers clenched and released against the need to touch her soft, smooth skin.
Dancers cleared the floor around them, gawking, but he paid them no mind.
Her dress was a statement, and he would never fully be capable of putting his gratitude for it into words. She was not the same woman who had stepped aboard his ship. She no longer saw him as being “too much” for her, or herself as inadequate for him. And he loved her more now than he had then. He would certainly love her more tomorrow than he did today, and the day after that would find him only loving her all the more.
“My lord,” she breathed, her gaze sweeping over his face as if she had been as starved for the sight of him as he’d been for even a glimpse of her. “The way you’re looking at me . . .”
He nodded curtly, knowing he was wearing his heart on his face. It had to be obvious to all and sundry that he was mad for her. “I miss you abominably,” he said gruffly. “The greatest torment ever devised is the withholding of you from me.”
A few opening notes of a waltz played. He seized the moment, catching Jessica by the waist and carrying her onto the dance floor.
Alistair was the most lavish creature in the packed room.
Jess was left breathless by the sight of him, awed by his masculine beauty in formal attire. He wore black trousers and coat, the severity of his appearance only emphasizing his perfection of form and feature. His was a glittering, riveting presence with his glossy coal-black hair and brilliant aquamarine eyes. He needed no adornments to enhance him. His piercing gaze and slight smile were enough to lure women closer. Even men drifted near, drawn to the air of confidence and command Alistair carried so well.
The knowledge that this stunning, undeniably sexual creature was hers made her breathless. And the way he looked at her, with such aching tenderness and heated longing . . .
Dear God. She’d been mad to entertain—for even one instant—the possibility of letting him go.
“Are you asking me to dance?” she purred as he set her down in the middle of the dance floor.
“You are the only partner I will have; you must indulge me.”
His hand gripped her waist, the other lifted her arm. He stepped closer. Too close. Scandalously close. She loved it. They’d yet to dance together, but she had imagined it many times. There was a graceful elegance to the way he moved. Paired with the innate sensuality of his nature, it made him mesmerizing to watch in motion, and she knew how he felt when his body was moving against hers. It would be the sweetest form of torture to be held so close to his powerful flexing body while restrained by decorum and too many layers of clothes.
“I love you,” she said, tilting her head back to look at him. “I won’t let you go. I’m too selfish, and I need you too much.”
“I am going to remove that dress from your body with my teeth.”
“And here I had hopes you would like it.”
His eyes gleamed wickedly. “If I liked it any more, it would be hiked around your waist.”
Her grip tightened on his. He smelled delicious. Of virile male and sandalwood, with the faintest hint of citrus. She hated the gloves between them and the hundreds of people around them. She could live alone with him for the rest of her days. Working in companionable silence, listening to him coax haunting notes from the violin, talking with him about her thoughts and feelings until nothing separated them . . .
The music began in earnest. His mouth curved in a lazy smile, then he spun her about in a vigorous turn. She laughed breathlessly, awed by how she fit in his arms as if they’d been made to hold her. He danced the way he made love—intimately, powerfully, with exquisite control and aggressive moves. His thighs brushed against hers with every step, his hold tightening until there was scarcely any space between them. He flowed with the music, embraced it, claimed it as his own. Just as he claimed her with his gaze, his look fraught with such intensity and focus, his eyes so soft and warm.
She hadn’t realized how deeply she’d craved that look of love from him until now. “They can see how you feel about me.”
“I don’t care, as long as you see.”
“I do.”
They weaved around the other dancers at a slightly faster pace, her crimson skirts swirling around his trouser-clad legs. She became aroused, flushed. She ached for the feel of his mouth on her skin, whispering heated erotic threats and promises that made her hot and wet and very, very willing.
“How is your sister?” he asked, the rasp in his voice betraying his returning desire for her.
“Improving every day. Confinement and bed rest is just what she needed.”
“It’s just what I need, too. With you.”
“But we do not rest when we’re abed, my lord.”
“Will she be well enough to make do without you four weeks from now?”
She smiled. “By the time the banns have been read, she should be strong enough to need me only occasionally.”
“Good. I need you, too.”
Jess did not inquire after his mother or Masterson. She’d seen the look on the duchess’s face and watched as Alistair said something to her. Whatever it was, his gaze hadn’t wavered, but Jess had seen the strength of his conviction. It was a mien he was infamous for—recklessly determined and boldly challenging; the countenance of a man who fearlessly accepted any challenge. When he wore it, all knew he would not be swayed. However his mother reacted to his choice, he was committed and his mind would not be altered.
“I cannot stay much later tonight,” she said. “I’ve no notion of what occupies Regmont so completely, but he comes home long after we’ve all retired and leaves before we make an appearance at breakfast. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was avoiding me. Regardless, someone needs to be with Hester at night, and Acheron needs me, too.”
His head lowered farther, until their lips were too close. “This was enough for now. I needed to see you, to hold you. If you have no further objections, I will begin courting you publicly.”
“Please do.” She felt giddy, intoxicated by his nearness and affection in a way no claret could ever match. She hadn’t had a drink in days, and though the ill effects of her abstinence had been heinous at the onset, she was beginning to feel better. Stronger. “I will be ruined otherwise. Labeled a brazen hussy. You must make me respectable, my lord.”
“After I went to such lengths to lure you to sin?”
“I will always be sinful for you.”
He slowed as the music stopped, but her heart still raced. He stepped back and lifted her gloved hand to his lips. “Come. Let me introduce you to my mother and Masterson before you go.”
She nodded and, as always, followed his lead.
Alistair collected his hat, great coat, and cane from a footman, then headed toward the door to wait for his carriage. When Jessica had departed a half-hour before, all the light had left the room with her, giving him no reason to linger.
“Lucius.”
His stride faltered. His back went up, every muscle tightening. He turned around. “Lady Trent.”
She approached, her hips swaying gently, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. “Wilhelmina,” she corrected. “We are much too intimate to stand on formality.
He knew the lascivious look in her eyes. She remained lovely and lushly curved. Wasted on a man far older than she was.
His stomach knotted with shame. He no longer possessed the walls he’d once shielded himself behind. Jessica had torn them down, one by one, opening him to a precious understanding of his own worth. The choices he had made . . . the things he’d done with women like Lady Trent . . . They sickened him now.
“We were never intimate,” he said. “Good evening, Lady Trent.”
Alistair left the Treadmore manse in a rush, striding out the door and feeling relief at the sight of his carriage waiting for him. He vaulted into the softly lamp-lit interior and settled against the leather squab. The whip cracked and the equipage lurched into motion, rounding the circular drive. They slowed when they reached the open wrought-iron gate, their way blocked by the clogged lane. It would be this way the entire route home, he knew, as the streets filled with Society carriages conveying their passengers from one event to another.
He exhaled and relaxed, his mind returning to the moment he’d introduced Jessica to his mother and Masterson. All three were so consummate and adept in the social graces that he had no notion of what any of them thought of one another. They’d been smoothly polite, exchanging platitudes and worthless observations, and parting ways at precisely the right moment to avoid even an instant of awkward silence. It had all been far too easy.
The carriage drew to a halt beside one of the brick gateposts bearing a sculpted lion on the top. A dark form emerged from beside it and opened his carriage door. The figure was met with the tip of the rapier hidden within his cane.
A gloved hand moved aside the shield of a cloak’s hood and revealed Jessica’s wry smile. “I was hoping you’d impale me with something more pleasurable.”
The unsheathed weapon hit the floorboards, and he pulled her inside. The door was shut behind them, earning the footman responsible a raise in pay.
“What in hell are you doing, Jess?”
She tumbled into him, pushing him back into the squab. “The dance may have been enough for you, but it wasn’t for me. Not nearly.”
Pushing off his chest, she stooped and tugged the curtains closed. She hunched over him, yanking up her blood-red skirts with frantic impatience. He caught a glimpse of the lacy hem of her pantalettes, and then she was climbing over him, straddling him.
“Jess.” He breathed her name. His skin felt too hot, his chest too constricted to allow him sufficient air. The feelings he had for her were too volatile to contain. She overwhelmed him. Surprised him. Seduced him with ridiculous ease.
“I have to tell you . . . you have to know . . . I am s-sorry.” The cracking of her voice broke him as well. “I’m sorry I was afraid. I am sorry I caused you even an instant of pain or doubt. I love you. You deserve better.”
“I have the best in you,” he said gruffly. “There is no one better.”
Her gloved fingers fumbled with the placket of his trousers. He laughed softly, delighted with her eagerness. Staying her hands by covering them with his own, he said, “Slow down.”
“I’m dying for you. The way you dance . . .” Her eyes were fever bright in the muted glow of the carriage lamps. “I thought it would ease when I parted from you, but it only worsens by the moment.”
“What worsens?” he asked, wanting to hear her say it.
“My hunger for you.”
His blood thickened along with his cock. “Then I must take you home with me.”
“I can’t. I can’t leave Hester that long, and I can’t wait that long.”
The thought of Jessica planning his ravishment in a carriage almost stole every shred of his reason. Alistair was tempted to shove her beneath him and give her the hard, pounding ride she was desperate for, but the circumstances were not ideal. Just outside the curtains, coachmen shouted to one another. Pedestrians laughed and conversed on the street. He and the passengers in the equipages passing them were close enough that their fingers could touch if they reached out to one another simultaneously.
“Shh,” he soothed, his hands stroking the length of her spine. “I’ll make you come, but you must be quiet.”
She shook her head violently. “I need you inside me—”
“Christ.” Alistair’s grip flexed into her waist. “We are moving at a snail’s pace, Jess. Too slowly to disguise any rocking of the carriage. And we are surrounded on all sides.”
Jessica arched into him, her graceful arms encircling his shoulders. “You can think of something. Be inventive.” She brought her mouth to his ear, her tongue tracing the curve. “I am wet and hot and aching for you, my love, and you made me this way. You cannot leave me in this condition.”
A hard shudder shook his frame. She could not have displayed her trust in him more clearly than this, yet her haste and frenzy told him more was at stake than her physical pleasure. Perhaps this was the ramification of meeting his mother and Masterson, who couldn’t accept him, let alone the woman he loved. His familial situation was far different, he knew, from what she’d had with Tarley. Michael’s protectiveness was ample proof of that.
Alistair was infuriated by her disquiet and the possible root of it. She was a brilliant social diamond, her facets perfect in every respect aside from the one she couldn’t control. After all she’d suffered to become a faultless wife for any peer, she did not deserve to be diminished by anyone.
Alistair caught her face in his hands, urging her to lean back and meet his gaze directly. “Jess.”
She stilled, registering the somberness in his tone.
Angling his head, he pressed his lips lightly to hers and breathed the words “I love you.”