e woke to a woman, warm and sweet-smelling, pressed to his side. For a moment, he thought it was Eleanor, until he recalled that Eleanor had told him to go to hell and was likely off riding her balding, red-nosed husband somewhere in London. Damn it.
Simon blinked open his eyes. Perched on her side, his bedmate slept opposite him, her back a bare slice of tempting skin, long red curls curved over her creamy shoulder. The bedclothes had pooled around her narrow waist, leaving the small dent at the top of her buttocks visible to him in the early-morning light.
Ah yes, his mystery woman. His cock stirred as recollection filtered through his sleep-fogged mind. He’d taken a virgin he’d met at Lady Needham’s house party. Hell. She sighed in her sleep and settled on her back, revealing her full, pink-tipped breasts once more. Her nipples were hard, begging to be sucked. He groaned, his hand going to his already rigid cock and stroking. Hopefully she wasn’t too sore, for he longed to take her again. He’d done his best to ease her into lovemaking, but he’d never had a virgin before, and there was no telling how her body would react.
He moved his hand beneath the covers, brushing his fingers over her rounded thigh before settling in the damp, hot folds of her cunny. Ah yes. She certainly felt ready. He glanced up to her face as a gauge. Her mask still covered the upper half of her face, but in her slumber it had been knocked askew. Curiosity pricked him then.
Who was she? He had to know her face, this untutored virgin who’d made him come undone with the ease of a practiced courtesan. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight any time soon. She was just the sort of distraction he needed. He slid the mask away. She was beautiful. Familiar. She was…
Good, sweet Christ.
She was his wife.
He stilled, willing his eyes to see something different. It had been some time since he’d last been in her presence—perhaps even a year—but there was no denying who she was. The small, pert nose, the lush lips, the riotous red curls. She appeared somehow wilder, more vibrant and womanly now as she lay nude with him. But the face of his mystery woman, the woman who had altered his world with her innocent passion, was undeniably the woman he had wed.
Margaret. Lady Sandhurst. Christ, all this time he’d thought she was a quiet, bookish bluestocking sitting at home building her library and sending him petulant letters, and instead she’d been about the business of making him a cuckold. He took back his hands as if he were a street urchin caught stealing. What a cunning little wench she’d turned out to be. He never would have guessed.
He rolled away and rose from the bed, his ardor effectively dampened by the revelation that he’d been about to make love to his wife. Again. Bloody hell, he’d never wanted to consummate their union. He’d been forced to marry her as a matter of circumstance, but he’d vowed never to make her his wife in truth. And now he unwittingly had done precisely that. His gut clenched at the realization.
“Fuck.” He searched for his discarded clothes. “Bloody stupid prick.”
He had to leave before she woke and discovered who he was. Good God, it would be better to allow her to think she’d tupped some stranger. He should have known it was her. How had he missed the signs? He bent and stuffed his legs into his trousers. She was an American. Her hair was the same color, all rebellious curls. Of course there’d been the matter of her mask, and that he’d never once dreamt his mild-mannered wife would deign to appear at a house party renowned for its sexual decadence and freedom. How the devil had she garnered an invitation?
He found his shirt and didn’t bother with the buttons. No questions would be asked if anyone passed him in the corridor, as they would more than likely be equally guilty parties. More so, actually. He’d only bedded his wife, after all.
Raking a hand through his hair, he tiptoed from the chamber. He closed the door at his back with a sigh of relief. There was no reason she ever need discover the truth. It was best for the both of them, really. He had no intention of playing the part of husband. Ever. He had come to the house party for distraction, a respite from the torment eating at him ever since Eleanor’s defection. He may have been forced to sell himself to an American fortune, but he still possessed his pride, by God.
He stalked back to his chamber. It would be best if he left Lady Needham’s before seeing her again. He didn’t think he could stomach it.
Maggie woke to the sound of a door being snapped tightly closed. It must be her maid, she thought in her sleep-clouded mind. She rolled over, aware of cool air over her naked breasts. And a distinct yet new soreness between her thighs.
Good heavens.
She sat up in bed as if a gong had just been rung beside her ear. Maggie looked around, relieved to find her chamber empty in the early-morning light. She was alone. It wouldn’t do for her lady’s maid to find her in such a state of…she looked down at herself to find she was utterly nude and promptly yanked the bedclothes all the way up to her chin.
Her heart tripped over itself. She’d actually done it. Her plan to force Sandhurst into divorcing her had sprung into motion. Now all she needed to do was wage a war of public humiliation. All she needed to do was use a man she scarcely knew to further her cause. The unwanted thought sent a pang of guilt through her.
She didn’t know his name or his face. He had pleasured her in ways she’d never imagined possible. And then, apparently, he had disappeared. She glanced about the chamber, searching for a sign of her impassioned lover and finding only a rumpled scrap of fabric.
His necktie.
Had she not pleased him? Was her untried state too much for him? Or was this standard practice for the wicked? Perhaps the fast set all shared life-changing evenings of desire and then never saw each other again without compunction.
Who was he?
Unable to sleep, she rose from the bed in search of her nightgown. She didn’t want her lady’s maid to find her in such a state. With a sigh, she threw a linen shift over her head, straightening it before wrapping herself up in a dressing gown. Her bare feet crossed the carpet to the mirror at the vanity on the far end of the chamber.
Her hair was a wild tangle of curls about her head. She appeared pale. Different. She was a woman on her way to regaining her life. The biggest step had been taken, and now all she needed to do was continue what she’d begun. Two days of sin in return for her lifetime. If only her moment of triumph didn’t feel so dratted empty.
Maggie found herself seated beside Lady Needham herself at breakfast. Her ladyship was without a mask, in defiance of her own rule that all guests were to remain incognito for the entire weekend. Her reputation preceded her as a woman with a complete disregard for the strictures of polite society, a woman who sought pleasures regardless of the cost and encouraged others to join her in her iniquities. But in truth, Lady Needham was a small woman with a smart sense of dress and a habit of speaking more plainly than was fashionable.
Maggie thought her hostess to be rather American at heart, and she admired her bravado. She didn’t have much appetite this morning, but Lady Needham buoyed her flagging spirits with her clever quips over the other guests’ fashion choices.
“Blessed angels. Would you have a gander at that atrocious nest of hair?” Lady Needham whispered to Maggie, inclining her head toward the unfortunate woman in question. “I daresay an entire flock of birds could get lost in that monstrosity.”
Maggie giggled into her napkin, keenly enjoying the distraction her hostess’s unbridled tongue provided. Of course, she agreed with her, but Maggie would never venture such observations aloud.
“What do you think, my dear?” Lady Needham asked sotto voce, giving her a friendly nudge.
“Her dress is a ghastly shade of yellow,” Maggie offered.
“Ah, I love your accent, dear girl. Say ‘ghastly’ again, do.”
“Ghastly,” Maggie complied.
“A New York lady, obviously.” Lady Needham took a sip of juice and studied her with a lively blue gaze. “Did you enjoy the ball last night?”
Maggie swallowed. “I did, yes, my lady.”
“You needn’t stand on ceremony here, dear.” Lady Needham smiled. “You’re not in New York, and you’re not in London. You’re free to do whatever you want and to be whomever you want. My rules. And I daresay those are my only rules.”
“I like your rules.” They were freeing. A prelude to her future without the manacles of marriage.
A gentleman stalked into the breakfast room just then, stealing Maggie’s eye. After what they’d shared the night before, she’d know his figure anywhere, that masked, handsome face and dark hair. It was him. The man who had made love to her all night and then vanished by morning.
Her breath escaped from her lungs in a slow flight.
His cold gaze did a tour of the breakfast room, traveling over the occupants until it landed upon her. Maggie froze. Unbidden, the sinful magic he’d worked on her body rose in her mind. She imagined him licking her, sucking her nipples, recalled the feeling of his cock hard and demanding inside her. Flushing, she looked away.
“Handsome devil, isn’t he?” Lady Needham asked softly. “I must say I had my eye on him, but he’s been in love with another for ever so long.”
“You know who he is?” The question had left her lips before she could think better of her eagerness.
“Of course I do, my dear. But I can’t tell. It would spoil the fun.” Her hostess raised a brow. “And what good is the world without a spot of fun?”
Her mystery man inclined his head, acknowledging her ever so slightly. A spot of fun indeed. She couldn’t look away from him. It was as if no one else in the breakfast room, none of the other glittering, tittering masked revelers, existed.
“Ah, it would seem that our gallant has eyes for one lady only this morning.” Lady Needham’s voice was still quiet, but an edge of curiosity had crept into her smooth drawl. “Lucky, lucky Lady New York.”
“Sandhurst,” Maggie corrected her without thought. She forced herself to look away from the man who had so easily set her world on end. “I’m Lady Sandhurst,” she admitted to her hostess. She would begin small. Share her name with a few of her fellow guests, test the waters.
Lady Needham gaped at her. Maggie supposed she was something of a recluse in society, certainly not known for much of anything save having a husband who was desperately in love with Lady Billingsley. She’d grown accustomed to that unfortunate bit of fame. And of course there was the matter of her having convinced her friend the Duchess of Trent to provide her with the invitation. Lady Sandhurst had not been invited.
“Sandhurst,” her hostess repeated at last, sounding utterly perplexed.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t anticipated such a reaction to her faux pas. “I do apologize, my lady, for accepting on behalf of the Duchess of Trent. I’m aware the invitation wasn’t meant for me, but I was in greater need of it than she.”
Lady Needham waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. Everyone knows they may pass along an invitation to any interested party they like. It keeps the company from growing stagnant. It’s merely that I’m familiar with your…situation, my lady.”
She shifted uncomfortably, her corset pinching her waist. “I’m aware my husband’s reputation precedes me.”
Lady Needham stared. “You don’t know, do you?”
Maggie frowned. “Of course I know, my lady. It is exceedingly difficult to avoid gossip in London, try as one might.”
“Just so.” A small, indecipherable smile played at Lady Needham’s red lips. “I’m pleased you’ve joined us for our naughty revelries, my dear. Welcome to the wicked.” She held up her diminutive glass of juice in a petite toast.
“Thank you.” Maggie supposed she ought to express gratitude, even if it would seem she’d been given her initiation to the wicked the evening before. A most thorough welcoming that had been. Trying to stifle the heat that particular thought produced, she raised her glass of freshly squeezed juice from the orangery as well. Guilt pricked her conscience then, but she swept it aside as well. She needed to become wicked to escape the most wicked of them all.
“I’ve just had a depraved thought, my dear Lady S.”
“Call me Maggie,” she invited her newfound friend. She’d never grown accustomed to her married name, especially since it was a mantle she’d never worn in truth. In her heart, she was still plain old Margaret Desmond, who’d been something of a wallflower in New York society and had remained one in London.
“Maggie, then.” A full smile blossomed on Lady Needham’s face. “And you shall call me Nell. I’ve a delightful game of naughty charades planned for this afternoon, and I’d love dearly for you to join us. Will you?”
Good heavens. She’d never dabbled much in parlor games, and especially not the iniquitous sort. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to play. I’m something of a newcomer to the wicked, if you’ll recall.”
“Ah, that can be easily remedied. I’ll teach you.” Nell winked. “Besides, the stakes aren’t necessarily high. They’re only what you wish them to be.”
Maggie pondered her hostess’s mysterious reply as she turned her attention back to her plate. Somehow, she suspected there was something more to Nell’s invitation, something she was too untried to comprehend. There was no hope for it. She supposed she would have to rediscover her old sense of adventure if her plan was to succeed. Perhaps she had allowed it to lapse for far too long.
Bloody, bloody hell. Simon studied his wife in her stunning afternoon frock of violet silk. She wore twin diamond stars in her artfully piled hair. Her waist was cinched to a perfect silhouette, emphasizing her generous bosom, which was revealed by the deep cut of her bodice. She laughed at something a no-account blackleg said to her. He wished it didn’t sound so deuced inviting. He wished she wasn’t so damn beautiful. He wished he’d never known the exquisite pleasure of making her come the night before. More than anything, he wished she wasn’t his wife. Wanting her would have been so much easier if she were anyone else’s wife but his.
But she was, and for some stupid, mutton-headed reason, he’d decided to stay on at Lady Needham’s den of vice. And for some equally stupid, mutton-headed reason, he’d allowed himself to be cozened into a game of naughty charades. Of course, when his hostess had first presented the invitation, he hadn’t realized his wife would be a part of the games. If he had, he’d likely have run in the opposite direction, arse-on-fire style.
Or would he have?
He couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. Why the hell couldn’t he have made love to another woman in her stead? Any other woman would have done. Every other wanton society woman was present, and he’d had to choose her. What a duffer he’d been, rendered too oblivious by his lust to see what was plainly before his nose.
She glanced at him then, and damn if her blue stare didn’t send a surge of lust straight to his traitorous cock. He thought of how lovely her breasts were, pert handfuls with luscious nipples that tightened when he sucked them. He thought of how she tasted, sweet and musky, how she had cried out and writhed beneath him in her introduction to pleasure.
He’d taken his wife’s maidenhead.
The thought was still enough to make him ill. Almost. It would have if it hadn’t also made him so painfully hard. Desperate for distraction, he turned to his lovely hostess, Lady Needham. She was an old acquaintance, blonde and petite, ineffably lovely, old enough to know the rules of jaded love and just the sort of woman a man could dally with free of consequence. She and Lord Needham had been living separate lives for some years. She never spoke his name. He hadn’t ever thought it odd, but for some reason he did now.
“I must say I haven’t indulged in charades since your last party, Nell.” He allowed his fingers to trail for a moment at her elbow. “I haven’t forgotten.”
She smiled, fine lines forming at the corners of her eyes. For all that she was an acclaimed beauty, even she was not goddess enough to avoid time’s unforgiving hand. “Ah yes, I believe you had Lady Billingsley as your companion then.”
He stiffened at the mentioning of Eleanor, still painful. “And you wound up dancing on the table.”
Her expression turned sly. “Did I? I daresay I don’t recall.”
“I saw your drawers,” he drawled, recalling every moment of her impromptu performance. No one could hold a candle to Nell when it came to daring.
“Odd, that.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t ordinarily wear them.”
He grinned back at her, glad for the levity. He’d had such few opportunities for it of late. If only her revelation had some effect on his cursed lust. But though Nell remained alluring as ever, she wasn’t the woman causing his blood to race to the wrong end of his body. “Are you wearing them today, my dear?” he asked mildly, trying to divert his attention from his inconvenient attraction to his wife. “Lord knows I’m in need of a pleasant distraction.”
Most women would have swooned at such a question. Nell threw back her head and laughed. “I suppose that is for you and the rest of the company to discover.” She tapped him on his coat sleeve. “Now do come along. It’s time to start the festivities, and if it’s a diversion you need, I have just the thing for you, Simon darling.”
Dear sweet heavens.
Maggie twined her hands together nervously and paced the length of the chamber she’d been assigned by Lady Needham. It was a man’s chamber. Of that much she was certain. But whose? She feared that naughty charades was a great deal too naughty for her sensibilities.
Nell, as she was wont to be called, had blithely explained that each lady was to retire to an appointed chamber and await the partners she chose to send them. Upon the arrival of their partners, charades would ensue. They were to keep score and announce the winners at dinner. Of course, Nell had added with a wink, the naughty portion of the charades was left to the imagination of the players themselves.
Naughty indeed. She fanned her heated cheeks with her hand. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to escape. She was decidedly in the rabbit hole and most definitely over her head. One scandal ought to suffice. She had no wish to create a second. Her decision made, she rushed for the door, her silk mules clipping on the carpet.
The door opened, stopping her completely. Her heart fluttered, her stomach feeling as if it were tipping like a runaway carriage. And then the nervousness quickly melted into a far more heady sensation.
Anticipation.
It was him.
He too stilled, his gaze burning into hers. His sensual mouth flattened in apparent displeasure. Had he been hoping for someone else? Perhaps the night before was all he had sought from her. Perhaps she had disappointed him in her clumsy innocence. There was also the troubling matter of the woman he’d loved. Even Lady Needham knew of his past, and he had told Maggie himself that he had loved the woman for many years. Such strong emotion wouldn’t dissipate easily. Mayhap he harbored regrets.
“You,” he said, the lone word filled with emotion.
Anger? Irritation? She couldn’t tell. “Sir,” she said lamely, dipping into a curtsy. It was likely a silly show of formality in their circumstances, but she was unbearably nervous. What was the proper protocol for greeting the man who had made passionate love to her the night before, the man whose name and face she didn’t know?
“Damn Nell for this,” he gritted. “She thinks she’s being clever.”
He wasn’t pleased. In fact, he seemed wound as tightly as a watch spring. She faltered, at a loss. “Clever?” Did Lady Needham know what had transpired between them? The prospect was mortifying, even if it was what she required for her scandal to take root.
“Never mind.” He snapped the door closed at his back before stalking into the chamber. “It would seem we’re at the mercy of our hostess’s whims.”
She watched him. “I’m sorry you find my company so offensive.”
He frowned, his eyes darkening to a deep, glittering emerald. He stopped a mere foot away from her, clenching his fists. “Not precisely offensive. There are things at work here that you don’t understand.”
It was her turn to frown. “You are correct in that I don’t understand the reason for your sudden discontent. But perhaps you could enlighten me.”
“I could.” He spun on his heel and gave her his back, striding in the opposite direction. “But I don’t wish to, and I find I’m too bloody old for a game of naughty charades.”
He reached for the door, preparing to leave her, and in that moment the realization that he could easily dash her plans to bits struck her. That everything she’d already done, every risk she’d taken, could all be for naught if he chose not to play his role in the scandal. That after all this, she’d still wind up miserable and alone, unable to divorce Sandhurst and move on with her life.
She hurried after him, desperation coursing through her. “Wait.”
He stopped but didn’t turn to face her, didn’t say a word. His head was bowed as though he waged some sort of inner battle.
Uncertain now that she’d given him pause, she laid a tentative palm on his shoulder. Freedom was within her reach. She couldn’t allow it—couldn’t allow him—to slip away. Before she could rethink her actions, she stepped closer, her skirts brushing his trousers, and wrapped her arms about his lean waist. She laid her head against his back, breathing in his spicy scent, relishing his nearness, his seductive heat radiating into her.
“What are you doing?” His voice sounded thick.
How lowering. “Embracing you.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t let you go without touching you one more time.” She flushed although he couldn’t see her face. In more than one sense, it was the truth. She couldn’t let him go, couldn’t give up on her dream of escaping her intolerable marriage. But she also enjoyed touching him. He made her feel things, sensations that not even Richard had inspired.
He tensed. “You don’t know what you’re playing at, my lady.”
“You’re utterly right. I don’t.” But he hadn’t extricated himself, and that had to count for something.
He trapped her hand and dragged it to the placket of his trousers. He was already hard, but as her fingers tentatively traveled over him, he became positively rigid. He sucked in a breath. An answering heat bloomed through her. “Is this what you want? Is this what you came here for? To cuckold your husband?”
“Yes.” Another truth, torn from her. “Will you help me?”
“No, goddamn it.” His voice was low. “Enough damage has been done.”
But he didn’t move away, and nor did she. There was something potent and heavy about the moment. Her heart thudded against her breast. “Please? I need to take a lover.”
A strangled sound emerged from his throat. “You need to take a lover?”
“It’s a necessity.” He didn’t understand, but neither did she require him to. “My future depends on it.”
He released her hand, his entire body stiffening. “Perhaps I know your husband, madam. Perhaps he’s even a friend of mine. Did you ever think of that?”
Of course she hadn’t. But Sandhurst hardly seemed the sort of man to have friends. He was a heartless rake. A cold, unfeeling scoundrel. “I doubt you would be friends with such a blackguard.”
“You don’t know me, my lady.” He gave a dark, bitter laugh. “Or mayhap you do. Which would be worse, do you think?”
With their masks firmly in place, it was easy to imagine they were strangers who had never crossed paths. Suspicion pricked her. What was behind his sea change? Why would he pose such questions? “Have we met?” she asked, curious.
“I believe we have,” he answered cryptically.
It seemed as if he knew her identity despite her mask. Had Lady Needham told him? “Do you know who I am?”
“No.” He turned around at last, slipping his arms around her waist. “I begin to think I do not.”
He took her mouth in a ravaging kiss then, hot and hungry, open and possessive. She kissed him back, locking her wrists around his neck and pressing her body to his. Their tongues tangled as she welcomed him once more, tasting him. Her nipples hardened beneath her chemise and the stiff abrasion of her corset. Her fingers sank into his thick, soft hair. Oh good heavens, she was on fire for him. What did this man do to her? She had lived twenty-two years without ever feeling as if she were about to burst into flame. And yet now, here she was, helplessly in this stranger’s thrall.
He dragged his lips down her neck, sucking at her sensitive skin while he undid the delicate shell buttons lining the front of her bodice. She was instantly grateful that she’d chosen to wear her purple silk Worth gown. The bodice was separate from the skirts, allowing for easier disrobing. She hadn’t had a thought for it that morning when her maid had dressed her. But now she was incredibly glad. Being disrobed by him was wholly delicious, a world away from being circumspectly stripped by her servant.
This man relished each opened button, every exposed inch of her skin. She helped him by untying the elaborate bows at her elbows and shrugging her bodice from her shoulders. He whipped it away as if it were no more important than a fly, dropping it to the floor in a whisper of sound.
She was before him in her linen corset cover and her elaborate skirts. Never mind how she would redress herself. All she could think about was succumbing once more to their mutual passion. She hadn’t expected to enjoy her fall from grace or to revel in it. She’d thought to be stoic, to close her eyes and separate her mind from her body. She’d never imagined this.
He kissed her, long and hard. She met him with all the longing clamoring inside her. When at last he dragged his mouth away from hers, she stared at him, unflinching. She’d always counted herself a woman of courage. “Will you be my lover, my lord? Or do I need to find another?”
He became rigid, his expression hard with anger. “There will be no other. Leave here. Nothing awaits you in this den of debauchery other than disappointment. Go home, my lady.”
A chill settled over her that had less to do with the drafty chamber than with his cutting admonishment. “I suppose I’ll need to find another, then. There are any number of other gentlemen who would suit.”
That was a lie, of course. She didn’t want another gentleman. For reasons she didn’t care to examine, she wanted the cold stranger before her with the sensual mouth and strong jaw. But he didn’t want her, it seemed, and she had precious little time to waste. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Lady Needham’s was the chance she needed.
He gripped her waist, pinning her to him when she would have retreated. “Was I not clear? There will not be another gentleman. You’ve had your pound of flesh.”
Defeat settled heavily over her shoulders. He was a conundrum, this man, ready to plunder her one moment and crying conscience the next. For her part, she chose to remain unashamed. Her husband had no conscience, so why should she? Her heart had been toughened long ago.
She squared her shoulders and stared up at him in defiance. “One could argue that it was you who had his pound of flesh. Perhaps this was a mistake after all.”
“Of course it’s a mistake.” His fingers tightened on her. “But we’ve gone too damn far now, and we can’t undo what’s already been done.”
She had a sense once more that he spoke beyond her ken. He knew something she didn’t and that rather nettled. Perhaps she’d uncovered the reason for his odd question about her husband the night before. “Is it her?” she asked before she could think better of it. “The woman you love. Is she your wife?”
His lips tightened. “No.”
“You must love her very much.”
He stared. “I don’t bloody well understand you, woman. Only moments ago, you were rubbing my cock like a seasoned courtesan, and now you want to talk about my past as if we’re having tea and muffins.”
She blanched and wrenched away from him. Perhaps she had mistaken him entirely. “Nor do I understand you, my lord. But I can see now that you are not the man I thought you were.” Tears threatening to humiliate her by pooling in her eyes, she sank to recover her shucked bodice. She stuffed her arms into the sleeves and pulled the gaping silk together in a poor attempt at modesty. Her pride wouldn’t allow her the time required to fasten the buttons. “I think you ought to find another partner for naughty charades.”
He sneered. “You want me to fuck someone else? Would you care to watch? Is that it? Has Lady Needham’s little party corrupted you so thoroughly already?”
Maggie gasped at his crude words. “No. How dare you?”
“How dare I?” He laughed, but it was a bitter, jaded laugh. “How dare you?” He caught her around the waist once more, anchoring her body to his. “How dare you make me want you so much that you’re all I can think of? How dare you kiss me and touch me until I want to take you so badly I ache with it? You aren’t an innocent in this wicked game we play, my dear, and you know it.”
His mouth swooped down over hers, possessive and firm. She didn’t want to enjoy his kiss for it was laced with anger, but she couldn’t deny the way he made her feel. It was elemental, primitive. Potent. She too was angry with him for his sudden coldness toward her, willing her lips to remain still. She would not return his kiss. She didn’t want ugliness between them.
He drew back, staring down at her. His eyes had darkened with such stormy passion that they were more hazel than their ordinary true green. “Kiss me, damn you.”
“Who are you?” she asked, her fingers traveling to the edges of his black mask. She wanted to know with a desperation that tugged at her heart.
“No one to you.” He tugged her hands away. “Have you changed your mind so quickly, my lady?”
“You changed it for me.” Her gaze never wavered from his. “You insulted me, my lord.”
He traced her lower lip with his thumb, staring at her intently. “I’m sorry for insulting you.”
“Are you?” She wasn’t certain she believed him. Desire was one thing. Self-respect was another entirely. Her husband treated her as if she were nothing more important than a speck of lint on his coat and she’d be damned if she’d allow another man to do the same.
He inclined his head. “I am. You affect me, and I don’t like it.”
She heard a rough thread of honesty in his voice. For some reason, she believed him. He seemed as lost in their maze of seduction as she. His thumb still absently rubbed her lip. She wanted to kiss it but somehow stifled the urge. “That is not an excuse for abominable behavior,” she pointed out.
His jaw clenched. “I’m aware, but there are other factors you cannot know.”
But she wanted to know them. He didn’t wish to share. Was it that he didn’t trust her? Something was afoot, and she was determined to weed it out by its insidious root. Now, however, was not the time. She took a breath. “I accept your apology.”
He appeared to relax, his mouth tipping up into a smile. “Thank you.”
“But I don’t wish to play charades any longer at the moment,” she forced herself to say. “Naughty or otherwise. I think it best if I return to my own chamber just now.”
His smile disappeared. “As you wish.”
She stepped away from him again, clutching her mangled bodice to her as if it were a shield. “I shall see you at dinner, my lord.”
With that, she all but fled from his chamber before she did something horridly foolish. Before she turned around and threw herself back into his arms.