Camellia kept her arms wrapped tight about Lord X’s neck as he carried her into a darkened chamber. The embers of a faint fire cast a small section of the interior in a soft glow.

He kicked the door shut behind them and laid her in the center of a large, soft bed before dashing back to the door to ensure the lock was engaged.

The wide, arched bedchamber was bathed in too much shadow to discern anything but the smudge of orange within the fireplace. Even colors had disappeared, making her deep emerald gown almost as charcoal black as Lord X’s tailcoat and breeches.

Voluptuous darkness bathed them in even richer anonymity than mere masks could provide, yet simultaneously grounded her more fully in the moment. Being unable to see only heightened her other senses. The luxurious softness of the bed, the heady sandalwood scent of his cologne, the firmness of his warm lips as they sought hers.

She required no coaxing to respond in kind. Every part of her reached for him, drawing him closer with her arms, drinking him in with her mouth, with her every breath. She thrilled at the weight of his tall, lithe body pressed into hers atop the feather mattress.

He was so solid, so warm, so big. Everything about him was larger than life. Harder, hotter, better than she had even dreamed. She never wanted the evening to end. He drew his kisses ever lower, from her mouth to the sensitive area just below the lobe of her ear, from the pulse point at the base of her neck to the curves of her breasts just above the scandalous dip of her bodice.

Heart thumping, she arched into his touch, pressing her bare flesh toward the tantalizing heat of his mouth in sensual abandon. It was as if the past four weeks of soul-baring conversation and whirlwind romance had led them to this place, this moment. For this one perfect night, she would be his and he would be hers.

She longed to sink her fingers into his hair, but did not want to risk dislodging his mask. Tonight was not about who they were to the world, but rather who they were to each other. They could no more stop this moment than they could stop the sun from rising.

An incredible sense of happiness, of peace, of life finally being utterly and completely right flooded her with joy and confidence. This was who she was meant to be. Who she was meant to be with.

Her eyelids fluttered in mindless pleasure as he closed his mouth over her breast and teased the straining nipple with his expert tongue. She wanted more. The thin silk of her gown was too great an impediment, the many layers of his tailcoat and waistcoat and undershirt unnecessary barriers between them.

She tugged loose his cravat from his neck, fumbled at the buttons hiding him from her touch. As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his mouth from her trembling body only long enough to shuck his tailcoat to the floor, his waistcoat, his billowing linen undershirt.

His bare flesh was hot to the touch, thrilling and forbidden. She ran her hands over the hard planes of his stomach, the rippling muscle of his strong arms, his wide shoulders, his back. The encompassing darkness around them made her feel all the more present, his body and his kisses all the more real.

She twisted in his embrace, exposing the silk-covered buttons along her spine.

Rather than make quick work of the short row of buttons, he deliberately took his time, loosening each small button with aching tenderness. He pressed a reverent kiss to each new inch of flesh he uncovered, as if he was unwrapping the most precious package he’d ever been given.

She shivered in pleasure at each touch. He did not make her feel merely desired, but beloved. As if he had been waiting for her his entire life.

When at last the final button slipped free, her silk gown fluttered to her hips. Rather than immediately retake her reclining position against the pillows, she slid from the bed to kneel at Lord X’s feet. With him, she did not feel naked, but alive. She wanted him to feel the same.

With the same care he had shown her emerald gown, she unlaced his boots and tugged them free. She set them aside, set her slippers aside, let her gown flutter to her feet.

Only her shift remained, its ivory linen so thin it would be nearly transparent if it were visible in the darkness. Instead of using their eyes, they discovered each other’s bodies with their hands, explored with their mouths, tasted with their tongues.

He lowered her shift over her shoulders and hips and laid her back against the soft pillows.

Now she wore nothing but her feather mask and a pair of thigh-high silk stockings that somehow felt even more decadent against the heat of his flesh than bare skin would have done.

Pulse racing, she reached up for the buttons at the fall of his breeches. Before her fingers could do more than graze the hard muscle of his abdomen, he knelt between her silk stockings and lowered his mouth to her core.

A stuttering gasp escaped her lips at the unexpected, overwhelming pleasure building deep inside her with every intoxicating lick of his tongue. It was impossible, wonderful, all-encompassing.

His fingers joined his tongue, driving inexorably within her as his mouth stoked her fire higher and higher. She abandoned herself wholly to sensation as wave after wave of dizzying pleasure rocked through her.

Only when her legs ceased their trembling did he lift his mouth from between her legs.

Drunk with desire, she reached for him. He returned his open-mouthed kisses to her breasts, her sensitive nipples, and settled himself between her thighs.

Within seconds, the delicious invasion of his thick member pressing into her went from pleasure to pain and she cried out in shock.

He froze at the sound, his body so perfectly still it was as if time itself ceased to flow around them.

“You’re…” he managed weakly, the rest of the sentence lost amongst the strangled syllables in his throat.

A virgin. Yes. She had been, anyway. Was glad not to be anymore. Was thrilled it was here, with him. She wrapped her legs about his hips, coaxing him in further.

“Do it,” she whispered into his neck. “I want you to.”

“I think I already did.” He remained motionless, as if afraid any additional movement might break her. “I didn’t know you hadn’t…”

“Now I have.” She tilted her hips toward his, forcing him to slide deeper within her. A sense of feminine power flooded her as a guttural moan of pleasure escaped his lips. “Please don’t stop. I want you. I want this.”

“Then this isn’t over,” he said as he sank himself fully within her. “Not tonight. Not ever.” His muscles flexed with every thrust inside her. “From this moment on, you are mine.”

Her body contracted about him as he staked his claim over and over with each long, demanding stroke of his hot, hard member. He locked his fingers with hers, pinning her hands to either side of her head.

“Mine,” he repeated as his hips bucked faster, rocking into her again and again. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped against his shoulder as a second wave of ecstasy took her. Her hips rose to meet him even as her legs trembled helplessly in shocks of pleasure.

“Forever.” He gave a last, shuddering thrust and collapsed half on top of her, spent.

Her pulse pounded in time with his, the fingers of their hands still twined together as they gasped for breath.

He pressed his lips to her temple in a sweet, exhausted kiss.

Somewhere on the opposite side of the chamber from the main corridor, a door swung open. Camellia’s heart stopped at the unexpected sound. God save her. This bedchamber had servant access. Mortification swallowed her whole. Of course there was servant access. This was a ducal residence, after all.

Voices and candlelight spilled into the room as whoever had been in the adjoining room crossed the threshold into theirs.

Camellia froze with her bare legs locked about Lord X’s equally bare hips. Terror rushed through her as merrymakers swept in like a tidal wave.

“Knock me over with a feather,” came a shrill, laughing voice. “I’d recognize those handsome buttocks anywhere. One never forgets the strawberry-shaped birthmark of the Lord of Pleasure. Though I can’t say I recognize the shapely lady beneath you.”

Terror stole the air from Camellia’s lungs.

“Bloody hell.” He lowered his head as if to hide his masked face in her hair. “Please don’t let that be Mrs. Epworth.”

Camellia froze as reality cut through the fog of their lovemaking. The notoriously promiscuous Mrs. Epworth had recognized Lord X from a birthmark on his buttocks? Her entire body shook with fear and confusion. Humiliation engulfed her.

“What’s that?” the widow cooed loudly in reply. “Are we interrupting your pleasure? Pay no attention to us, Wainwright. We’ll let ourselves back out the way we came in—and we’ll lock the door behind us.”

Wainwright? Camellia shoved him off her in a flood of panic, her heart fluttering in horror. Heaven help her. She’d given her maidenhead to Lord Wainwright? Her throat gagged at the abhorrent thought.

The connecting door snicked shut, taking the observers—and the source of light—with them. Her body sprang to life.

Pulse racing in fear and panic, she threw herself blindly from the bed in search of her shift. It had to be here. Somewhere. She had to get away. Right now. Had to get out of this masquerade, out of this building, out of this costume and into a piping hot bath from which she might never leave.

“Lady X?” A hesitant stammer marred the familiar husky voice.

She yanked her gown over her head, shoved her arms through the sleeves. Lord Wainwright might think himself just as discomfited by the unexpected interruption as she was, but the devil knew he couldn’t even come close.

He cleared his throat from the other side of the bed. “Lady X, I’m…”

“Lord Wainwright,” she interrupted harshly, still unable to believe the depths of her folly. “I heard.”

“Yes, well… guilty on that count, I’m afraid. But it changes nothing. I swear it.”

He was wrong. It changed everything.

She grappled for her satin slippers and tugged them onto her feet as quickly as possible.

“At least tell me your name,” he said, his tone desperate. “I meant everything I said, everything I did. I want you to be mine inside these walls and out. You mean… everything.”

Camellia had meant it all, too. At the time. But now she knew better.

She had been a fool.

Heat stung her throat. She did not trust herself to open her mouth. Didn’t know what she might say if she dared to speak. She hurried to the door while her shaking legs still obeyed her commands. Somehow, her fingers managed to release the lock.

“Please,” he begged. “Just your name. You are…?”

“Gone,” she answered softly.

Camellia raced from the room, the back of her gaping gown flapping against her bare shoulders, exposing her for the fool she was. Her gaze blurred as she stumbled through the crowd as quickly as she could.

She needed a hack. She needed to get home. She needed to die from humiliation and self-loathing.

Perhaps sensing her desperation, the crowd parted to let her through. Who cared if they noticed the telltale wrinkles in her gown and bed-mussed hair? She wouldn’t be back. Ever. She was no longer Lady X.

Now, she was simply ruined.