Chapter Fourteen
Lambs to the slaughter.
Caligula’s hand slid to Aideen’s bottom, so she stuck a claw in the despotic emperor’s stomach and with a guilty grin, it withdrew.
So far, the masquerade had been splendid – sublime dancing, highest-quality champagne and superb lobster patties. The ballroom echoed to the sound of merriment as Caligula waltzed her across the floor. She’d already twirled with lions, wolves, a Zeus and if she wasn’t mistaken the Prince Regent – the real one.
The palatial townhouse resembled a Roman villa, Bacchus’ feast being the theme: fountains dripped with wine, statues disrobed in the corners and guests reclined on low couches, devouring grapes and figs with their fingers.
But as the night wore on, she realised how apt that word was. Because the ball was wearing. Wearing and false.
Caligula bowed as their waltz came to a welcome end and then toddled off, probably to find a lady not averse to bottom patting…or his beloved horse, and Aideen took herself to lean against a mighty statue of a semi-clad Venus.
Gazing out at the multitude, she recognised the wife of an earl disappearing into the gardens with a younger man, their gaze intimate.
No one made overt overtures at this ball, but silk fans were whipped around in a frenzy of hidden messages, eyes flitted to the alcoves and notes were passed from hand to hand.
An undercurrent rippled the room, an insincerity that stole her own enjoyment.
Without love, was this her future?
Dark, dangerous, but desolate.
The very words her husband had growled now defined the masquerade for Aideen.
Jack, of course, was in his element, their entrance having caused quite a stir. Currently he was waltzing with Cordelia, and they made a striking couple, causing many an envious female eye to follow from behind an elegant mask.
To give the devil his due, he had chaperoned her friend most judicially thus far, and Aideen herself was more than capable of detracting unwanted advances. The claws gave a nasty scratch, but her uncle had also gifted her a small bejewelled knife which she’d affixed to her garter.
A tatty pirate approached for a dance but she shook her head. Sadly, the only man she wanted didn’t feel likewise.
Perhaps she should retire to the duke’s principal country estate. Meghan had described the place as wonderful, a sprawling castle in the Derbyshire countryside. She’d feel at home amongst the green hills and wild flowers, not this bleak landscape of pretence and deceit.
A grinning Jack swiftly appeared, breathless and with arms wide.
“Aideen, lovey,” he said, leaning improperly near – was he foxed? “Smile and caress my lapel.”
She gawked at him dumbfounded. Surely, he didn’t think–
Drawing yet closer, he whispered in her ear, “Rule number one.”
Without thought, she reached up to smooth the velvet, a pit of sorrow filling her belly.
Her husband must be here. The only explanation for Jack’s attentions. Was that why the duke hadn’t wished her to attend? Was his priggish reputation no more than a guise? Did he seek the hidden pleasures of this ball? Was his wife too dull and innocent?
Surreptitiously, Aideen scanned the throng of masked guests for a figure in black but saw no sign. “I’m sure he won’t recognise me.”
“And I’m sure he will,” replied Jack. “Now laugh, Your Grace.”
She followed the command, always having been able to feign cheer in the face of her da’s bitterness, and serenely, she brushed a hand over Jack’s waistcoat, purring her delight at the beautiful red silk.
“Steady on though,” he muttered, “I’ve seen what your husband has in that cane of his and I might have a use for my tallywags later in life.”
That produced a more honest laugh. “Did you know he was here? Why didn’t you tell me? I never would have come if I’d known.” She smiled through the question and gazed adoringly.
“I might have helped choose his apparel.” Jack winked before sheepishly glancing over one shoulder. “He’s gone, but I’m convinced he recognised you as his demeanour was stiffer than usual. He didn’t appear happy.”
No. The Duke of Rakecombe wouldn’t like his orders disobeyed, but then he himself had suggested Jack attend her, so there was no need to be such a dog in a manger.
“Where’s Cordelia?”
“Don’t worry, she’s at the–” Jack peered across the heaving room. “Bugger and blast, our lamb has frolicked off. I’ll be back in two shakes.”
Bidding him find their lost sheep – he needed a crook not a pitchfork – Aideen instead meandered to the gardens.
Rakecombe didn’t strive to tamp down the fury and envy. He let it rage.
Images battered his skull. A foppish hand on his wife’s voluptuous black-clad arse. Her cherry lips smiling at some toga-cladded imbecile. Licking the champagne from her lips as a Greek god leered at her breasts.
Aideen may consider her disguise sufficient, but he’d recognise that lush backside anywhere, and her clover pendant had been a final confirmation.
Clenching his fists, he stared into the depths of night and forced his breathing to slow. It was his own fault, of course. He knew that. To say no to Aideen was to decree the exact opposite. Winterbourne he would send home in a box, and what the blazes was innocent of the Season, Miss Cordelia Greenwood, doing here?
Damn, how he detested these parties – full of brash young bucks and greedy ladybirds, but this was where Phineas had suggested, and he agreed it was certainly clandestine.
Perhaps he was a dull old dog, as Aideen had seemed to be enjoying herself, but he ached to be alone…with her.
Spying for the Crown got his blood pumping, but how pleasant it would be to return to Aideen at the end of a night. To speak of what he was able, to rest his head and have that Irish whisper calm his mind.
With their temperaments of course, they would always…debate, but they’d settle their differences betwixt the sheets.
Over the last seven lonely days, he’d wondered if it could be possible, but always Gwen haunted his thoughts and supressed his hope.
Closeness meant danger in his vocation. And it wasn’t some imagined reaction, some misconceived idea of what may happen – he’d felt the slipperiness of his sister’s blood seep through his fingers, heard her last gasp. And it hurt so bloody much.
He’d leave this ball once Phineas showed. Leave Aideen to her own life.
A rustle of silk disturbed him, and he swivelled, about to snarl his displeasure at some Cyprian, but brushing past and then on down the steps to the garden was his wife, her disguise no barrier to his gaze.
Was she meeting someone? Wrath burned within.
As usual with Aideen, his feet flouted his latest resolution to leave her be and lightly followed her into the dark.
An archway of fresh-leaved roses stood at the end of the garden with lanterns swaying overhead – a perfect place to tryst, and he watched as she ambled the grass path, stopping beneath the arch to caress the small buds that awaited more warmth than England was currently prepared to give.
Certainly, she presented no rush.
Aideen turned to lean against one of the ornate posts, her head bent, and it took a while to discern her expression.
Sadness.
Never had he seen his fiery girl sad before. Angry and upset, yes, but not this muted wretchedness.
It tortured him.
Had someone hurt her? Had he hurt her? She always absorbed his taunts and fired back with verve, but words could slice deep and leave wounds the eye couldn’t see.
Or was she sad her tryst had not come to fruition? Was he being presumptuous in assuming it had anything to do with him?
Lust may certainly sear between them, but did Aideen actually like him? After all, he hadn’t created a very likable creature.
Sedately, he slipped around the arch to approach from behind, his tread silent on the path.
“A beautiful woman need not be alone.” He wasn’t quite sure why he disguised his aristocratic tenor with a strong Welsh accent. Only that he didn’t want to reveal his presence at this ball, a ball he’d forbidden her to attend. Or was it that he wondered for whom she waited.
His wife spun and he tensed, even though there was no reason why she would recognise him.
A tricorn hat, complete with dangling ostrich feather, covered his hair, in turn covered by a powdered white wig. His mask, in summer’s day blue, obscured all but his mouth, and his clothes mirrored a gentleman of some hundred years past: pale-blue silk frockcoat with matching breeches, white stockings and heeled shoes with square jewelled buckles. A froth of white lace tumbled from his throat, choking him if truth be known, and it itched like the very devil.
The single highlight to this disguise was the excuse to wear a dress sword.
“It appears I am alone no longer.” And she turned her back upon him.
He stepped near, undeterred. “Do you await a lover? Should I leave for fear of rousing his ire?” The Welsh cadence slid over that last word, prolonging it.
“No lover,” she said softly, and satisfaction flared in his gut.
“A pity.” He bent close but she didn’t stir an inch. Tonight, the violets had closed their petals and her perfume was darker, smelling of night jasmine and passion. “Would you care for one, fy cariad aur?”
Still she declined to turn, so he brushed a finger against her neck, a pale column of contradiction to her dress and hair. She gasped but he couldn’t discern the cause – shock or pleasure?
He adored touching her in this moonlit paradise, the air redolent with spring blooms, and he couldn’t cease, didn’t want to cease, despite the travesty of this scene.
“Perhaps I have a jealous husband?” she whispered. “Are you not worried?”
“If I were your husband, I would not allow you to attend this ball of decadence as my envy would outdo Othello’s.”
“But then we would not have met.”
Leisurely, he slanted and pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. She startled but didn’t pull away, and envy did assuredly seethe within.
Aideen arched her neck as he mouthed kisses along the warm flesh until reaching her lobe. He bit lightly. “Perhaps that would have been for the best. For both of us,” he said.
A low moan greeted his words and he slid an arm around her waist, tugging her back against his body. The silks rubbed and he felt something firm brush his groin, not entirely unpleasant, and he realised it was her tail.
“My enchanting black cat,” he rasped and pulled the sleeve from her shoulder, revealing satin skin. He laved, nipped, aware this dark game was becoming too twisted, but his aching body refused to end its play.
“Accept the things to which fate binds you,” she murmured.
Pushing a hand into her hair, he brought her face around for a kiss. Her lips were as he’d yearned for these past days, lush and warm, but the angle was strained, their masks clashed, and although he craved to turn her, he was more than aware of the danger.
And yet his fingers slipped down, caressed the silk of her skirts, rucking the material. Aideen curved into him, and he couldn’t help but push back, letting her feel his arousal. Perhaps he should continue. She was his wife, but self-disgust and hurt held him back.
A mysterious contour at her thigh halted his touch. “What have we here?” he drawled.
“A knife,” she answered. “To halt unworthy intruders.”
Why, he didn’t know, but the notion of his wife with a blade in her garter nearly unmanned him. What a remarkable woman, and faintly, the idea that Aideen wasn’t nearly as fragile or artless as Gwen wafted into his thoughts, but then she raked something sharp against the back of his hand.
“Are you unworthy?” she whispered, and he realised she’d branded him with light scratches.
He groaned and pulled her tight before abruptly letting her go. He’d speak the truth.
“Yes,” he answered, “I am unworthy.”
Aideen stumbled and spun, but he’d already vanished, like a ghost of the gentleman he portrayed.
Foolish man.
Did he really think she wouldn’t know her own husband?
Admittedly, the costume had suited him. On some men it may have appeared foppish but not so the duke. It contrasted with his masculinity, his rangy height and straight spine. She’d had to turn, to prevent herself from pouncing upon him.
The deep timbre of the accent had further roused her. But why had he played such a game? To ascertain if she was an innocent Desdemona? Or to punish for her presence at the Miltons’ ball?
Wandering back through the garden, she heard a tapering whistle so peered across the lawn into the far dark.
The statue of a beleaguered Atlas glowered back and behind the marble, a flash of pale-blue silk and an ostrich feather in a tricorn hat caused her heart to falter.
Had her husband a tryst of his own?
But then a Roman centurion veered towards those same shadows, leather sandals causing no sound upon the gravel path.
Or was he engaged on a mission? That might explain the utter dichotomy of his clothing, his appearance so at odds with his nature.
But for all the goats in Gorey, why didn’t he say so? “Please do not attend, Aideen, I will be there on business.” That was all it required.
Memories of a night working with Uncle Seamus to finish a special commission intruded. He’d warned her in a hushed tone of the men that bought his wares. “These people bring danger and death to your door, so keep your distance.”
Was that what Rakecombe was doing? Keeping his distance. She’d already been kidnapped due to their association last year so was he staying away for her own protection?
How thoughtful…and infuriating.
Then again, mayhap this was all her fevered and optimistic imagination.
With a shrug, she dashed up the steps, aware she had abandoned Cordelia for too long with a pack of salivating wolves.
Cordelia Greenwood, diamond of the first water, all-round proper miss, and innocent debutante, was petrified.
The hallway leading to what she’d hoped was the retiring room lay empty except for the formidable man standing in front of her.
A highwayman to all intents and purposes, dressed entirely in black. He wore a covering mask in soft silk, a tricorn hat, and a cloak shrouded his frame. Cordelia stepped to the left, eyes lowered, but he also took a step, blocking her path.
She darted to the right but he was sleight of hand and broad of shoulder and only needed to shift an arm to thwart her route.
Oh, goodness.
Why had she come here? Cordelia wanted to wail. Although the dancing had been enjoyable, she’d soon realised she didn’t belong, not understanding the secret signals or whispered words; one gentleman had asked if she bleated when tupped, whatever that meant.
“Might I pass, sir?” She was ashamed of the quiver to her voice. Aideen wouldn’t act like a frightened mouse, but she lacked her friend’s spirited manner.
Cordelia’s eyes widened as the man shook his head and began to unravel his black cravat.
A muscular throat revealed itself. Her mouth dried at the sight, skin oddly tingling, but that was beside the point, and she spun to flee.
Almost at the stairs, an ungloved, and hence entirely bare, hand encircled her waist.
Quaking, she recoiled from the touch but thudded straight into a dense male body. She may have squeaked, but it definitely became a shriek when cloth was banded over her mask and across her eyes.
The world darkened.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me go.”
But the highwayman remained silent and the next thing she knew, she was hauled up into muscular arms. He swung her around, kicked a door, and then she could hear male jeers and clapping. Pulling her into his chest, he held her tight. A warmer room and a low female moan reached her ears – where was he taking her? What was happening?
She struggled but his arms were iron in their grip and he did smell very pleasant – musky.
Finally, cool air and she heard a door slam shut. His arms suddenly released her and she shrieked as she fell, landing on something soft and creaky.
Scrabbling the cloth from her eyes, she peered blearily around.
A bed. A bedchamber.
Gosh.
The abducting scoundrel had his back to her and was filling a glass with amber liquid. He’d shrugged off his cloak and did have a very nice posterior and strong thighs, she noted…which, of course, was unimportant at this moment.
Escape.
Gingerly, she edged a foot to the side of the bed, but her sheep’s tail got tangled around her legs.
The highwayman spun. He’d removed his sinister mask and his eyes glittered, jaw tight.
“Oh,” she moaned pitifully. “Good evening, Lord Oakdean. Wh-what a coincidence.”