Derek despised balls.

Not his own, of course. He was quite fond of his own. But the balls that required a man to truss himself up like a stuffed goose and parade about the room like a preening peacock looking for a mate…those he hated. Which begged the question why the devil he was standing in the middle of a ball room. But as the answer was too convoluted to dissect without an entire bottle of brandy at the ready – and sadly no such brandy was available – he was instead possessed of a single-minded focus to do his duty and get the hell out as quickly as possible.

Sweeping his dance partner effortlessly across the marble floor, he turned a deaf ear to her endless prattle – why were women under the impression that waltzing required a steady flow of conversation? – and kept one eye on the massive long-case clock in the corner of the room.

In just a few short minutes it would strike midnight, and when it did his evening promised to become much more titillating. For somewhere in the Hanover’s massive estate his mistress was waiting…and she wasn’t wearing any drawers.

Their little game of cat and mouse was one of the only reasons Derek had bothered to attend tonight. Well, that and he needed to keep up the pretense of looking for a wife to satisfy the terms of his grandfather’s last will and testament. The scheming old bastard had enjoyed making his heir jump through hoops when he’d been alive, and nothing had changed after his death. To say their relationship had been tumultuous would have been like saying England had had a tiny little spat with France. In short, they’d despised one another. And the late Duke of Hawkridge had done everything in his power to ensure Derek would be miserable long after he was gone.

When the music dwindled and the waltz ended, Derek bowed neatly in front of his partner before excusing himself. Ignoring the volley of longing stares aimed at his back, he moved swiftly through the crowd, stopping only to select two glasses of champagne before abandoning the loud, sweltering ball room for the blessed quiet of a long hallway.

Lord Hanover’s thick browed ancestors peered down at him from gilt framed paintings as he strolled through the palatial estate, occasionally stopping to open a door and peer inside. His anticipation built with every empty room he encountered until his loins were all but throbbing with need, and when he came across a parlor – and the curvy little arse sticking straight up in the air like a red flag in front of a very randy bull – he wasted no time in locking the door behind him and setting the champagne down so he could unbutton his jacket.  

“Well, well, well.” Dropping the jacket onto the back of a chair, he began to loosen his cravat. “What do we have here?”

The first time he’d seen Lady Vanessa he had been immediately captivated by her beauty. A willowy blonde with ice blue eyes, plump red lips, and features so delicate they might have been spun from glass, she was the epitome of a classic English rose. Yet while her physical appearance was what had initially piqued his interest, it was the seductive gleam of naughtiness in her gaze that kept it.

Derek had always been a man in possession of…darker appetites. And Vanessa, for all she might have looked and acted like a proper lady when out in public, was only too happy to feed his baser instincts when they were in private.

Her myriad of talents in the bedroom, coupled with the fact that she was already married and as such had no ridiculous illusions about becoming the next Duchess of Hawkridge, made her the perfect mistress.

Vanessa gave a tiny, indecipherable squeak of alarm as he approached her from behind and his desire deepened. Of all the roles she’d played a damsel in distresses had never been among them, and he was looking forward to how far she would carry it out. Although he wasn’t quite certain why she was on the floor with her head under a table.

“I hope you’re not wearing anything under those skirts,” he said silkily as he crouched behind her and began to slide his hand up her calf. “Or else I’m going to have to – bollocks!”

Without warning Vanessa kicked back with all the strength and temerity of a mule, the heel of her slippered foot striking precariously close to his nether regions. Cursing, he scrambled back onto the sofa, both hands draped protectively over his cock and balls. A few inches higher…

“If this is some sort of new game, I fail to see the appeal,” he said darkly.

“Game?” An outraged female voice that was decidedly not Vanessa’s rose up from underneath the table. “This isn’t a game, you overreaching oaf! How dare you touch me in such a familiar manner!”

“I…” Quick witted with a dagger sharp tongue, Derek rarely found himself at a loss for words. But as he stared down at the shapely derriere that belonged to someone other than his mistress, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. “I…I…”

“I, I, I,” the impertinent voice mocked. “Why not try an apology, or better yet an explanation? Or are you such a rogue and a rake that you greet every woman you come across by running your hand up her leg?”

The chit was in a dark room wedged halfway beneath a table and she wanted an explanation from him? Eyes narrowing, Derek shot to his feet. 

“I do apologize,” he said stiffly. “I…thought you were someone else.”

“You thought I was someone else?” the voice scoffed. “Pray tell, who else do you know who has her head stuck under a table?”

“I think the better question is what you are doing with your head stuck under a table.”

“Clearly I am looking for something.”

Clearly.

“And what would that something be?” he asked. “A lost earring? A necklace? Your dignity?”

“If you must know I am looking for Henny.”

Confused, his gaze swept the room, but unless there was someone hiding behind the curtains they were the parlor’s only two occupants. “Is Henny a pint-sized elf?”

“Do not be ridiculous. Henny is a hedgehog.”

Of course she was. Because the only thing stranger than encountering a woman with her head stuck underneath a table was a woman with her head stuck underneath the table looking for her pet hedgehog.

“I wish you luck in your search,” he said brusquely before he walked around the sofa and picked up his jacket. He was halfway to the door when the panic in the unknown woman’s voice gave him pause.

“Wait!” she cried. “You can’t just leave. You have to help me.”

“Do I?” One dark brow lifted as he turned around. “And why would you require the help of a – what was it? Oh, yes. An ‘overreaching oaf’? Don’t worry, I am not a complete cad. I’ll send for help.” 

“No, you can’t!” She said it so quickly that the corners of his mouth twitched despite his annoyance at having been kicked, mocked, and insulted. In the span of a few seconds his mysterious assailant had done what no other woman – or man, for that matter – had ever dared. He should have left her to her fate without a second thought. And yet…

With a loud, irritated sigh, he dropped his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “I suppose this can be my good deed for the year. What are you stuck on?”

“If I knew that then I wouldn’t be stuck now, would I?” she replied tartly.

Saucy little wench. He was looking forward to hearing her stuttering apology when she realized just whom she’d been speaking to in such a disrespectful manner.

“Do not kick me again,” he ordered as he crouched beside her and began to feel along the table for any sharp edges her gown could have gotten snagged on.

“What are you doing?” She craned her head around, offering him a glimpse of wide green eyes and thick curls the color of smoldering fire. He’d never cared for red hair. It was too bold. Too messy. Too temperamental. Vanessa’s cold beauty was much more to his liking.

“Hold still.” His fingers bumped against a piece of scrollwork on the edge of the table. At some point the scrollwork must have come loose for a nail had been used to secure it, and it was the nail head that had caught the woman’s dress. “I’ve almost got it – bollocks,” he cursed under his breath when the fabric slipped from his grasp. “I thought I told you to hold still!”

“I am holding still.”

“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re not. This blasted sofa is in the way. I’m going to have to straddle you.”

“You’re going to have to – what are you doing?” she yelped when he mounted her backside as one would a mare, muscular thighs gently squeezing her slender hips. From this position he was finally able to get a firm grip on the nail...and his grip wasn’t the only thing that was firm. For such a bristly little thing she was certainly soft in all the places that counted.

He was half-tempted to explore more of those soft places, but not fancying another kick in the groin he ignored his misplaced arousal (for he knew the woman his body really desired was Vanessa), and quickly got to work on the nail. Unfortunately, in a twist of horribly bad timing, no sooner had he pried the dress free than the parlor door suddenly swung open.

“Eleanor?” a lady’s shrill voice rang out. “Eleanor, are you in – oh! I am so sorry, I did not mean to…Eleanor? Eleanor, is that you?”

Derek willed the redhead to remain silent. They may have been fully clothed, but their current position didn’t exactly lend itself to innocence. Surely she knew what would happen to her reputation if she was discovered kneeling beneath a man in the dark confines of a parlor. But apparently she either didn’t know, or she didn’t care, and he inwardly cringed when she promptly responded with a cheerful, “Yes Mother! It’s me.” 

“Now you’ve bloody well done it,” he growled as he swung his leg over and stalked to the far side of the sofa, bracing his hand on the wooden armrest. But he knew no matter how much distance he put between them, it would never be enough. The damage, such as it was, had already been done.

Now that she was no longer stuck, the redhead – Eleanor – quickly backed out from beneath the table and stood up. Innocent green eyes, flecked with gold and framed by thick auburn lashes, met his. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like cinnamon dusted on the top of a queen cake. He was suddenly filled with the nearly irrepressible urge to brush his thumb across her face and see if the freckles would melt away beneath his touch. A peculiar urge, as he was not an affectionate man. But then this had been a most peculiar evening.

“What have I done?” Eleanor asked, her brows knitting with confusion.

“What have you done?” His laugh was flat and humorless as his calculating gaze flicked to the woman who remained frozen in front of the door. At least she’d had the presence of mind to close it behind her, but rumors had a way of slipping through even the smallest of cracks. Rumors that would ruin him as surely as they would ruin Eleanor. If not for that wretched will…

“You’ve damned us both,” he said grimly. “That’s what you’ve done.”