Chapter Five
Matthew flopped an arm over his eyes as he struggled to regain his breath. He’d never intended for this to happen when he came to the club with Robert and Hugh a few nights before. If either of them had suggested such an outcome, he would have told them they were crazy. Uncouth.
And yet here he was, body tingling from the most powerful release he had experienced in years, this woman’s sweet flavor still on his lips, and he felt…
Calm.
He flinched as that word settled into his mind. Since Angelica’s death, he’d been restless and empty. Always thinking. Sometimes it felt like always remembering. And yet in those moments when he’d been lost in this other woman, he’d felt peace.
Was that a betrayal?
As he pondered that, her hand settled against his chest. He lowered his arm and looked down at that hand. Slender fingers bunched against his body. He felt the weight of each one and wanted to feel more of it. More of those hands moving over him. And when he followed the line of her arm and looked at the beautiful woman at his side, he wanted that mouth, too. He wanted to remove that intricate mask and see her entire face when she bucked in pleasure beneath him.
And that was a betrayal, certainly. One stolen, anonymous night could be forgiven, perhaps. This strange feeling that it wasn’t enough was too much.
He sat up and caught her hand, lifting it to his lips to brush a kiss over her palm. “Thank you,” he said, hoping she would understand what he meant.
She’d had a soft smile on her face, but now that faded and she swallowed hard. “Certainly,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
There was a strange ache in his chest as he got up and began to gather his clothing. He felt her watching him as he did so, and searched for any topic to fill the now uncomfortable space in the room between them.
“Well, you can now say you’ve been in the infamous back rooms of the Donville Masquerade,” he said as he stepped into his trousers. “That is something.”
“Not something to brag about, I suppose. At least not for a woman.”
He turned and found she’d lifted the sheet to cover herself. The disappointment that flowed through him at that fact was not something he chose to ponder. “You don’t regret it, do you?”
She got out of the bed, blushing as she revealed herself once more. She put her back to him as she gathered up her dress, and he caught his breath. The sight of her bent over the gown was enough to drive a man mad.
He was turning into Robert—that was all there was to it. Crazed by desire.
“I don’t regret it,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “I didn’t know I needed it so much until…” She trailed off and tugged her dress on. “Will you button me?”
Undressing her had been a dizzying pleasure. There was no way not to brush her skin and the same would be true now. He took his time sliding each button into place and let his fingers touch her skin. She stiffened each time he did, her breath coming shorter.
He felt the throb of desire between his legs, felt his cock slowly making its way back to attention. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never been a randy wanderer, even before Angelica. Sex had been something he enjoyed, certainly, but he didn’t recall it burning in his blood like this. Making him want to take and take until there was nothing left of him or the woman in his arms.
He just didn’t understand it.
She pulled away as he fastened the last button and walked somewhat unsteadily toward a mirror affixed above the fire. She looked at herself, and occasionally her gaze flitted to him in the mirror image as she began to fix her hair.
“Do you regret it?” she asked.
He shook out his shirt. “No,” he said softly before he tugged it over his head.
It tangled briefly around the mask he wore and he managed to get himself free. But when he smoothed the fabric down, the mask was now half-cockeyed around his cheeks. He swore beneath his breath and untied it, then removed it and brushed it off.
He heard her gasp just as he began to lift the mask back in place. He looked up to see her staring at him. Just staring, her eyes wide with what seemed to be terror and shock. Her hands trembled and her lips were parted.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I-I—”
She said nothing more, but ran from the room. He stared at her retreating back and then strode after her. “Wait!” he called out, but she was already running into the increasingly crowded hall. Barefoot, he’d never catch her.
He got to the end of the hall and craned his neck, but as he suspected, she was lost in the swell of grinding bodies.
With a shake of his head, he turned back to the chamber to finish fixing himself. As he did, his mind spun. She’d seen him. That was the only reason for her terror, for her quick escape.
But why? Why would she react so strongly to his face? Unless…she knew him. Or knew of him. Or he knew her. His stomach turned with the possibilities.
He sat down and began to tug on his boots. There were plenty of bored married women who came to these soirees. His stranger had told him she had once been married, that she was a widow, but that could have been a lie to hide what she currently was. She could be the wife of a friend.
Not a wife of one of his duke club. He didn’t believe that for a moment. All of them were deeply in love with their husbands, and he doubted any were lacking in pleasure in their lives.
But he had friends outside that circle. Could one of their wives have strayed only to be confronted with the horror of what she’d done once she saw his face?
That was certainly one possibility. One he found himself sick about, for the idea that he would betray a friend mixed with the concept that this mystery woman who had so set him on his heels was not…free was terrible, indeed.
However, it wasn’t the only possibility.
He got to his feet and shoved his shirt back into the waist of his trousers before he found his tangled waistcoat and jacket.
It could be she was a servant. Someone who knew his face because she had brought him tea or served him roast. The fact that he had touched her could get her sacked, at least in her mind. Or put into a compromising position where she did not get to choose her own path.
He wrinkled his brow at his reflection. That didn’t seem correct, though. The lady he’d bedded had worn a fine gown and her hair had been done like she’d had help with it. Her hands were soft—she clearly didn’t do work with them.
Still, it was a possibility.
He supposed the third option was that the woman had simply been shocked that his identity was revealed. She’d wanted an anonymous encounter and he had violated the terms of that agreement when he removed his mask for adjustment. Now she couldn’t so easily push aside what they had done. Forget it, as perhaps she wished to.
He looked at his own reflection in the same mirror she had so recently examined herself in. Whatever the reason for her quick exit, he couldn’t help but feel concern for her well-being. And he found himself smiling at his reflection.
He had intended to tell the woman that this was a wonderful night, but one he should not repeat. But now…
Well, now it would be ungentlemanly not to approach her if he saw her again.
“To reassure her,” he said to his reflection. “That’s all.”
He turned away from the liar in the mirror and made his way from the room. As he exited, a chambermaid stepped up. “Are you finished with the room, sir?”
Matthew looked off in the direction where his lady had run. Then he nodded. “For tonight, yes.”
She wrinkled her brow at the strange turn of phrase, but her questioning faded when he tossed her a coin and left her there.
He would come back. Even if he’d been telling himself he shouldn’t. He would come back and he would find the lady again. Just one more time. And then it would be over.
That was how it had to be.
Isabel shook as sobs racked her body. The carriage driver was unaware, of course, and drove on, turning down this street and that, knocking her around and making her very aware of the delicious soreness of her body that had been caused by him.
She lifted her head and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. She knew him. The magical stranger had been transformed in an instant from a gentle lover to a man she’d been told to fear for three long years. To hate. To suspect.
“How could he be Matthew Cornwallis?” she asked herself out loud. “How could he be the Duke of Tyndale?”
The tears returned and she flopped down on the carriage seat as she let them flow. Life was too cruel. It was so punishing. She had gone to the Donville Masquerade for anonymous thrills. Things to think about as she furtively touched herself in her lonely bed. Things to recall once she was married off to yet another man who would have no interest in her.
A real lover was never meant to be a part of that. Certainly not a lover who turned out to be the greatest enemy of her family.
She flashed to his mouth on her, to the gentle coaxing of deepest pleasures that she hadn’t known she could feel. Her body shuddered at just the memory, and she shoved it aside.
“No!” she snapped at herself.
She could not look fondly on that night. It was wrong to do so. At the very least Tyndale had once been her late cousin’s fiancé! That made what she’d done bad enough. But that her uncle believed him to be a killer?
“It’s too much,” she murmured as anxiety rose in her chest. “Too much.”
The carriage pulled around behind her uncle’s home as she had instructed and the hack driver came down to open the door for her. She handed him money and he looked her up and down. “You’ve been a naughty girl,” he said, his tone lewd.
She glared at him, trying to behave as if his words didn’t rattle her in an already rattling situation. “Mind your own affairs,” she bit out, and then stepped up to the gate.
She heard him laughing as she entered the garden and then ran as fast as her legs would carry her. But she couldn’t run from what she’d done. She couldn’t run from how it made her feel.