Seven Years to Sin

“It is I who must thank you,” the countess said. “As short as Benedict’s life was, you filled his last years with tremendous joy. I will forever be indebted to you for that.”



Movement from the bed caught Jess’s eye. Hester had leaned forward to run her hands over the luxurious material. The modiste extolled its virtues in a hushed but rapturous tone, which perfectly suited the thoughts that would accompany the sight of a woman draped in such decadence.



“Perhaps you can use it just on the bodice?” Hester suggested. “Paired with a cream satin or even a heavier damask? Or just on the sleeves? Or as trim?”



“No,” Jess murmured, crossing her arms. “The whole gown must be made of it, with a draped bodice and a low back.”



“C’est magnifique!” the modiste exclaimed, beaming and snapping her fingers at her two assistants to begin taking measurements.



A white-capped maid entered and curtsied. “Lady Tarley. Something has arrived for you. Would you like me to bring it to you here?”



Jess frowned. “Is there a reason I must see it now? Can you put it in my room?”



“It came with instructions to deliver it to you immediately.”



“Intriguing. Yes, bring it here.”



“Whatever could it be?” Hester asked. “Have you any clue, Jess?”



“None at all.” Although she prayed it would be from Alistair, whatever it was. Their separation of only a few days was fraying her equanimity. If not for Hester’s precarious health and need of near-constant prodding to eat, Jess would have gone to him by now.



A few moments later, the maid reappeared carrying a handled basket. She set it down on the floor, and it rocked to and fro. A soft whine from the interior lured Jess closer.



“What is that?” Lady Pennington asked, setting her cup and saucer aside.



Jess bent down and lifted the basket’s lid, gasping at the sight of the tiny pug puppy stumbling around the lined interior.



“Look at you,” she breathed, instantly in love. She reached in carefully to pick up the tiny creature and laughed in delight at the feel of its soft, warm, and wriggling body.



“Dear God,” Hester cried. “It’s a dog.”



That only made Jess laugh harder. Sitting back on her heels, she set the energetic pug in her lap and looked at the metal tag hanging from its red leather collar.



Acheron, it said on one side, causing a pang in her chest. The other side said simply, All my love, ALC.



“Who sent that creature?” the countess asked.



“Baybury, I would guess,” Hester said, sounding wistful.



Jess retrieved the sealed missive that hung from the basket’s handle by a black ribbon. The crest in the wax was a sharp reminder of who Alistair was now, but she pushed it aside and clung to her determination to fight for him.



My dearest, obstinate Jess,



May the enclosed little friend bring you joy. I pray he endlessly reminds you of the one who gifts him to you. I have tasked him with watching over you and protecting you, for I know he will love you to distraction as I do.



Her Grace requests that I attend the Treadmore masquerade five days hence. I told her I would go only if my betrothed did. I would brave any and all such hells to see you.



Please give my best regards to your sister for her speedy return to health. I can well understand her decline in your absence. I, too, am suffering the ill effects of it.



Yours always,



Alistair



There was a drawing with the missive, a rendering of her lying on the dais in the gazebo he’d built on the island. Her eyes were unfocused, dreamy and wistful, her lips plumped by fierce kisses and her hair in tumbling disarray around her bare shoulders. Her head was propped in one hand, her torso draped in the nearly translucent lawn of her chemise. Alistair hadn’t brought his supplies with him that day, which meant this intimate image of her in an unguarded moment had been stored in his mind and savored later.



“Don’t cry, Jess!” Hester said, alarmed when tears fell from Jess’s lashes.



“Is everything all right, dear?” the countess asked, rising gracefully to her feet and approaching. “Are you mourning your Temperance?”



Jess hugged Acheron and the letter that accompanied him to her heart. “No. Although thinking of her reminds me again of how quicksilver life is. Benedict was the healthiest and hardiest man I knew. Alistair has lost three siblings. Hester and I lost our mother. We cannot afford to throw away happiness. We have to fight for it and claim it.”



Elspeth crouched beside Jess and held out her hands for Acheron. “How adorable you are,” she cooed when Jess passed him over.



Jess stood and eyed the red silk again. “I now have an occasion to wear the red.”



“God help the man,” Hester said, but with a sparkle in her green eyes.



“It is too late for that now.” Jess lifted her arms to be measured. “He is well and truly caught.”



Chapter 23



It was an irrefutable fact that wearing a mask freed inhibitions.



Alistair was reminded of this over and over again as he stood by a Doric column in the Treadmore ballroom and dealt with the pressing crush of guests who greeted him. He was tempted often to place his hand over the letter he’d tucked into his pocket, but he refrained. Jessica’s words contained therein gave him the strength and patience to deal with the overly accommodating and facetious guests eager to make a good impression on the future Duke of Masterson. They apparently weren’t aware of how sharp a memory Alistair possessed. He remembered those who’d thought nothing of him when he was merely a fourth son. He remembered those who’d paid him to fuck them and made him feel unclean in the process. He remembered those who had inflicted pain and wounded his pride.



My beloved, determined Alistair,



Your gift and the words accompanying him both broke my heart and filled it with joy. When I see you next, I will show you the depth of my gratitude.



As for the masquerade, nothing could keep me from you. Then or at any time or event in the future. You have been duly warned.



Irrevocably yours,



Jessica



To his left, Masterson stood, so stoic and austere. To his right, his mother worked her charm on all who approached them. She hadn’t, however, written to Jessica. Not that he had truly expected her to.



“Haymore’s daughter is lovely,” Louisa murmured now, using her fan to gesture at the young woman walking away from them.



“I do not recall.”



“You met her scarcely a moment ago. She deliberately lowered her mask so you would see her.”



He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I will take your word for it.”



The orchestra in the balcony above signaled the onset of dancing with a few opening notes. The crush of guests somehow cleared the dance area by converging on the perimeters of the room.



“Beginning with a quadrille,” his mother said dryly. “I wish you had asked at least one of the young ladies you met to dance. It would have been polite.”



“I was exceptionally polite to every one of them.”



“You are a beautiful dancer. I enjoy watching you. So would everyone else here tonight.”



“Mother.” He faced her as the orchestra began to play. “I will not have every gazette and scandal rag speculating over the significance of my selection of dance partners. I am not on the market, and I refuse to give any impression that I am.”



“You haven’t even perused the wares!” she protested in a low whisper that was hidden beneath the enthusiastic surge of music. “You are infatuated with a beautiful, older, worldly woman. I appreciate the appeal, especially under the circumstances. Certainly her expertise at maneuvering through Society seems exceptionally valuable to you now. But, please, consider the long-term ramifications of your decisions. She is a widow, Alistair. She has far greater license than a debutante and can be useful to you outside the bonds of matrimony.”



Alistair inhaled a sharp, deep breath. Then another, fighting for control of the fury threatening to make an appearance in such a public place. “For both our sakes, I am going to forget what you just said.”



Glancing at Masterson, his jaw clenched when the duke appeared unaware of the conversation taking place right beneath his nose. “How far must this hypocrisy go before you absolve my mother of her sins? Hasn’t she paid penance enough?”



The duke continued to look straight ahead. Only a muscle tic in his jaw gave any hint that he’d listened at all.



Alistair looked at his mother and removed his mask. “I’ve damn well paid enough. I have wished for your happiness all of my life, Mother. I have tried to facilitate it in every way I can, but in this matter, I will not be swayed.”



Louisa’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. They cut him, but there was no help for her distress. Leastwise none that he could give her.



A swell of murmurs surrounded them at the same moment a ripple of awareness coursed down his spine. Anticipation slid through his veins, potently fierce and delicious. He looked at his mother’s face and saw the wide-eyed astonishment with which she stared over his shoulder. He pushed his mask into her lax fingers and began to turn about. Slowly. Savoring the fine tension he felt only when Jessica was near.



The sight of her struck him like a blow, purging all the air from his lungs. Red. She was draped in it. Wrapped in silk like a gift. Her shoulders bared, exposing creamy skin and the lush upper swell of her breasts. Her luxurious hair was styled into a mixture of upswept curls and long, glorious strands. There was something slightly disheveled about the whole, reinforcing the overall impression of sin and seduction and sex. The pristine white gloves that stretched midway up her arms did nothing to mitigate the overwhelming carnality of her appearance.



Although he knew from the dancing in progress that the music continued, Alistair couldn’t hear a single note over the roaring of blood in his ears. Nearly every eye was riveted to Jessica, who walked along the edge of the dance floor unimpeded, her stride slow and sensual. Erotic. Beckoning.



He sucked in a deep breath when his lungs burned. His chest was constricted with yearning, his gaze devouring every detail in a vain effort to appease the hunger that had grown ravenous over the many days without her.



A simple red satin mask was tied around her eyes and as she approached, she reached up and untied it. Letting it dangle from her fingers by the ribbons. Letting everyone get a good, long look at her while she looked at him. Letting them—the peers whose censure he’d feared she could not bear—see the deeply intimate manner in which she regarded him. Her gray eyes were luminous, lit from within by the surfeit of emotion she made no effort to hide. There wasn’t a person who saw her who could doubt what he meant to her.



By God, she was brave. She’d been beaten to deafness and disfigured into conforming to the dictates of the people milling around them, yet she came to him without any hesitation or reservation. Without fear.



There was no one else in the room. Not for him. Not with her looking at him in that way of hers that spoke more clearly than words—she loved him with all that she was. Completely, unequivocally, unconditionally.



“Do you see, Mother?” he asked softly, riveted. “Amid all of these lies, there is no finer truth than what is bared before you now.”



He was moving toward Jessica before he realized it, drawn inexorably. When he drew close enough to scent her, he stopped. There were mere inches between them, and the urge to reach for her, to pull her close, was a writhing thing inside him.



“Jess.” His fingers clenched and released against the need to touch her soft, smooth skin.



Dancers cleared the floor around them, gawking, but he paid them no mind.



Her dress was a statement, and he would never fully be capable of putting his gratitude for it into words. She was not the same woman who had stepped aboard his ship. She no longer saw him as being “too much” for her, or herself as inadequate for him. And he loved her more now than he had then. He would certainly love her more tomorrow than he did today, and the day after that would find him only loving her all the more.



“My lord,” she breathed, her gaze sweeping over his face as if she had been as starved for the sight of him as he’d been for even a glimpse of her. “The way you’re looking at me …”



He nodded curtly, knowing he was wearing his heart on his face. It had to be obvious to all and sundry that he was mad for her. “I miss you abominably,” he said gruffly. “The greatest torment ever devised is the withholding of you from me.”



A few opening notes of a waltz played. He seized the moment, catching Jessica by the waist and carrying her onto the dance floor.



Alistair was the most lavish creature in the packed room.



Jess was left breathless by the sight of him, awed by his masculine beauty in formal attire. He wore black trousers and coat, the severity of his appearance only emphasizing his perfection of form and feature. His was a glittering, riveting presence with his glossy coal-black hair and brilliant aquamarine eyes. He needed no adornments to enhance him. His piercing gaze and slight smile were enough to lure women closer. Even men drifted near, drawn to the air of confidence and command Alistair carried so well.



The knowledge that this stunning, undeniably sexual creature was hers made her breathless. And the way he looked at her, with such aching tenderness and heated longing …



Dear God. She’d been mad to entertain—for even one instant—the possibility of letting him go.



“Are you asking me to dance?” she purred as he set her down in the middle of the dance floor.



“You are the only partner I will have; you must indulge me.”



His hand gripped her waist, the other lifted her arm. He stepped closer. Too close. Scandalously close. She loved it. They’d yet to dance together, but she had imagined it many times. There was a graceful elegance to the way he moved. Paired with the innate sensuality of his nature, it made him mesmerizing to watch in motion, and she knew how he felt when his body was moving against hers. It would be the sweetest form of torture to be held so close to his powerful flexing body while restrained by decorum and too many layers of clothes.