All the Pleasures of the Season (11 page)

 

S
ECRETS OF A
P
ROPER
C
OUNTESS

 

C
HAPTER
O
NE

I
sobel Maitland, the Countess of Ashdown, was staring at the man like a three-penny whore. She should have been ashamed of herself, since she could not afford to be caught doing something even as mildly shocking as gazing at a handsome gentleman at a ball.

But she was standing in the shadows in the corner of Evelyn Renshaw's crowded ballroom, hidden behind the mask that covered most of her face. She felt perfectly invisible, and she was most definitely enjoying the view.

The gentleman in her sights was tall, lean, and handsome, with a trim athletic body built for every single one of the sins he was reputedly guilty of. Beneath his black half-mask, Isobel watched his eyes glitter as he spoke to the coterie of adoring females who surrounded him. He grinned, a flash of teeth and dimples deep enough to drown in, and she felt her heart flutter, then turn to stone as one of his admirers pressed her ample bosom against his arm.

In Isobel's opinion as a voyeur and a woman, his mouth was the most fascinating thing about him. She watched his lips quirk and grin and ripple as he charmed the mesmerized clutch of costumed ladies, and felt her own lips twitch in response. She couldn't hear him all the way across the room but could tell that the conversation was wicked. A lady's blush, a flutter of a fan against a hot cheek, a gape, the pucker of a painted mouth, gave everything away. The rogue just grinned at the discomfiture he was causing, one corner of that mouth turned up irresistibly.

Isobel knew exactly who the gentleman was, despite his mask, and she'd heard all the tittle-tattle about where his sinful lips had ventured, and what that firm, smirking, thoroughly masculine mouth was capable of. She'd admired him from the shadows at other social events, even imagined flirting with him, but had never dared to stare at him in such a blatant fashion before tonight. She ran her finger along the stiff lace that trimmed her mask, glad for the disguise.

Phineas Archer, the Marquess of Blackwood, was notorious, titled, wealthy, and thoroughly dangerous to a lady's sense of decorum. His illustrious family name, his grandsire's vast wealth and his status as England's most eligible bachelor, kept him acceptable to polite company despite his reputation. Blackwood's credentials made the
ton
willing to turn a blind eye to his “adventures.” Especially now, with the London Season newly begun, and a fresh crop of debutantes being herded into Town to find husbands, Blackwood was in hot demand.

Still, Isobel could see that he was out of place in Evelyn's elegant ballroom. He had rough edges, despite his fine breeding and excellent tailoring. It was something dangerous in his eyes, she decided, or perhaps the way his gaze constantly scanned the room like a predator on the hunt.

Blackwood leaned in to whisper something in a lady's ear, and she swayed in response. He caught her elbow in a practiced move to keep the chit from swooning. Isobel smiled.

He was
very
good at playing the rake.

If she were the kind of woman who gambled—and she most certainly was not—she would wager that Blackwood's name topped every dreamy-eyed debutante's list of potential husbands. Of course, every matchmaking mama believed it would be
her
sweet, virginal daughter who would capture, shackle, and tame the wicked marquess at last. Realistically, the mamas, if not their starry-eyed daughters, knew that if an innocent bride failed to satisfy his wild ways, she'd at least have her husband's wealth to console her and convince her to turn a blind eye to his scandals.

From where Isobel was standing, well back in the shadows, she secretly thought it would be a great pity indeed if the devilish, elegant, carefree marquess was curbed.

She wondered if it was even possible.

Tales of his escapades made anything that appeared on the stage at Covent Garden seem dull by comparison. The gossip he created was a sinful pleasure to take with afternoon tea in London's finest drawing rooms. Isobel hung on every word, savored every story, though she feigned the same indignation and indifference as every other respectable lady, while her toes curled in her shoes.

Beneath the cerise silk of her mask, she shut her eyes and smiled, letting her deliciously wicked little thoughts have their way with her. Those shoulders, the way he moved, it was all quite—

“Have we met?”

She opened her eyes.

The Marquess of Blackwood was standing right in front of her.

Up close, he was taller, broader, more dangerously male than she'd realized. Her heart kicked into a fast trot, and a hot flush swept over her from her toes to her hairline. She looked around, but thankfully no one was looking back.

“You were staring,” he added, ignoring the fact that she was too stunned to speak. His tone was playful, his voice deep and sensual. It vibrated across some tightly drawn string inside her.

She felt as if he'd caught her naked.

She stared at the curious, amused little smile on his face and the dimple in his chin. His lips curved into a deeper grin, and she knew he recognized her affliction for what it was. The knowing eyes behind his mask were fixed on her wide-open mouth, which was painted a sinful scarlet to match her costume.

She shut it with an audible snap and drew herself together.

It wasn't possible that he could have recognized her, since they had never actually met. He had never so much as
glanced
in her direction at the few social events where they were both present. As a prim and respectable widow, she was hardly his type.

There were strict rules governing her behavior, carefully noted in her husband's will, and enforced by her mother-in-law. Fortunately, Honoria despised costume balls, and was not here. Besides, while her mother-in-law might control her life, she could hardly control her thoughts, and this wasn't the first time she'd let her mind roam where her hands could not go where Blackwood was concerned.

While wicked thoughts were harmless enough, he was now standing before her, grinning, waiting for her to say something.

“I—” Isobel swallowed hard and considered. She should flee without another word, but the possibilities of remaining intrigued her. What harm could there be in flirting with the handsome rogue for a few moments before someone else caught his eye?

How long had it been since she'd seen a gleam of appreciation like that in a gentleman's eyes? Her husband had been dead for two years, and even before that— She bit her lip.

This could be her only chance to flirt, to feel pretty and admired. Who would know if she enjoyed a few brief moments basking in the warm glow of such a harmless pleasure?

Dozens of ladies flirted. Why shouldn't she? She squared her shoulders, met his gaze, and let anonymity make her bold.

“No, we have not met, sir. But is that not the point of a masquerade ball? Enjoying the mystery of not knowing to whom you are speaking until the unmasking?”

He chuckled, a low, seductive sound that flicked a fingernail over her nerves, already stretched taut in awareness of him.

“Yet is unmasking not a most unfortunate exercise?” he replied. “At midnight, we will all congratulate each other on our clever costumes and feel naught but disappointment when Cleopatra turns out to be Lady Dalrymple, squeezed into a tight corset and wearing too much paint. Better to remain masked, I say. More tantalizing.”

His eyes roamed over her, slowly taking her measure from head to toe, and she forced herself to stand perfectly still. Under her silk tunic, her nipples tightened.

“Your costume is a triumph, if I may say so, my lady. I don't think I've ever seen one like it before.”

Isobel stroked the damask lapel of her long, form-fitting Turkish vest, which modestly covered the flowing silk of the undertunic and baggy harem pants from neck to calf. The movement made the tiny bells hidden along the hemlines ring softly. She felt pretty and even desirable in his company, rare emotions for her. They coursed through her veins like champagne bubbles, intoxicating her.

“Thank you, my lord, but I must point out that your own costume is rather lacking in originality.”

He wore a black domino and a plain mask over regular evening dress, though he'd at least gone to the effort of strapping on a rather ornate antique sword. The weapon lay along his hip and thigh, emphasizing his height, glittering with precious stones set into the hilt and scabbard.

He bowed. “Indeed. You are quite correct, of course, but I decided to attend this party at the last possible moment. I borrowed the mask and domino from an actress I know rather well. The sword belonged to one of my ancestors. I took it straight off the wall, strapped it on, and ordered my coach in this direction.” He flashed his rogue's grin at her again. “Now I'm glad I did.”

She smiled back, knowing the mask covered her blush as well as it hid her identity, and the embroidered slippers hid the way her toes curled in delight.

“I suppose I should ask you if you'd care to dance, or if you'd like a glass of lemonade, or . . .” He bowed low over her hand and lifted it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. “ . . . perhaps a stroll in the garden?” Even to a sheltered widow like Isobel, his meaning couldn't have been clearer. She read it in the hot gaze that licked over her from behind his mask, and in the slow circles his thumb was tracing over her palm as he raised her fingers to his lips once more.

She plucked her hand from his, and let herself be more brazen still. “Sir, you must have mistaken me for someone else! If you knew anything about me at all, you'd know I much prefer champagne to lemonade, and a stroll in the gardens will not offer you any opportunities to steal a kiss. Lady Evelyn keeps her gardens extremely well lit during her parties to prevent such liberties.” She saw appreciation in his eyes for her wit. It warmed every silk-clad inch of her.

He offered his arm. “Then let's find some champagne, and after that . . .” He leaned in close to her ear, letting his voice tickle, his words excite. “After that we shall see about extinguishing a few burning brands in the garden.”

The whispered suggestion sent a delicious little shiver up her spine.

She should run to the shelter of Evelyn's sane and impeccably moral company, or excuse herself and flee to the ladies' withdrawing room until she was more herself. But she didn't.

Tonight she wanted to be anyone but Isobel, the frumpy widowed Countess of Ashdown, the woman no man had ever looked at the way Blackwood was looking at her now. It was dangerous, exhilarating, and impossible to resist.

She laid her hand on the fine wool of his sleeve, gave him an alluring smile meant to suggest she did this all the time, and let him lead her astray.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WO

P
hineas couldn't imagine who the lady might be, or why she was standing like a sentinel in the shadowed doorway of Philip Renshaw's study.

He knew every other female in the room. In fact, he could probably identify most of them in the dark if he had to, just by touch, or scent, or taste alone.

He'd spent an hour waiting for her to move away so he could do what he came for and search the study, but she had stayed put, watching him from her corner, her gaze like a caress.

She was not the kind of woman who usually captured his interest. He liked his bedmates as notorious as himself, married, preferably, so there was no risk of permanent entanglement. In this woman, he sensed a reticence that made her irresistible.

She was a distraction he didn't need tonight, but one he couldn't ignore, since she was in his way.

He let his gaze glide over her again. Her costume was a marvel, though it was not low cut or revealing. In fact, it had a high-necked collar and a forbidding row of tiny pearl buttons that locked the tunic tight as a strongbox over the tempting swell of her breasts. It was a garment meant to deter even the most stalwart attempts to reach the flesh beneath. It made him itch to try.

It was not just the uniqueness of the costume. It was the way the lady wore it, the way she moved like flowing water, that gave the impression that somehow she was more feminine, more alluring, than any other woman in the room.

Behind her half mask, her eyes sparkled without coyness, and didn't give away so much as a clue about her identity. Even her hair was completely covered by an embroidered cap and a veil, and he could not guess the color of it. Her painted lips were mobile, expressive, and his mouth watered to taste her, though he couldn't tell if she was beautiful or not. No, he was very certain he did not know her, but he wanted to.

Badly, and for a variety of reasons.

They stood sipping champagne in fluted crystal glasses, flirting under the guise of idle banter. It was making Phineas sweat. Still, he was a man who knew how to bide his time, and use every tool—especially idle banter—to seduce a woman. He was confident that he'd have what he wanted before the evening was over—both the charms of the luscious lady and her identity, should she prove worthy of future attentions.

“Look—Caesar is Sir John Unwin, don't you agree?” he asked.

“Indeed, but the lady dancing with him is not his wife. I know Primrose Unwin quite well,” she replied tartly.

“So do I,” he drawled. She shot him a quick look, and blushed and lowered her eyes again when he grinned. So she wasn't an experienced flirt. It made the situation all the more interesting. “I believe Unwin's partner is Davina St. Claire, though she probably has no idea that her Caesar is Unwin,” he continued. He'd know the heart-shaped mole on Davina's lush breast anywhere, and her low-cut costume did very little to hide her charms. Unwin was drooling on the mole.

The lady by his side regarded him with delight. “Why, my lord, I do believe you know more gossip than even the best informed tea party of society tabbies!”

“Perhaps, but in my defense I also know how to keep a secret, Lady . . . um, what should I call you, my dear?” he asked.

She tilted her head and considered, pursing her lips in a way that had him instantly aroused. “Yasmina will do, I think. It is in keeping with my disguise.” She drawled the exotic name, and regarded him with a playful little smirk that he read as a dare. “And what would you like to be called, my lord?”

Phineas grinned. “I can think of any number of things. But since my disguise is minimal, I suggest you call me by my name. I am—”

She put a finger to his lips before he could reveal himself. She had to step closer to do it. So close she almost leaned against him. He tensed. He could slip a hand around her waist, open the door and take them both inside Renshaw's office in the guise of seduction. It was a ploy he'd often used before. But he could smell her perfume, light, sweet, and exotic. It shot a bolt of pure lust straight to his groin and drove every sensible thought from his brain.

“Not your real name, sir! It would spoil the illusion,” she admonished. Her finger was soft, cool against his mouth, and he caught her wrist to keep it there. He flicked his tongue over the tip of the delicate digit, a light, moist, sensual caress, while his eyes held hers. He watched her mouth go slack, saw how she caught her bottom lip between white teeth. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he noted the way her breasts rose and fell in heated agitation.

If one small touch could do that, one little lick—he felt his body harden in anticipation, and he swallowed a groan. He turned her hand over and touched his tongue to the pulse point at her wrist, reveling in her sharp intake of breath.

“Call me whatever you wish, my lady—Lancelot, or Tristan, or Romeo. Anything will do.” His eyes burned into hers from behind his mask. “I am at your service, and I will be whatever and whomever you wish me to be tonight.”

Isobel stared at him, spellbound. The room wavered and spun, and all she could see was him, all she could feel was the heat from his eyes, his body. She was melting with desire. Surely she was dreaming. She would wake up in her widow's weeds at Maitland House and realize she'd imagined the whole encounter.

She couldn't bear to look away, afraid he'd dissolve into mist and leave her shivering in the cold disappointment of reality.

Someone jostled her as they passed and broke the spell. She lowered her gaze to their joined hands, and pulled away, clasping her tingling fingertips. She drew herself up and looked him straight in the chin.

“I know,” she said brightly, attempting to lighten the dangerous situation. “I shall call you Thomas. I once had a cat named Thomas. He would be quite companionable when prevailed upon, but diplomatically absented himself when he was not wanted.” It was certainly a description that fit Blackwood well.

He frowned. “You wish to name me for a cat? You should know that I dislike the beasts intensely, and my price is far higher than a tidbit of fish or fowl tossed from your plate, Lady Yasmina.”

Isobel picked up her champagne from the table and sipped it. Her hand shook, and the sparkling wine did little to soothe her nerves. Had she offended him? It didn't matter. This was an anonymous flirtation. She could say anything behind her mask.

She teased him with a saucy stare. “And what would your price be, my lord?”

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Your all, my lady, and nothing less.”

Her body throbbed. She was out of her depth. She forced a little laugh, and strove to return to lighter repartee, where she had some control. “If you ask me, most of the gentlemen of the
ton
live like tomcats. They sleep all day, prowl all night, and fight over mice and females. Their fine fur is of great importance to them, and they are indifferent fathers and inconsiderate lovers.”

He tipped his head to one side and grinned like a cat, wide and slow. She was his nervous prey, and that look offered her no quarter. “On the contrary, sweetheart. I am a very considerate lover,” he purred.

Heaven help her, she was lost. Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was the disguise. Perhaps it was his heart-stopping proximity, the heat that rose from him, or the faint scents of rich soap, fine wool, and male skin. Or maybe it was her desire to feel loved, if only for a moment. What if this was her only chance?

“Prove it,” she dared him.

The next moment his hand was under her elbow and he was leading her with desperate haste through the costumed throngs toward the open doors that led to the garden.

He didn't say a word, and neither did she, though she knew where he was taking her and what he intended to do when they got there. She should protest, or pull away, no,
run
away before she did something regrettable, but she went with him, down the torch-lit pathways of Lady Evelyn's elegant garden.

They reached a small Chinese pavilion by the fishpond. He let go of her only long enough to seize the nearest torches, pulling them out of the soft earth and casting them into the pond, where they expired with a hiss of protest, leaving the two of them in deep, velvety darkness.

He was beside her, unseen, his arms enfolding her, his mouth on hers, hungry and demanding. She met him kiss for kiss, sparring with his tongue as if she'd done this a thousand times, was an old hand at sexual adventures in dark gardens.

He lifted her off her feet, still kissing her, and carried her into the pavilion. It felt too good to stop, and she surrendered, pressing against the hard length of him, feeling his desire, letting it fuel her own.

A night bird gave a frightened cry as they entered, and flapped away into the night, and she gasped in surprise, sure she was caught, but he captured her indrawn breath in his mouth and laid her on the cushioned bench.

Heavens, she'd taken tea with Evelyn on this very bench only last week. Was it on Tuesday? She couldn't remember. Didn't care. He was working on the buttons of her caftan, exposing her flesh to the chill night air and the heavenly warmth of his hands on her bare skin.

He kissed her, devoured her, and her hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, holding him to her, needing more. His mouth was so hot, so sweet, and she couldn't imagine anything more delicious than his kiss. She could not have stopped kissing him if she wanted to. She was drugged, intoxicated and bewitched.

He trailed his mouth down her throat while he opened more of the pearl buttons ahead of his questing tongue and teeth. Isobel was hard-pressed to keep up, her own fingers inexpert and shaking as she fumbled with his cravat, trying to undress him as he undressed her.

She gave up with a sigh as he opened the caftan, pushed away the filmy silk undertunic and drew her nipple into his hungry mouth. The sensation drove the last clear thoughts from Isobel's mind. She wanted him, all of him, all at once.

He might be a notorious rake who'd done this a thousand times with a thousand women, but at this moment he was her rake. All hers. She felt her power surge, heightening her desire, and she writhed beneath him, moaning and murmuring wicked things.

She let her hands roam over his back until they found the place where his shirt met his breeches. She tugged, needing to feel his skin under her hands. She briefly wondered where his cloak and jacket had gone, but it didn't matter. It must be magic. She had never felt like this before, never been so wanton, so desperate. She wanted pleasure
now
, and she meant to have it.

Her hands found flesh, and she explored the damp silk of his skin, the fascinating flex and play of his muscles. His body was marvelous, male perfection. The scent of his skin poured over her, intoxicating her far beyond anything the champagne had done.

She pressed her mouth to his chest, trying to taste him, hampered by his shirt. It was tangled in his breeches, and the sword belt still fastened around his hips. The fabric was caught on one of the ancient jewels in the hilt, resisting her. She muttered in dismay. She felt his heart pounding under her lips, felt the breath singing through his body as his muscles tensed in pleasure at what she was doing. She found his nipple and bit gently, then sucked the hard pebble through the fine linen of his shirt, hearing him gasp for breath.

Boldly, she reached beneath the waistband of his breeches and caressed the hard muscles of his buttocks. His hips strained against hers, his hardness pressing against her body. It felt delicious, even through layers of clothing. She was soft where he wasn't, yielding where he advanced. She spread her thighs, cradling him between them, welcoming the pressure, the pulsations of pleasure. He fumbled with the sword, cursing it, trying to unbuckle it, failing. With a grunt he shoved it out of the way, still fastened to his hip. It banged against the bench, adding cadence to their rhythmic movements.

Isobel was wild with wanting.

She thrust her hand between their bodies, seeking the opening of his breeches, but the sword belt was once again in her way. Frustrated, she had no memory of how buttons or buckles worked, only knew that she needed to touch him, to feel him without the barrier of his clothing.

She tugged, and the buttons from his breeches clattered on the wooden floor of the pavilion.

She shoved the fabric open, past the damnable sword belt, now clasped around his naked hips, found his erection and took it in her hand, feeling the hard, hot velvet throb of him. He groaned and thrust against her palm, drawing breath through his teeth. He was suckling her breast, murmuring incoherently, his hand exploring the curves of her body, finding places she hadn't even known existed before he touched them. She arched upward, reaching for the hard, hot shadow of him as he loomed above her.

“Inside,” she muttered. “Come inside me.”

He kissed her mouth, smiling against her lips, as breathless as she was.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he said. He laughed softly when she whimpered and squirmed restlessly beneath him. She was on fire, desperate for release.

He returned to suckling her nipple in the most annoyingly leisurely fashion. When she moaned, wishing he'd do that forever, he switched to the other side. The night breeze cooled her heated skin, and she gasped when he took the sensitive flesh back into the heat of his incredible mouth again.

She dug her nails into his shoulders, trying to draw him to her, too far gone for words. His hand slid over her body, slipping past the ribbon ties of her loose trousers with expert ease. She writhed as his palm descended over her belly and hips with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs. Maddeningly, he paused above the place she needed him most, teasing and tormenting her. Helpless, she arched her hips and drew his mouth down to hers, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, hearing his breath turn to grunts of suppressed desire.