And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (13 page)

She stared up at him, slowly blinked, then her gaze refocused and raced over his face. She hesitated, then glanced out at the crowd, surveying the shifting, anonymous throng before, finally turning back to him, she said, “I think . . . that’s an excellent suggestion.”

Henrietta wasn’t sure what had most prompted that answer—her own inclination or the echoes of Lady Osbaldestone’s and Helena’s voices still ringing in her head—but the instant the words left her lips, she felt certainty and assurance well. She’d felt the lack of both in recent days, so she welcomed and embraced them, and beamed at James. “All right. So tonight it’s just us, and all for fun.” She spread her hands. “Where do we start?”

The answer was an exploration of her ladyship’s rooms and the various entertainments offered therein. Neither felt drawn to the card tables set up in a minor salon, but they filled glasses at a fountain overflowing with champagne, and sampled the strawberries footmen were ferrying through the guests on silver salvers. The dance floor, occupying the half of the large ballroom before the raised dais on which a small orchestra labored, captured them. And held them.

“I’d forgotten that at a masked ball one can dance however many waltzes as one wishes with a single partner.” Henrietta laughed as James responded by whirling her even faster through a turn.

“And,” he replied, his eyes finding hers as they slowed and joined the stream of other couples more sedately revolving up the room, “at a masked ball, you can laugh and express delight without restraint.” His eyes held hers for a moment more, then he murmured, “I love hearing you laugh.”

He twirled her again. Henrietta was grateful for the momentary distraction; she’d suddenly lost her breath, lost her voice . . . lost touch with rational thought. He loved hearing her laugh . . . what did that mean?

She returned her attention to him, and fell into his eyes. And realized that her focus on him, and his on her, had deepened, had gained new depth.

And that mutual connection had gained even greater power to hold them both, to draw them in, heightening their awareness, each of the other, immersing them together in those moments of shared experience.

Weaving ribbons of mutual delight into a net that ensnared them.

They danced until they could dance no more, then wandered again, catching their breaths in the large conservatory into which countless couples had drifted to stroll in the moonlight streaming through the glass panes. Conversations there were muted, private exchanges that no one else needed to hear. Windows were open, so the air was fresher, and carried the scents of green growing things tinged with the exotic fragrances of night-blooming flowers.

To Henrietta, the night had taken on a magical quality. She’d lost track of time; since agreeing to James’s proposal of how to spend the evening, she’d thought of nothing beyond the next moment, the next experience, the next aspect of their mutual enjoyment.

She’d allowed herself to be swept away—something she couldn’t recall ever doing before. It was most unlike her, the practical and pragmatic one, to embrace a come-what-may philosophy and willingly plunge off the structured path. Tonight, she didn’t have an agenda; she had no goal, no aim in mind. She wasn’t pushing and shoving anything . . . but, she realized, she was learning.

Learning what she might desire in an arena she hadn’t, until very recently, allowed herself to explore.

She felt the warm weight of the necklace circling her throat, the touch of the crystal pendant above her breasts. Strolling beside James in the moonlight, her hand on his arm, his hand lying warm over hers, she thought about that, and about what more she needed to learn.

James paused. She glanced at his face. He’d tipped his head and was peering past a collection of palms. Then he straightened. His teeth flashed in a smile. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“What?”

He glanced around; she did, too, but there were no other couples near. Then he lowered his arm, caught her hand in his, and drew her around the palms—and through the door that had been concealed behind the large, strappy leaves.

The room beyond proved to be her ladyship’s orangery. A narrow stone-walled chamber, it ran across one end of the terrace bordering the ballroom. Glass-paned doors could be opened onto the terrace but were presently shut. Two rows of potted orange trees marched neatly down the room, scenting the air. The only source of light was the moonlight slanting through the glass doors; the shafts struck the pale stone flags, resulting in a soft, diffuse illumination—enough to see by, but not enough for them to be seen by the few couples strolling on the terrace.

Releasing her, James shut the door.

Henrietta went forward, down the aisle between the rows of sculpted trees; glancing at the wall opposite the terrace, she spied a small sofa set against the wall beneath a rectangular window. Stepping out of the aisle, she walked to the sofa; curious, she peered out of the window, then sighed. “Oh—this is beautiful.”

The window overlooked an ornamental lake. Sinking onto the chaise, she looked the other way—she could see all the way along the terrace—then she glanced at James as he prowled up to join her. “This sofa is perfectly set.” She gestured with one hand to the rectangular window. “The view is simply lovely.”

James looked down at her and smiled. “Indeed.” After an instant of appreciating her upturned face, masked though it was, he turned and sat beside her.

Looking out along the terrace, she sighed. “It’s been an unexpectedly delightful evening—thank you.”

“It’s been entirely my pleasure, for which I thank you.”

He watched her lips curve, then she murmured, “Sadly, it’s nearly over.”

That was true, which meant . . . he was running out of time. The evening had gone perfectly to this point, but he couldn’t risk not capitalizing on the opportunity Lady Hamilton and fate had, it seemed, conspired to hand him. If he didn’t take the risk, accept the challenge, and take one more step forward, tonight and all the ground he felt he’d regained might well be for naught.

He had to push on, or his advance, and all advantage, might dissipate like mist come the morning.

This, he suddenly realized, was the moment. His moment of truth with her. If he took the next step, he might be damned, but if he didn’t, he almost certainly would be.

Yet if he took this next step, there would be no going back, at least not for him. And if she approved and accepted . . . then there would be no going back for her either, even if she didn’t, immediately, recognize that . . . but he didn’t have time to think and rethink.

His time was now.

Relaxing against the sofa, he glanced at her face. “There’s one more thing we’ve yet to do—one more experience we’ve yet to enjoy.”

“Oh?” Shifting to face him, she widened her eyes. “What?”

“This.” He reached a hand to her nape, cupped the delicate arch, and drew her face slowly to his. They were both wearing half masks; they didn’t need to take them off. He gave her plenty of time to resist if she wished.

She didn’t. Instead, he heard her quick, indrawn breath, saw her gaze fix on his lips.

He lowered his gaze to her mouth, then drew her the last inch and covered her luscious lips with his.

And kissed her.

Properly, this time, yet still with restraint. He set his lips to coax, to tempt, to tease, and waited . . . until he sensed her tentative response, felt it well and swell and burgeon.

Until the pressure of her lips against his grew to be both invitation and incitement.

Only then did he take the next step, the first tiny step beyond innocent. Even then, he didn’t want to frighten her with any too-precipitate glimpse of the passion he held leashed, yet this time he had a point to make, a claim to stake, and he wasn’t going to retreat before he’d accomplished that. Slowly straightening, sliding his thumb beneath her jaw, he tipped her head up, angled his, and sent his tongue cruising over the fullness of her lower lip, tracing the seam . . . and she parted her lips, opened for him, and invited him in.

He wanted to plunge in, to dive deep into the heady delights she offered, but he hauled back on his reins, deployed all the expertise at his command, and smoothly, seductively engaged, traced, stroked, and tantalized.

Steadily, step by step, he led her deeper into the dance, into the subtle play of dueling tongues, the evocative delight of claiming her mouth, and the surprising pleasure of her questing response.

He introduced her to the complementary joys of him tasting her, and of her in turn tasting him.

Any thought that she wasn’t enjoying this, that she wasn’t as wholly engaged as he was, was shattered by her first more definite foray. Then she shifted; a moment later he felt her fingertips gently caress his cheek, and his awareness fractured.

Henrietta sensed it; she didn’t know enough to put a name to what she sensed—a sudden break in his control, of his careful leading—but something in her leapt with a never-before-experienced delight, a sense of victory. Of feminine triumph.

Yes—this was right
.

Kissing him and being kissed by him felt inexpressibly right, in a way that resonated to her bones. She wanted to rush ahead, to learn more—much more—all that he could teach her, yet simultaneously she wanted to linger, to savor this, to exalt in this, to drag every iota of simple pleasure from this—to learn the ways how.

He showed her. He didn’t rush forward but lingered with her, savored with her.

They shared even that, openly and completely.

She had no space for thought in her mind, no scintilla of awareness left for reason, and certainly not for detached observation. She followed where he led, and when he paused, once she was certain she’d absorbed all there was to experience to that point, she pressed, and he responded, and they moved on.

So completely immersed in the kiss were they that neither reacted to the warning
swissh
.

But the explosion of the first rocket jerked them both back to the present—to the sofa in the orangery. They blinked across the shadowed room; looking through the glass doors, she saw the milling crowd now filling the terrace.

“Ah.” With James’s help, she sat up; she’d been leaning into him. His lips appeared softer than usual, his hair disarranged—had she done that?

He looked out at the gathering, then grimaced and met her gaze. “I just remembered—her ladyship has decided to enliven the countdown to midnight and the unmasking with fireworks. The twelfth rocket will be fired at midnight.”

She sighed, but not unhappily; pleasured satisfaction sang in the sound. “We’d better go out.”

“Sadly, yes.” James settled his mask, then rose and held out his hand.

She resettled her mask, too, then laid her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.

He met her gaze, then raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and said, “We can talk tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you in the park.”

“Earlier. I usually ride twice a week, at about eight o’clock.”

The curve of his lips deepened. “In that case, I’ll meet you at eight by Rotten Row.”

She nodded, then faced forward and walked beside him as he led her to the glass doors, opened one, and escorted her through and into the crowd thronging the terrace flags. She needed to think about what they’d just done, of what it meant, of what she’d learned, and what they’d both intended. And then they needed to talk, yes, but as she couldn’t yet corral her wits sufficiently to think at all, tomorrow was the perfect time for that.

As everyone else had their eyes on the heavens, oohing and aahing at the pyrotechnical display, no one noticed them joining the gathering. Still smiling with a species of reckless delight, she stood at the side of the crowd, and with James beside her, directed her gaze upward, too.

The second rocket soared into the firmament and burst in a glory of red and gold sparks.

A conflagration of other fireworks filled the moments between each rocket; the countdown steadily progressed, the guests taking up a chant, counting the rockets one by one.

Then, at last, to an eruption of cheers and applause, the twelfth rocket shot high overhead and exploded, raining silver and gold over the gardens.

Smiling, laughing, everyone threw back their hoods and untied their masks. Gaily turning to each other, looking about, people started hunting for acquaintances in the crowd.

“No need for us to find anyone else.” James smiled at Henrietta as she turned to him, her delicate features once more fully revealed.

She smiled back, but sighed. “I should leave soon. My parents will expect me home shortly.”

“I may as well go, too.” Flinging his domino back over his shoulders, he made a gallant show of offering his arm. “We can track down Lady Hamilton and take our leave together.”

Henrietta grinned, placed her hand on his arm, and together they turned—

The young lady alongside Henrietta backed into her.

“Oh! I say!” The young lady whirled and proved to be the lovely Cassandra Carmichael. “I’m terribly sorry. Have I caused any harm?”

Smiling, Henrietta shook her head. “None whatever.”

Cassandra introduced herself and Henrietta did the same, then she introduced James to Miss Carmichael, who smiled with transparently sincere delight; it was no difficulty to see why she was considered one of the catches of the season.

“And this”—Miss Carmichael waved over her shoulder—“is . . .” Glancing back, she broke off. “Oh.”

The gentleman who had been standing with her had turned and was already some paces away, making his way through the crowd.

Cassandra smiled indulgently. “Someone must have summoned him.” Shrugging, she laughingly shook her head. “It happens all the time—he’s in such demand. You’ll have to excuse him.”

They shook hands and parted. Turning, Cassandra started tacking through the crowd in the wake of her errant partner. Steering Henrietta toward the house, James softly snorted. “She’ll make some politician an excellent wife.”

Henrietta laughed. “We can only hope Sir Peter appreciates her.”

“Was that him?”