Candice Hern (4 page)

Damnation! He might see her face.

She quickly stepped away from the moonlight and reached for the strings of her mask. Replacing it as she moved deeper into the darkness, she almost tripped over the discarded quiver and bow. She quickly retrieved them and made a mad dash toward the garden.

"But Artemis," he called, "when may I see you again?"

Beatrice lifted her skirts and ran through the dark edges of the garden until she reached an illuminated path, blessedly deserted. She stopped to compose herself as best she could. She wanted to hurry inside, find Emily, and leave the ball before the stranger found her, but she did not want to run inside looking flushed and ... ravished. Besides, he would have to tie those odd trousers back on and replace his turban, which would surely take several minutes.

She paused a moment to slip the quiver and bow over her shoulder and fluff the chiton into a proper blouson over her waist. Turning her face into the night breeze, she let the air cool her cheeks and calm her spirits. She licked her lips, and the taste of the stranger lingered. Did she only imagine they were a bit swollen? She took one last deep breath before moving onto the path, and inhaled the scent of him still on her skin. Him, and the telltale smell of lovemaking. She recalled the soft fabric on her legs as he cleansed her. A hint of stickiness remained, but no one would know about that. The smell, though ...

Blast. She looked around her frantically, then hurried down the path when she saw what she needed. One of the herbaceous borders included several large lavender bushes. She plucked off a few spikes and rubbed them along her arms and neck, the friction releasing some of the aromatic oil from the tiny blossoms.

The sweet aroma had a calming effect. Her breathing became regular, her pulse slowed, and her clamorous conscience, which had been hammering loud reproof in her head, quieted a bit. Beatrice considered again what had just taken place, and wondered if she had been rash. She had wanted a lover, and had found a willing one. And while it was happening, dear heaven, she had enjoyed it. Should she turn around and go back to him? Remove her mask, stand in the moonlight, and boldly announce her name, then ask if he'd be willing to join her in a discreet affair?

A couple strolled past her and she pretended to be sniffing the sweet-smelling shrub. Their presence reanimated her conscience, reminding her of the shame and embarrassment she would feel if anyone guessed what had happened a few yards away in the dark.

No, it was best to go back inside and pretend it had never happened.

If such a thing were possible.

* * *

Well, well, well. The evening had certainly taken a different turn than he'd expected. To have found such a woman and to have experienced such a passionate interlude with her quite took Thayne's breath away. He had thought only to have an opportunity to preview the bridal prospects, and instead ...

Damn. He ought to have run after her, but his
salvar
trousers were still tangled around his ankles, inhibiting movement. Besides, Thayne did not care to imagine the picture he would make if seen running through the garden with his own
arbor vitae
on display.

She had wanted to get away, though, and the gentleman in him was forced to allow her to do so. After such a splendid performance, he wondered why she was in such a hurry to leave. Clearly, she had been afraid that the moonlight might reveal her face to him. And she had not wanted to give her name. She did not want him to know who she was.

Why? Was she someone important? Or the wife of someone important? Or just a woman who had become caught up in the passion of the moment and regretted it?

Thayne suspected it was the latter. There had been a touch of shame in the way she'd shrunk away from him as he tried to clean her legs, a hint of disgust in her voice as she refused her name. She had been a more than willing partner, but Thayne was fairly certain she was embarrassed by that very fact.

He had not forced her, but had he taken advantage somehow? Seduced her into more than she had been willing to give?

No, he did not think so. She had had ample opportunity to put a stop to it, but she had not once indicated that she wanted to stop. By God, she had been every bit as aroused as he'd been, and she had given as good as she got. She had seemed shocked at first when he'd lifted her leg, even a bit awkward. She had not been accustomed to such a position; he would swear it. But soon enough she had been pressing her heel against the small of his back, driving him deeper inside her, clinching her inner muscles around him like a fist, as skillfully as a practiced
ganika
. But Thayne knew in his gut that it was not practiced. It had been natural. And her completion had come too quickly and too powerfully for artifice. He suspected she had surprised herself as much as him. Still, she had known what she was doing and had enjoyed it. Damn, but she had been spectacular.

And beautiful. True, he never saw her face completely in the light and was unlikely to recognize it if he saw it again, but it had felt beautiful. The bones of her cheeks rode elegantly high on her face, and her nose was perfectly straight. The mouth, which he'd had the pleasure of seeing quite clearly in the ballroom, was lush and full-lipped and had taken his breath away when it had moved so sensuously against his own.

She had allowed him to feast on her luscious arms, too. Thayne had a special attraction to a woman's arms, and hers had been sheer perfection. Slender but not too thin; delicate-boned with the merest hint of soft, feminine musculature; sweet-smelling skin as smooth and silky as gardenia petals; the glint of a ruby-eyed gold serpent coiling up one upper arm. He knew her arms better than her face.

And there was her laugh. When he'd tickled her with the fabric of his turban, when other women might have giggled, she had laughed outright, gleefully and playfully. A clear, musical laugh like the sound of temple bells.

He had to see her again. He had to discover who she was.

He tugged up the
salvar
over his drawers and quickly tied them in place, then retied the laces of his
jama
and straightened its skirts. His
patka
had gone missing at some point and he found it on the ground next to the coiled length of muslin that had been his turban. He retrieved it and wrapped it twice around his waist, then knotted it in the front, making sure the fringed ends fell properly with the ornamental embroidery faced out. He then set about the complicated business of twisting and tying the turban. Ramesh, his valet, would have fits when he saw it, but the English men and women inside the ballroom would never realize it was not tied correctly.

Finally, he reached for the mask that hung down his chest on long laces, placed it over his eyes and nose, and tied it behind his neck, just below the turban. He was as ready as he would ever be, without a mirror and Ramesh. He'd almost forgotten about the dagger until he stepped on the hilt. He bent to retrieve it when the moonlight glinted off something else in the grass.

A tiny gold arrow. A souvenir from Artemis.

Thayne slid the dagger inside the folds of the
patka
, and tucked the little arrow behind it. He would keep it as a memento of her passion, and how she had nearly felled him with it.

He made his way back through the garden paths and up the stairway to the terrace. He thought about all those young girls he had planned to dance with, to flirt with, to surreptitiously evaluate as potential brides. He had lost all interest in them. The only thing he wanted to do was find Artemis and coerce, cajole, or seduce her into revealing her identity.

If it turned out that who she was somehow prevented a liaison between them, he would have to accept that. He would be disappointed, to be sure, but he would never impugn or embarrass her in public. If there was any way at all, though, to see her again, to have her again, by God he would move mountains to do so.

Thayne entered the ballroom and made a slow progress around its perimeter. He studied the dancers in their lines, the clusters of young women standing along the walls, and the older ones seated in cozy groups. He dipped his head into the cardroom, the anteroom set aside for tea, and the salon arranged with long tables laden with covered dishes for the midnight supper. No matter where he looked, there was no sign of powdered yellow hair and slender, white arms.

There was no sign of the little blond shepherdess, either.

Curse it all, she had bolted. His Artemis did not have the courage of the huntress after all. She had fled rather than face him again. Damn and blast.

His gaze swept the dance floor again and picked out two of the pretty young girls he'd noticed earlier. He really ought to stay and try to talk with them, even dance with them. But he had no taste for innocent flirtation after the passionate episode in the garden. All the glamour of elaborate costumes, the festive atmosphere, the gaiety — all of it was lost on Thayne. His mind was full of one thing only: Artemis. Who was she?

He looked around at the room full of exposed bosoms and covered arms, and his mind was filled with images of
her
perfect arms and of his fingers and hands and lips upon them. No other arms enticed him. There was nothing more for him at this ball.

He was making his way toward the stairs when he was stopped by "Queen Elizabeth."

"You are leaving, sir?"

"I am afraid so, Your Majesty. Though it has been a delightful evening, I have other commitments I must honor."

"What a pity. You will miss the unveiling, at midnight, when masks are removed."

"Disappointing, to be sure."

"For us all," she said, and gave him a quizzical look. "I had most particularly hoped to see who lurked behind those exotic robes and turban."

Most particularly? Had Artemis said something to her before she left? "Ah, but how much sweeter the mystery," he said, "if I make an exit now."

She gave a disparaging huff. "I am plagued with early departures. How provoking. I must see to the rest of my guests. Good evening, sir."

She swept past him in her heavy velvet skirts before he could probe her about Artemis, perhaps unearth a clue to her identity. Would Good Queen Bess have told him her name if he'd asked?

But he would never have asked. Thayne would not jeopardize the privacy or reputation of Artemis. But damnation, he wished he knew who she was. There was nothing for it but to put her out of his mind, and consider tonight's rendezvous a one-time affair — a delightful interlude not to be repeated. It was certainly not the first time he'd enjoyed a woman's charms only once and never again. It was not even the first time the woman had been nameless.

So, he would proceed as planned, making known his return to town, and setting about the business of finding a bride. Life would go on in the usual manner.

He would try to forget her. But as he fingered the tiny golden arrow hidden in his
patka
, he rather suspected he was doomed to searching every
ton
event for a fair-haired huntress with a kissable mouth.

* * *

That night Thayne dreamed of India. Outdoors in the evening. The trickle of a nearby water fountain. The breeze scented with night-blooming jasmine. The cry of peacocks from the mango trees. A woman's voice rose in plaintive song. The heartbreaking strains of a
sarangi
and the sweet, clear notes of a
basuri
flute. The seductive rhythms of a tabla drove the sinuous movements of a nautch dancer. Thayne watched her dance as he lounged against bright-colored silk bolsters beneath the ornamental canopy of a
chattri
. The colors, the music, the heady scents wrapped around him like hookah smoke, drugging him. The dancer came nearer, the tiny bells on her ankles jingling, calling to him like a siren's song. He wanted her. His body was on fire for her. She came closer so that the silk of her trousers brushed against him. The elegant mudras of her hands captivated him. When his eyes were finally able to gaze upward, he found her face partially veiled. But one long strand of yellow hair flecked with gold escaped the veil, and large blue eyes gazed down at him. He reached out to her.

"How extraordinary." Beatrice looked at the women gathered in Grace Marlowe's sitting room, each one of them nodding her head to confirm that what she was hearing was true. Apparently Lord Julian's house party at Ossing Park had not turned out quite as expected. Marianne Nesbitt had indeed taken a lover to her bed, but it had not been their host.

In fact, she had not known who it was.

Beatrice could hardly believe that two of the Merry Widows had had encounters with perfect strangers. Beatrice had not yet revealed her story, but she could not help thinking of it, of her unknown lover, as she listened to her friends tell what had happened at Ossing Park.

The women had gathered for their regular meeting as trustees of the Benevolent Widows Fund, a charity organized by Grace to aid women who'd been left destitute when their husbands had been killed in the Peninsular War. Their most successful fund-raising efforts were the charity balls they sponsored during the Season. The balls had become very popular, and invitations were coveted, even though a sizable contribution was requested on acceptance. The balls were held every two weeks from April through the end of June, and so the trustees met frequently to ensure that all arrangements went smoothly.

But lately, their meetings had taken on a decidedly different tone. Ever since Penelope, Lady Gosforth, had convinced them all to make a secret pact to find lovers, and they had dubbed themselves the Merry Widows.

Marianne's story, it seemed, was not quite the same as Beatrice's after all. The youngest of the trustees, Marianne had been the first to fall into Penelope's plan. She had obviously wanted to pursue a lover, but had been rather shy and uncertain about how to go about it. They had all offered advice and counsel, and encouraged her to allow Lord Julian to win the day. But apparently something had gone awry. Marianne had thought Lord Julian was making love to her in the dark, but realized the next morning it could not have been his lordship, as he had been injured the previous evening. She had fled the party after discovering that a stranger had tricked her and taken Lord Julian's place.