Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) (2 page)

Margaret shifted beneath the bedclothes, restlessness causing her to groan in agitation. Sleep eluded her. Despite returning home from Almack’s at a late hour, she felt too restless to find peace in sleep. Not when
he
crowded her thoughts. Avonleah’s presence had distracted her to no end, consuming her every thought from the moment he’d arrived, until the moment she and her parents had departed for home.

He embodied everything she thought a man should be—devilishly handsome with a slight air of danger about him, refined and graceful, yet still masculine. Large without being unsightly, stylish without bordering on foppish, and so scandalously disreputable she could not help but daydream about what it would be like to be the kind of woman he would want.

Once, during a soirée, she’d grown overheated and had stepped out onto the veranda for a bit of air. From her place overlooking the garden, she’d spied a couple slipping between the hedges of the maze, seeking a bit of privacy. Their hushed whispers and air of secrecy surrounding them had stoked the embers of her curiosity into a raging fire that had to be distinguished. Following at a discreet distance, she’d stood on the other side of the tall hedgerow, listening to the sounds of their coupling. Their moans and groans had caused an unfamiliar tightness in her breasts as her nipples had gone erect, and an embarrassing gush of wetness between her thighs that had caused her cheeks to heat.

What could he be doing to her to gain such a reaction,
she’d wondered.

Daring a glance around the hedge, she’d been captivated by what she’d seen. The woman’s gown had been jerked down to expose her breasts, and her lover suckled them hungrily. Her skirts had been lifted, his hand beneath them, working between her legs. The lady had shuddered and moaned in his arms, before seeming to fall apart in his hands, her screams muffled by his other hand over her mouth. When the man had begun to unfasten his breeches, Margaret had turned and fled, unsure if she wanted to see more.

That, of course, had been before cousin Lavinia had filled her in on the rest. Now that she knew the details of what happened between men and women, she couldn’t help but long for the same earth-shattering pleasure. She’d never have it if she married one of her current suitors, this she knew.

But Avonleah … If she were bold enough to approach him, perhaps she could experience such with the man of her dreams. He’d want a woman like the lady in the garden, unashamed and unabashed in feeling passion and carnal pleasure … The kind of woman Margaret knew she could be if he were the one to awaken her.

With another deep sigh, she turned onto her side, staring off into the shadowed darkness of her bedroom.

If only she were a widow, still young and with a grand fortune like Lady Amelia Rosby. Margaret envied the woman and others like her who were free to do as they pleased so long as they did so with discretion. Closing her eyes, she pictured herself dressed at the height of French fashion, giving the duke a sly look from across the ballroom. He would meet her gaze, discerning her thoughts. Those icy blue eyes of his would flash with lust, and he would incline his head ever so slightly toward the garden doors, commanding her.

She would do his bidding. Widow Margaret would be free to do what she pleased, and much bolder than the debutante who lay alone in her bed dreaming of a man she could never have. She would slip out first, sure to remain inconspicuous, making her way through the hedgerow maze toward a distant corner of the garden. He would follow swiftly, the sounds of his footsteps right behind her, though he would remain just out of view, teasing her by pursuing out of sight.

His hands would be strong and sure when he captured her, gripping her waist and pulling her against a body hardened by physical activity.

Margaret bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, mind filled with images that sent her heart racing. Her pulse fluttered as she imagined his lips there, just at the juncture where her jaw met her throat, his searching fingers making their way to the front of her bodice.

One of her own slender hands found its way there, cupping one heavy breast in imitation of what she wanted Avonleah to do with his palm. Her thumb and forefinger found her nipple through the fabric of her nightgown. She bit her lip again, stifling a whimper as she rolled the stiffened peak between the pads of her fingers, tugging insistently. She bared her breasts, imagining him doing the same, tugging on the front of her gown in the darkness of the garden. Her other hand joined the first as a rush of moisture flooded between her thighs, her body practically humming with need. Her vivid imagination conjured his scent—or what she imagined the duke would smell like—the feel of his hands, soft yet strong, skilled, touching her and enflaming her need to desperate heights.

She panted as the duke found the hem of her skirts in one hand, the other still tweaking a perky little nipple. His lips and tongue sent a trail of fire along the line of her jaw, neck, and shoulder. She wiggled against him as his hand trailed up her thigh, gripping tightly. He found the bare skin above the lace of her stocking. Her derrière nestled against his crotch, causing his cock to spring to life. It hardened against her, his hips moving in tandem with hers in a primal, forbidden dance.

Her back arched, one of her own hands finding its way beneath the blankets, snatching up the hem of her nightgown.

She couldn’t help a moan at the touch of her own fingers upon her mons. She still recalled that first night after witnessing the couple, when the throbbing between her thighs had refused to ease up even after she had reached home. In trying to ease the discomfort, she had placed her hand there, hoping pressure against the throbbing place would help … and had discovered the most exquisite pleasure she had ever encountered when her body had burst into stars with just a press of her fingers upon that secret place.

Moisture wept from her core, wetting her fingertips in a searching caress much less skilled than she knew Avonleah’s would be. He would know just where to touch her, his hand cupping her mound while his index finger found the little pearl of pleasure hidden within. She moaned again, her mind blurring the line between her hand and his as she stroked in slow circles, trembling when a shiver of delight rolled through her.

“Camden,” she whimpered, the fingers of one hand pinching her nipple tighter. The other hand’s fingers moved faster, applying more pressure to her sensitive nub.

His teeth would find her neck, his kiss a mingling of pleasure and pain—as much a contradiction as the dark lord himself. His thick fingers would find their way inside of her, stroking swiftly and surely while she shivered and quaked in his arms.

“Maggie…”

His voice would be deep, and he would call her Maggie. Not Margaret like everyone else. He’d treat her like a woman, and not like a little girl to be cossetted and pampered. Widow Maggie would take what she wanted boldly, the consequences be damned!

Margaret shuddered, her questing fingers moving lower. She spread her legs, sliding one finger into her own yearning channel.

“Oh, Camden, yes,” she whispered as her phantom lover lowered himself between her thighs and filled her with his cock. He would make love like a rampant stallion, she had no doubt. He would grip her hips possessively and drive into her over and over again, ruling over her like the lord he was.

She imagined him between her legs, fucking her with wild abandon. Despite her attempts to stifle her moans, another one slipped out, the wanton sound reverberating from the walls of the dark room and further enflaming her lust. She grew wild with need, her hips moving in tandem with her hand, her mind so vividly conjuring Camden she could almost feel his solid weight atop her.

She shattered forcefully, splintering as she clenched her lips shut to stifle the groan burning in her chest. Spasms rippled the walls of her sheath, drenching her fingers in her own juices. Her shudders quickened and then ceased, and a languid sense of calm washed over her. Her taut muscles relaxed as the tremors causing her insides to tremble ebbed. She closed her eyes and sighed with relief. Fatigue now stole over her, clinging to the edges of her consciousness.

That was the closest she would ever come to bedding the Duke of Avonleah, and well she knew it. Still, it did not stop her mind from imagining it and her heart from wanting it so ferociously that it hurt.

“I wish Mother would allow me to attend the masquerade,” Cordelia whined as she and Margaret strolled through Hyde Park arm in arm. “But Papa says it is not at all the thing for a young debutante. Highly scandalous, he says … well, I think it all sounds so very romantic.”

A masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens
did
sound terrible thrilling and romantic. Which was why Margaret had every intention of attending. Though, she did not say so aloud. No one must know of her plans to sneak from her family’s townhouse in Mayfair and secret herself away to Vauxhall Gardens in a hired hack. Not even Cordelia could know. While Margaret adored her best friend, she knew the other girl would never understand.

“When I pointed out—and quite rightly, I might add—that he and Mother are going, he said it was because they would be
expected
! Of course, anyone who’s anyone will be there, and we shall miss it all!”

“I am sure your father is right,” she said in an even tone, a half-smile fixed upon her face as she greeted the passers-by coming down the other side of the path they walked. “I’ve heard the most wicked stories of what goes on at those fêtes. Perhaps after you’ve married your viscount, you can attend one with him.”

“We shall attend together,” Cordelia declared with a soft, simpering giggle. “Two married ladies, and ever so sophisticated. Oh, I cannot wait!”

Margaret’s smile melted away and she fell silent. Marriage did not excite her as much as it did Cordelia, and talking about it only reminded her of why she had yet to select a husband. Her thoughts continued to wander during their afternoon promenade, and eventually settled on the opulent—albeit quite scandalous—ensemble hidden in the white box under her bed. Because all her trips to Bond Street were chaperoned, Margaret had enlisted Lavinia’s aid to obtain the gown and mask. She couldn’t very well pose as a wealthy widow at the masquerade wearing pale pink or milky white and covered in bows or frills.

Luxurious red silk with a black gauze overlay and a beautifully embroidered neckline and hem. No respectable, unmarried young lady would be caught wearing it in public.

It was perfect!

Upon returning to her family’s rented townhome on Curzon Street, Margaret impatiently counted the minutes until Cordelia’s mother finished visiting with the baroness. After their guests had departed, she excused herself to go upstairs and dress for dinner. Dismissing her abigail and insisting she did not require any assistance dressing, she rushed to lock her door and knelt beside the bed. After pulling the white shopkeeper’s box from its hiding place, she slowly and reverently opened it.

As she had the first time she’d laid eyes upon it, Margaret emitted a breathless gasp. She caressed the lace and beading along the bodice and smiled, imagining how the gown would look in the glow of Vauxhall’s lanterns. Beneath the dress, she found a pair of matching slippers, reticule, and satin mask complete with black feathers. A slow smile spread across her face as she pressed the mask to her face and stood, turning to face her reflection in her vanity mirror. She imagined it paired with an elegant chignon and rouged lips.

She’d grown tired of being a milky, mousy debutante. For one night, at least, she would be a woman—independent, beautiful, and free.

She quickly stashed the mask and gown before hurrying to dress for dinner.

Who knows?
Perhaps I’ll even catch the eye of a certain duke.

A foolish hope, but she couldn’t let it die. If she could manage to capture Avonleah’s interest, even for one night, she would be more than happy to endure betrothal and marriage to one of her boring suitors without regret.

One night with him would be worth one hundred with any one of them.

***

“Hmph.”

Camden glanced up from his plate, fixing his cool blue stare upon the woman sitting across from him. He’d known before he’d even inherited the title of duke that his town residence in Mayfair came with an antique—a permanent fixture who had resided there since well before he’d been born. Said antique rested her rather large, round rump in the chair across from him, dressed in a blue muslin morning gown, eyeing him rather disdainfully.

His great aunt, Albina Kearsey, Dowager Viscountess of Laureldown, had been in residence since her husband, the viscount, had died leaving her a sizeable fortune. She had done her duty by marrying her viscount and giving him two sons and a daughter. Once she had become a rich widow, she’d settled comfortably into living life the way she pleased, which meant saying whatever came to her mind at any given moment. She felt she had more than earned the right.

This had been over thirty years ago, and the former duke had warned his son that she would likely remain even after he’d passed.

“She’ll be your problem then,” his father had said.

Of course, Camden had always reminded him that the dowager viscountess was twenty years his senior and would likely pass on first.

She’d proved him wrong.

“What the devil are you ‘hmphing’ about now?” he muttered.

Albina stirred a splash of milk into her tea, causing her spoon to clink against the sides of her china cup. She took her time—as she was wont to do with everything, even though he knew her capable of moving faster—and even took a sip before answering him.

“Such foul language,” she groused, eyeing him down the bridge of her nose.

Camden smirked and went back to buttering his toast. “I’ve heard you spout more colorful epithets than that, Aunt,” he quipped.

Their easy banter over breakfast had become a tradition, one they’d indulged in since he was a young man coming home on break from university.

“I am old,” she declared, raising one of her snowy white eyebrows. “When one reaches my age, one can do as they please. When one is young, wealthy, and titled, however …” She trailed off, giving him a pointed stare.

He knew what the look meant, just as he knew what her ‘hmphing’ was all about. Her way of voicing her displeasure before launching into a lecture.

“One must do one’s duty,” he said, his voice laced with affected boredom. His duty often became a topic of conversation over breakfast. “Yes, Aunt, I know.”

“Hmph,” she said again, this time with a heavy sigh. “One should be about one’s duty
quickly
when one does not have an heir.”

Oh, how he’d grown sick of being reminded. “Yes, well, Garret had to go falling off that horse, breaking his neck and all. Dashed rude of him.”

His elder brother’s death had been a stunning blow, one that had bruised his very soul. Only one year apart in age, the two had been inseparable. The suddenness of his death had only exacerbated the pain of it. Garrett had been thirty years of age, far too young to die. The last thing Camden had expected was to inherit his brother’s title; yet, Garrett had died without leaving a son behind.

“No,” Albina agreed, her voice low. “Not very well done of him at all.”

They ate in silence for a few more moments, melancholy clogging the air and memories of Garret hanging between them.

“Still,” she continued after an appropriate amount of time had passed. “The matter of your duty is not becoming less urgent. How goes the wife hunt?”

Camden refused to tell her there was no wife hunt. He’d rather lie than risk another round of pompous ‘hmphs’.

“Painstaking,” he answered. “I am taking my time. You do not want just any chit to become the next Duchess of Avonleah, do you?”

“Well, of course not!” she declared. “Though I doubt there are very many eligible women to choose from among the birds of The White House.”

It didn’t surprise him that she knew what he’d been up to. Or that she had the gall to speak of brothels over breakfast.

His grin turned wicked. “Oh, those chits are the
most
eligible.”

“You are an insufferable rake.”

“And you are an impertinent old shrew, but I love you, anyway.”

Albina’s cackling laughter was his reward. They finished their meal together in relative silence, breaking it only to speak of mundane things, like the weather and that evening’s masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens.

While balls typically bored him, masquerades were a different matter. The masks served to lower the inhibitions of those attending, causing their behavior to cross the line over scandalous, landing them somewhere closer to debauchery. In addition, the location of Vauxhall Gardens offered a perfect setting for amorous liaisons.

The evening promised to be diverting, and Camden found he was looking forward to it.