One Night with an Earl (3 page)

And then, two years ago, Fenwicke had died, and the rumors had begun.

Drew hated gossip. He abhorred rumors. But these…they were disgusting and horrible, and to hear them had infuriated him to no end.

Fenwicke had hurt Beatrice. Terribly. And now the
ton
whispered about her, at times blaming
her
for Fenwicke's wrongs. The people who should have gathered round her in support drove her away when she needed them the most. It was enough to make Drew himself withdraw from society almost completely, because he couldn't stand to be in the presence of people who would mock an innocent woman.

“You're staring, Andrew.” There it was again, that smack on his shoulder. He frowned at Madame Lussier, whose painted brows rose in arches over her mask. “I agree, she is lovely. There is an innocence about her that stands out among this crowd. Go to her,
mon ami
. Say you know her. She looks like she could use a friend.”

Madame Lussier was gone as soon as she'd appeared, swirling into the midst of a group of drunken revelers. In seconds, she was laughing along with them. But over an exotic prince's shoulder, she flashed Drew a look that demanded he comply.

He glanced at Beatrice again, and a primal instinct welled up within him: the urge to pursue and conquer but also to protect. His long-buried desire for her was back. It burned in his chest…and these days, he never allowed things he wanted to slip through his fingers.

His mind calculated how to go about this. He might have the instincts of a predator, but he was first and foremost a gentleman. He glanced at the refreshments table, which stood off to the side in the path between them. He would make a slight detour for two glasses of punch, then he'd approach her. He'd ask if he knew her, she'd probably say no, and then he'd offer her something to drink.

Drew strode with purpose to the refreshments table and retrieved two glasses of punch.

But when he turned back toward Beatrice, she was gone.

B
eatrice scanned the crowd, searching for Jessica in hopes of asking her to go outside for a moment for some fresh air when her dance was over. Where was she? She'd just seen her a minute ago, dancing in a wide circle with a man in a domino costume. But now there were so many men dressed as the domino, their capes swirling widely as they turned, and the women partnered with them all seemed to blur together. She'd lost Jessica among all these people.

The air was stifling, and the crowd pressed in on her. She sucked in a breath, trying to fill her lungs, and the person walking by dressed as a Chinaman glanced at her over his shoulder, a curious look on his face.

Beatrice could hardly breathe. She needed a moment outside, and she'd given up on finding Jessica. She hurried toward the glass door leading to the terrace, knocking a champagne glass out of someone's hand. The crash of splintering glass and laughter followed her as she opened the door and rushed outside.

No one was on the terrace—evidently they found all the activity inside too stimulating to venture outside. All the better for her. She walked to the railing and looked out over the park. The grounds were shadowed, lit only sporadically by lanterns. The grass was a sea of gray-black, punctuated by the darker shadows of trees and brush.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the clean, fresh air, fortifying herself to venture back inside.

A throat cleared softly behind her. When she turned, she saw a well-shaped man standing in the shadows. He was very tall, with broad shoulders, a handsome jawline, and a straight nose. He wore black evening clothes and a black mask, but his cravat was a snowy white, a focal point in the darkness.

He tilted his head. “Do I know you?” he asked softly. She didn't know his voice, though she had met almost everyone here before her marriage and subsequent seclusion, and many of the voices she'd heard tonight had sounded familiar.

But this man was a stranger. It wasn't logical, but it eased her mind to know that she truly might never have known him. She shook her head slowly. “No. I don't believe so. Do I know you?”

Even in the dimness, she could see his lips quirk. They were very handsome lips. Wide and sensual. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. May I stand beside you?”

How polite of him to ask. “Yes. Of course.”

He moved beside her, not too close but close enough for her to feel his warmth and to inhale his masculine presence with every breath. She turned back to the park, placing her hands on the railing. He copied her action, his fingers curling over the iron rail beside her.

“Why did you come outside?” she asked eventually. “No one else seems to be interested in coming out here.”

He glanced at her, his blue eyes twinkling in the dim light. “The ballroom is overcrowded,” he said simply. “I came out to breathe some fresh air.”

“That's why I came out, too.”

“I'd expect others to wish to join us soon, but I am afraid, given the general level of intoxication, most of them will not notice that they're not achieving the optimal level of air intake with every breath.”

“You're probably right,” she said, smiling. She glanced up at him. “But I don't mind being alone.”

“Generally speaking, I don't mind being alone either. In fact, I prefer it.”

“So do I,” she said. Then she corrected herself. “I mean, I do enjoy being with my friends and certain members of my family”—or Jessica's family, to be specific, but that would require far too much explanation—“at times. But I also enjoy solitude occasionally.”

He nodded as if he understood completely. She liked him. There was something about his formidable male presence that calmed her, even though there was an intensity about him that was almost overpowering. But somehow, that intensity made her feel secure rather than overwhelmed. For the first time since Fenwicke's death, she realized with a little shock, she was attracted to a man.

Just looking at him made her feel flushed and out of sorts. He had those beautiful lips and a strong jaw. His eyes were a sparkling dark blue, like a deep ocean under the sunlight. His coat fit perfectly and was very tight over his broad shoulders, showing the lines of his body to excellent effect. His hair was almost black, but thick and slightly wavy.

“So…who are you?” he asked. Then he immediately raised his hand. “Wait. I should very much like to sleuth it out on my own. You are Greek, yes?”

“I am.”

“You are not dressed as a common lady. So are you a goddess? Or a demigoddess?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but he cut her off. “A goddess, certainly.”

He stepped back a bit, his gaze scanning her up and down. She felt warm under his penetrating scrutiny. “A demigoddess would not wear diamonds around her eyes. And I can tell they are real diamonds without observing them with my magnifying glass because of the way the light refracts them, even in the comparative darkness out here.”

She smiled at his analysis. “You are correct, sir. I am a goddess.”

She flinched at that, because it sounded so self-important, but he said, “You are, indeed.”

There was a deep male appreciation in his voice, and something bloomed inside her. It reminded her that she didn't have to be the shy, reserved Beatrice Reece tonight. She
could
be a Greek goddess, if she chose to be.

And in the presence of this man she felt safe…safe enough to be whomever she pleased. How was that even possible?

Then again, she knew very well that not all men were like Fenwicke. Jessica's husband and brothers-in-law were all prime examples of faithful, kind, strong men. Men who protected their families, who sheltered them and kept them secure and happy. She studied him, wondering if he'd fall into the category of those men.

He might.

That thought caused a fresh wave of interest to wash through her. Not that she'd ever act upon such interest, even if she was playing the part of the goddess. She was, after all, intrinsically a wallflower. She'd never be the splash of happy sunlight that Jessica was. After just an hour at the masquerade, Jessica had already gained a bevy of admirers. David would be so jealous if he knew.

No doubt Jessica would give David every detail of the masquerade when he returned. Then she'd revel in his jealousy. Jessica took pleasure in the oddest things.

“Hmm.” The low rumble of the man's voice beside her jerked her attention back to him. He made a half circle around her, still studying her, and she turned to face him, her back against the railing, gazing up into his compelling blue eyes framed by the eye sockets of his black mask.

He continued. “I have been cataloguing the Greek goddesses in my mind. You are not Aphrodite, because that would be clichéd, and you do not strike me as a woman who'd either succumb to cliché or boast of herself as the goddess of love.”

She wasn't sure if that was entirely a compliment, but before she could respond, he tilted his head, contemplating.

“Not Artemis because you are not in possession of a quiver or a bow.”

“You're right—I'm not Artemis.” She felt flushed and warm with his complete focus on her like this and…it was a good thing. Freeing. She felt so
alive
at this moment, with her skin tingling, her breaths coming quickly and unevenly, her heart beating fast. She ached to reach out and touch his chest—it looked so solid under his coat. Instead, she clenched her hands at her sides and held very still as he continued his study of her.

“You're not Hestia, because”—he flashed her a devastating grin—“Hestia always remains at home by her hearth, but you are here. And you are not Demeter, as Demeter is fair, and you are dark. And I'd expect Demeter to carry a sheaf of wheat or something of that sort. And your gown is blue. I wonder what that means…”

She recognized the moment the truth hit him, because his lips curled at their edges. “Ah,” he said. “Very clever.”

He reached up and, ever so softly, grazed his fingertips over the little rubies strung around her neck. He wasn't wearing gloves, and a tiny bit of his finger touched her skin, warm but gentle. Something powerful shuddered through her. She barely contained a gasp. Never in her life had a man touched her exactly like that.

He moved over all the rubies, one at a time. By the time he was finished, the blood was roaring through her veins. She clenched her hands into even tighter fists.

He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath tickling her lobe. “Six pomegranate seeds, one for each month she is required to spend in the underworld. The black trimmings upon your dress because she is its queen. The long white gloves because the myths speak of her pale hands and arms. The color of your gown and shoes, and the young leaves and flowers upon your head to represent the other half of her life, when she comes out in blue skies of spring and causes new plants and flowers to spring forth from the earth.” He drew back until his gaze met hers, and punctuating every word, he murmured, “And you are very beautiful.”

His words rocked her, and she had to grip the railing behind her so as not to sway. No one had called her beautiful since her London Season. And those had simply been flattering remarks from admirers, never said with the conviction with which this man said it.

He continued as if he hadn't just jolted her world off its axis. “All of this evidence points to the incontrovertible truth. You are Persephone.”

“You are the clever one, sir,” she said shyly, feeling the flush burning her cheeks. She was very glad that he couldn't see it beneath her mask. “I believe no one else at the masquerade could determine my identity beyond ‘Greek.'”

His hint of a smile turned into a full-blown grin. She thought he was handsome even when he wasn't smiling, but when he did, a flicker of light burned deep inside her, in a part of her that hadn't seen light or warmth in a very long time.

They turned back to the railing, and she curled her fingers over it again. He touched her right hand, a barest graze of fingertips over her white glove, and she let out a shaky breath. His touch was electric. It made every inch of her body stand up and take notice.

She slid him a coy look, and even that rattled her. She was never coy. “Now you must tell me who you are.”

“Me? I am an Englishman wearing a mask simply because I am attending a masquerade.”

“But what is your name?”

“You may call me…John Bull.”

She laughed out loud, because John Bull was the personification of England, usually seen as a caricature of a jolly, portly balding man who carried a cane and who wore coats of red and blue.

“Forgive me, but you look nothing like a John Bull.”

His blue eyes sparkled at her. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

He turned toward the park, his hands resting on the railing once more as he gazed into the darkness. “I will remain out here with you for as long as you plan to stay, Lady Persephone.”

“That is not necessary”—her smile came easier than it usually did—“Mr. Bull.”

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said, his voice low. He might not have meant for his voice to sound so sensual, but the timbre of it made that flicker of light inside her grow warmer. “You are alone out here. And that room behind us is soon apt to overflow with revelers who grow drunker as the minutes pass. I will stay, lest one slip out and attempt to accost you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That is very kind. But it really isn't necessary,” she added, and disappointment surged in her chest. She really needed to go back inside and to Jessica, even though she'd vastly prefer to remain out here with him. She was intrigued by this man, by all the long-buried sensations he was arousing in her. “I am afraid I must return to the ballroom. My friend will be looking for me.”

“I see…” he said slowly. “Then I will return as well. The quadrille will end in a few minutes, and another waltz will follow. Will you dance with me, Persephone?”

A waltz. She hadn't anticipated dancing tonight. She
really
hadn't expected to dance a waltz.

But did she want to? With this man? They'd be touching, his arm around her waist, her hand on the shoulder she ached to touch, their other hands clasped together. The idea of his strong, masculine fingers wrapped around hers was intoxicating.

“Yes, I would love to dance the waltz with you,” she murmured, then straightened. “If I am able to find my friend first.”

“Then we must go find your friend, my lady. Because I have no intention of missing an opportunity to dance with you.”

He held out his arm to her, and she took it. It wasn't like she hadn't touched a man's arm for a long time. Fenwicke had despised touching her except in violence, but Jessica's husband and brothers-in-law had all offered her their arms on one occasion or another.

But this…this was different. As she slid her gloved hand over his sleeve, the feel of him sent a bloom of warmth just beneath her skin. The soft glow heated her from her cheeks to her toes. She curled her fingers around his forearm, feeling the solidness of him beneath her fingertips.

He was
compelling
to her; that was what it was. He was a stranger, and she had no idea who he was or where he'd come from, but she very much wanted to know.

As soon as they were inside the ballroom, Jessica bounded up to them, her blond hair curling around her face and her cheeks pink with exertion. She looked very much like the quintessential English rose in an Egyptian queen's costume.

“There you are!” she exclaimed to Beatrice. “I thought I'd lost you.” Her gaze followed Beatrice's arm to where her hand clasped the man's—Mr. Bull's—forearm, and one of her eyebrows arched high. “Do I know you?” she asked him.

He inclined his head. It must be a habit of his, tilting his head like that, Beatrice realized. It gave him an air of boyish curiosity under all that dark, masculine strength, and she found it very appealing.