One Night with an Earl (4 page)

“I don't believe we've met,” he said to Jessica.

“Well,
that
is extremely unfortunate.” She gave him a flirtatious grin, then turned back to Beatrice.

If Beatrice hadn't known her friend so well, she wouldn't have recognized the question in Jessica's eyes. But she understood, and in response, she gave Jessica a small nod. “This is Mr. John Bull,” she said with an all-too-rare lighthearted tone in her voice.

“Mr. Bull, eh? I'd never have guessed it. Well, I am the Queen of Egypt. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Jessica bowed at him, and he bowed back, the two of them behaving very much like members of the British aristocracy meeting each other formally at a soiree.

The quadrille was winding down, and people began to stream from the dance floor, most of them headed in the direction of the refreshment table.

“Mr. Bull asked me to dance the waltz,” she told Jessica.

“Oh?” Now both of Jessica's brows arched up. “And you accepted?”

“I did.”

Jessica blinked at her for a moment, then took a step back, making a grand gesture toward the dance floor. “Then by all means, don't let me stop you.”

Mr. Bull inclined his head. “Thank you very much, Your Majesty.”

“I shall expect a full report when you have finished.”

“Of course,” Beatrice said, but Mr. Bull was already gently pulling her away to stand among all the other couples gathering for the waltz.

She stood still, hands at her sides, gazing up at him. His blue eyes twinkled at her from behind the mask. “How are you?” he asked.

“I am”—
breathless, excited, eager
—“well.”

“Good.” His voice dripped with a very smug, very
male
satisfaction.

He reached down and took her right hand in his own. He raised their hands as he slipped his other arm around her waist. She pressed her palm against the back of his shoulder and suppressed a shudder. They were so very close, in such an intimate position. She wanted more, wished she could press herself even closer to him. “I haven't danced a waltz in a very long time,” she breathed.

In fact, though she had learned how to waltz, she had never officially danced one during her Season because waltzes were considered highly improper for young ladies.

“The waltz is my favorite dance,” he told her.

“Why is that?” she asked, thinking that if he was to keep holding her like this the whole way through, it might just become her favorite dance, too.

“I do not enjoy touching a great many people,” he said quietly, his glittering blue eyes locked on hers. His arm tightened around her. “I prefer to have my hands on just one woman at a time. And that woman happens to be you.”

It felt like the air in the room—already thin and difficult to breathe—was sucked away. For a moment, she felt light-headed, unable to speak. Then she managed, “But don't you dance the other dances as well?”

“Yes, when it is necessary for me to do so.”

“Why, if you don't like them?”

“Because it is expected. I have made a study of societal expectations. The study has allowed me to become quite skilled at meeting them, Persephone.”

And with that, the waltz began. It was a lively dance, and Mr. Bull took full advantage, his steps bold, his turns wide, causing her pleats to stretch open and her skirt to billow around her.

She held on tight and let him take her on the ride. She didn't think about the steps—she didn't need to. She learned quickly that she must allow her feet to move as they would, and as long as she did so, they fell into a natural, perfect synchronicity.

He took her into a wide, spinning arc, and she couldn't help it. She laughed in delight. She couldn't remember ever feeling so free.

He squeezed her hand very tight for a moment. “You have the sweetest laugh I've ever heard,” he said, gazing down at her.

Still smiling, she looked into his eyes as he spun her around yet again. “Thank you.”

“I believe you enjoy waltzing with me, Persephone.”

“I have not enjoyed anything so much in a very long time,” she admitted. “I wish…”

They danced around a group of couples, steering clear of a flurry of colorful skirts.

“What do you wish?” he asked, his voice low.

“I fear this might be our only opportunity to dance a waltz,” she said. “And I wish that wasn't the case.”

“I hope it isn't the case,” he said.

“But it must be. Because I fear Persephone's time here is limited.”

Soon enough, she'd need to leave the colorful rebirth of spring and return to the underworld. But it was true—something about being with this man felt like she was blossoming after a very, very long time spent underground. She loved that feeling…and she didn't want it to end.

“My time
is
limited.” She gazed at him straight on. “But I intend to enjoy every second while it lasts.”

This time, his lips were easier to read, his smile slow and seductive, and his eyes narrowing the slightest bit through the sockets of the mask.

“And I intend to enjoy every moment with you.”

She felt so free. Spinning, turning, waltzing, a handsome man holding her as if she were his most cherished possession, her dress a cloud of blue linen around her, her heart soaring. Tonight, after living so long a prisoner, she was breaking free of the cage Fenwicke had built around her.

For the first time since long before his death two years ago, she felt free.

And until a person has been a prisoner, they never understand how truly sweet freedom can be.

B
y the time the waltz ended, Drew was burning for her. He didn't want to let her go. It was with great reluctance—and only because it was the proper thing to do—that he lowered his left hand, released her right hand, and gave her a small bow.

No one saw it, but he slid his palm over the dip in her waist as he lowered his arm. And he squeezed her hand before he let it go.

He raised his head from his bow and gazed at her for a long moment. She looked at him, her expression so open and innocent, it reminded him of when he'd danced with her during her Season so long ago. God, how he'd been smitten. And he was smitten again now.

But she was no longer innocent. The man who should have sheltered her innocence had abused it instead. He tore his gaze away from her, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Her lost innocence didn't decrease her attractiveness, but it did make him want to kill the man who'd done it to her. Good thing the bastard was already dead.

“Punch?” he asked gruffly. “Perhaps we can retire back to the fresh air of the balcony and enjoy it there.”

“Yes. That would be nice.”

He held out his arm, and she took it, those delicate gloved fingers curling around his forearm with just the right amount of pressure to cause heat to flare in his body again.

He led the way off the dance floor, heading toward a lady dressed as a harem girl sitting cross-legged on the floor and pointing at one of the half-dozen admirers surrounding her. “You!” she squealed as Drew and Beatrice approached. “I choose you for one, for you are the handsomest.” She pointed at another man as Drew and Beatrice took a wide berth around them. “And I choose you, for you are the most charming.” The two gentlemen, proud of their conquest, helped the lady up and led her off, presumably to find a more intimate location to continue their “conversation.”

Before Drew and Beatrice reached the refreshment table, her friend accosted them. Drew had deduced her identity right away, though he had never met her before tonight. Jessica Briggs had a reputation for being a beautiful flirt, though it was widely acknowledged that she was devoted to her sea-captain husband.

Drew was acquainted with most of her family, and he'd known they had supported Beatrice through her ordeal. The Duke of Wakefield, the man who'd done everyone a service by taking Fenwicke's worthless life, was Jessica Briggs's brother-in-law and Drew's good friend. The duke had mentioned to Drew that Mrs. Briggs had taken it upon herself to befriend Beatrice, and she was the one who'd ultimately saved Beatrice from Fenwicke's evil.

There was no doubt this woman was Jessica Briggs.

Mrs. Briggs beamed at them. “Well, how was the waltz?”

Drew kept his focus on Mrs. Briggs, but he felt the heat of Beatrice's gaze on him before she answered. “It was very nice.”

A smile of pleasure pulled at his lips. “Excuse me, ladies. I'm off to fetch some punch. Would you like some, my queen?” he asked Mrs. Briggs.

She inclined her head. “No, thank you. But my friend Persephone looks quite parched indeed.”

“Of course. I'll return shortly.”

He left them to talk, which they clearly wished to do. But he didn't intend to leave them for long. He negotiated his way through the crowd gathered around the table, ignoring a woman who asked if she knew him.

Finally he snagged two glasses of punch and wound his way back to the ladies. Who hadn't moved, much to his relief.

He handed Beatrice the punch; then he and Beatrice both took a sip, gazing at each other over the tops of their glasses. The look she gave him made the blood pump through his body with renewed force. She was so damn lovely.

Mrs. Briggs looked between them for a moment, then very cheerfully excused herself.

He was glad she was gone. It wasn't that he disliked Mrs. Briggs. But he preferred being alone with Beatrice.

“Outside, then?” he asked her softly.

She nodded and took his arm yet again.

They made their way outside, and as before, the terrace was empty of human occupation. Drew couldn't fathom why. It was so much more appealing to be out here than it was inside. Then again, he was alone with a beautiful woman, and that had a powerful appeal.

They wandered to the railing they'd stood at before and spent several moments in silence, sipping from their glasses, Drew drinking in the presence of the woman beside him more than the punch. Every nerve in his body felt like it had come to life. Alert, aware, warmed by her proximity.

Finally, he spoke. “You seem much more content now than when I first discovered you out here.”

She gazed at him. Her clear dark eyes looked like obsidian in the meager light. “It's because of you,” she said simply.

That declaration made him feel damn good.

The air seemed to crackle between them, every inch of his skin aching, straining toward her. He reached up to brush a droplet of punch from her lower lip.

Her lip was plump, warm, and soft, the drop a cool contrast. He touched the drop with the pad of his thumb, then drew it slowly across her bottom lip. At the edge of her mouth, he hesitated, then continued, stroking the lower part of her face until his thumb brushed the bottom part of her mask. Her cheek felt like velvet. So different from his own rough skin.

Even then he didn't stop. His fingers moved along the bottom flaring edge of the mask to her ear. Fascinated, enthralled, he followed the line, moving up and around the shell of her ear.

She shuddered, her whole body seeming to shimmer with its tiny convulsion. He felt it as if it were his own shudder, deep inside himself.

This was Beatrice Reece, allowing him to touch her. He'd never thought this moment would come to pass. But here they were, and he had no intention of allowing her to slip from his grasp a second time.

He took her punch glass and set it, along with his own, on a wide area of the railing.

He slipped his arm around her body as he had in the waltz and pressed his palm gently against the small of her back, drawing her infinitesimally closer to him. As much as he wanted to, he didn't press her body against his. A hairsbreadth separated them from top to bottom.

His fingers moved back to the lower edge of the mask.

“Take it off.”

Even before he finished saying it, he knew it was a mistake.

She stiffened under his arm and tried to draw away, but he firmed his hand on her back. She froze, blinking at him through her mask, those dark eyes so compelling to him.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

He wanted her to know that he wouldn't shun her if she revealed her identity. She was hiding behind her mask, but the woman beneath was the one he wanted. She couldn't know that, though. Clearly, she wanted to remain anonymous to him and to everyone at the masquerade. If he told her he knew who she was, he'd scare her off. So he wouldn't share that information with her—not until she was ready to hear it.

Cupping her jaw in his hand, he said, “I understand.”

He tilted her head with a firm pressure, her soft, supple skin pressing into his palm. She looked up at him with such an open expression he felt like he could reach inside her and discover her secrets. And what he read there was that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

She turned her face a little, pressing her cheek harder against his hand, and the action was so erotic, his breath caught in his throat.

He bent down and brushed his lips over hers.

Well, it was meant to be a brush of lips. But the second his mouth touched hers, his entire body caught on fire. An almost unbearable burn of need. It was all he could do to restrain himself from tearing her clothes off and taking her up against the railing of the terrace.

He wanted her. God, how he wanted her.

He kissed her. Hard, bluntly, thoroughly. For the merest second, she froze, as if his touch had thrown her off guard. But then she capitulated with a little moan, wrapping her arms around his torso and pulling him even closer.

Her kisses were sweet, open, and eager. They tasted like velvet and spice. She smelled of vanilla.

His hand slid from her jaw to around the back of her neck. Tugging her closer so he could kiss her deeper.

As an experiment, he touched his tongue to her lip. She gasped, and pressure built inside him as his cock tightened and grew, pushing against the falls of his trousers as if demanding to be set free. He swallowed her gasp, swiping his tongue inside her mouth. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his tongue with her own.

He moved his hand upward over her neck, his fingers skimming the bottom of her hairline. Her hair was in a horsetail, but even pulled taut, it was soft and silky. He'd always admired her hair, had fantasized what it would be like to bury his hands into those dark silken strands. He fisted his fingers around the ribbon that held her hair back. It was a velvet ribbon, but it felt rough in contrast to the silky smoothness of her hair.

He didn't untie the ribbon, didn't pull it off. Just kept his hand there, wrapped around her hair, as he continued tasting her. His other hand played with the small of her back, dipping just a bit lower to feel the plump flare of her buttocks.

Nothing,
nothing
was like kissing Beatrice Reece. He wanted to grind his body against her. Get some relief from this unbearable pressure, this uncompromising need.

He drew back from her a scant inch. “Be—”
Hell.
He caught himself just in time. “Persephone,” he breathed.

She pulled him to her again and kissed him harder, her hands fisting his tight-fitting coat as she moaned into his mouth, slanting her lips this way and that as if she couldn't get enough.

He understood the feeling far too damn well. The masks were in the way. They were both wearing far too many clothes. There was no soft surface to lay her upon. The air out here, while fresh, would be about ten degrees too cool for her comfort while he did wicked things to her naked body.

He kissed her, tasted her, used his tongue, took tiny sips of her lips. They moved in concert, anticipating each other's movements as if they'd been kissing their entire lives. There was none of that bothersome nose-bumping, no clashing masks, no awkward knocking of teeth together. Their kisses aligned, meshed in a way that heated his already burning blood and hardened him to the point of pain.

“I can't…” she whispered against his lips, but she didn't try to pull away.

“Can't what, love?” he murmured between kisses.

“Can't…call you Mr. Bull anymore. It's…just…you're not—” She whimpered as he nipped her lower lip. But he closed his eyes. He couldn't give her his real name because while she might not remember his desire for her years ago, she would know who he was, and that knowledge might scare her. Knowing it was him would make this all too real, all too connected to her real life.

She desired the fantasy of complete anonymity, so that was what he'd give her.

“Just call me John, then.”

“That”—her breath whispered over his lips—“would be very forward of me.”

“I want you to be forward, Persephone.”

“Do you?” Her lips hovered over his for a moment; then she whispered, “Very well. John.” And her arms tightened around him again, and her lips pressed against his with renewed purpose.

Her eager capitulation stunned him, but only for a moment. Even as his mind whirled, his body knew exactly what to do. And that was to take control of the kiss, deepen it. To sear her with the heat of his lips, to make her never forget…

“Ahem.”

Beatrice jerked away from him, and he clawed through a haze of lust to scowl in the direction of the interruption. It was that deuced sheep-woman again.

No…it was Madame Lussier. She gazed at them through her mask as if they were the most entertaining scientific specimens she'd ever had the pleasure of viewing.

Beside him, Beatrice made a low sound of distress. Before he could think about how Madame Lussier would react to such an action, he took Beatrice's hand and squeezed reassuringly.

The older woman's gaze flicked down to their joined hands. Then she looked at Drew, a smile spreading her lips wide. “Well, well, well. Do I know you?”

Beatrice took a shaky breath.

Drew opened his mouth to answer, but Madame Lussier raised her hand. “
Non
. Do not tell me. It is clear that the two of you do not wish to be known.” She paused significantly. “Except by each other.”

Beatrice's fingers tightened over his.

“Now. I am a creature who thrives upon the scandalous, my doves,” Madame Lussier cooed, “yet I am not one to spread rumors. However, if the two of you continue as you were…” She made a twirling motion with her hand. “Then there will be a scandal. Quite a vigorous one, at that.”

Damn. She was right. Drew ground his teeth and glanced over her shoulder at the glass ballroom door. It was flanked on both sides by rows of tall windows. People passed by in a constant stream, some of them glancing out onto the terrace.

Hell. He usually took his surroundings into account before taking actions that might be considered rumor-worthy. But he'd been so caught up in Beatrice, so focused on her, he'd forgotten where they were.

They'd be lucky if they hadn't already been discovered. He was quite certain many of the attendees of the masquerade knew his identity—he hadn't done much to hide it, after all—but it seemed no one had identified Beatrice. Thank God.

Madame Lussier wasn't finished. She leaned in and said conspiratorially, “You two lovebirds require privacy. I've many empty rooms upstairs, and I would be happy to have one of my servants escort you to one.”

Beside him, Beatrice gasped.

“Oh, I assure you, my servants are discreet!” Madame Lussier exclaimed.

“I don't think that's why she's scandalized, madame,” Drew said dryly. Because while he believed she'd been just as caught up as he had, being with a man who was not her husband was a completely new experience for her.