Chapter 31
The following morning Emerald took a tray in her room for breakfast and remained in bed for most of the day, so it came as a surprise to Beau to find her donning a silk domino when he next saw her.
She was in the entryway of Avon House, preoccupied with securing the thing about her neck, but it was her dress that caught his attention. It was a deep blue affair embroidered with flowers, vines, and feathers in shades of green and gold winding up from the hem, over the curve of her hip, to the generously cut bodice that set off the tantalising swell of her breasts. Following the trail of creamy skin, he studied the gentle arc of her neck, imagined the sweet, clean taste of her skin against his lips. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades; his arousal strained against his breeches.
Candlelight caught the shine of her obsidian eyes as she moved, and Beau had to force down the knot of yearning in his throat. She was a marvel to behold.
He was obscured by the darkness of the hall and made no move to step into the light. Feeling selfish, he stood still and quiet, mesmerised by the sight of her.
‘My lord?’
Beau jumped at the sound of the butler’s voice. ‘Wallace. Send Saunders up to me.’ And because her head whipped up when Wallace spoke, Beau had little choice but to pretend he’d been moving in her direction all along.
‘What ballroom will you dazzle tonight, my enchanting ward?’
‘All of them.’ Her reply was delivered with a wry smile. ‘But I believe I’ll start with Lady Amelia Norton’s. Esther and her grandmama are taking me to the private masquerade there. I understand it is her ladyship’s favourite party and one she throws each year.’
He was familiar, having attended the same party six or seven years ago. Except for a few sticklers, many among the ton loved private masquerades. A controlled guestlist gave the illusion of propriety, masks the guise of anonymity, and the expectation of meeting only people from one’s same sphere encouraged guests to push the bounds of modesty and decorum.
‘Are you sure you’re well?’
She chewed her lip a moment before answering. ‘Well enough. I’ve always wanted to attend a masquerade.’
He worked to keep the dismay from his voice when he asked, ‘Is my mother not accompanying you?’
Emerald’s expression grew serious. ‘No. She dropped one of her wood jewellery cases on her foot. She’s well, but in no mood to be moving about a crowded ballroom. Have you any engagements this evening? I thought you might also be attending. It seems as though everyone is.’
‘I received an invitation, yes, but planned on a quiet evening at my club.’
‘Oh.’
Beau thought there was disappointment in her one-syllable answer, but the sound of the bell prevented him from saying more.
‘That will be Esther,’ said Emerald, picking up her mask of blue and gold with peacock feathers billowing off the right side.
One of the footmen opened the door for her, and she bid Beau a good night. He waited for the door to close behind her before he took the stairs two at a time. He was tearing through the drawers in his dressing room, searching for the mask he’d used an eternity ago, when Saunders entered and gasped in dismay at the destruction unfolding.
‘Sir, I beg of you, let me,’ the valet said, manoeuvring Beau out of the way.
‘Where’s that mask? Surely we didn’t toss it out with the rubbish?’
‘What mask?’ Saunders asked, already refolding the lengths of cotton and silk used for Beau’s cravats, which had been haphazardly tossed to the floor.
‘The one I had made in Venice ages ago. Gold. Conceals most of my face. How many masks do you know me to have?’
‘Four.’ Saunders reached into the back of a large wardrobe and retrieved something wrapped in white silk. He carefully unfolded the fabric, revealing a heavy gold mask. ‘The remainder of the costume is in the attics, but there’s a white shirt with more ruffles than I can count within easier reach just tucked behind some of your more staid pieces, as well as your white waistcoat, black satin knee breeches, and the aubergine coat.’
‘Pirate it is. Saunders, you’re worth your weight in gold, which I believe is what I pay you.’
It hadn’t mattered where Emerald had said she was going. Beau had known the moment he’d seen her standing there that he would follow—because she was breathtaking, because in her company was when he felt most himself, because only the day before someone had tried to harm her.
There were at least five hundred people already arrived when he entered Lady Norton’s home less than an hour later. Still, he was a needle in a compass and Emerald his north star. She was walking away from the last set on the arm of a gentleman dressed as a chimney sweep who was escorting her back to Miss Lyon’s grandmother. He saw his opportunity and stepped into the path to block their way.
‘I beg your pardon,’ the chimney sweep said, attempting to steer them around Beau.
‘It’s for me to beg yours. This little bird has honoured me with her next dance.’ Beau adopted an American accent and spoke in a deep, languorous way.
He knew, as well as she, of course, that she hadn’t promised him anything. Emerald’s gaze was penetrating as she weighed whether or not she wished to go along with his lie. He’d disguised himself in look and sound but wished only for the illusion of anonymity. What he craved was her awareness and understanding; there was freedom for them both behind their masks if she wished for it.
Her eyes looked even more mysterious and compelling against the sea blue of her mask, and the moment of prolonged anticipation was rapidly becoming unbearable. When she removed her hand from the other man’s arm and stepped forward towards Beau, he had to steady the possessive gratification threatening to topple him.
‘Are you always so bold?’ she asked, slipping her hand through his arm as they moved towards the other dancers taking their places for a waltz.
‘When I see something I want, like you, beautiful little bird.’
Her easy laugh awakened in him a sense of satisfaction.
‘You may save your practised flattery; I’ve already agreed to the dance. By the by, I do hope the disgruntled chimney sweep hasn’t a brush hiding somewhere.’
‘I couldn’t care less.’ Beau pulled her close to him, closer than he would have had their identities not been secreted away. He felt her surprised intake of breath as her ribs expanded under his right arm. ‘Have you waltzed before?’
‘Not like this.’
‘Good.’ The word rumbled from deep inside him and came out rough, like the bark of an oak tree.
‘Is this how it’s done in America?’
‘I’ll take you one day, if you like, and you can find out for yourself.’
She was staring at his neck, the skin of it bare and free from the restraint of a cravat. The top of his shirt was open, the tie undone and falling loosely towards his chest. He knew there was a hint of his tattoo rising beyond the limp white collar.
‘Tell me about this.’
Beau knew it was the tattoo she was asking about. ‘What is it you wish to know?’
‘Why did you get it? There must be some significance.’
‘There was a man I met through work, an artist really, who could give life to something in black and white. When I went to him, I just wanted to distract myself, to feel a different kind of pain than that which had been eating me from the inside out.’
‘Did it help as you’d hoped?’
‘In the beginning. One of the hardest things we can ask of ourselves is to reconcile two halves of our own whole. This is the half of me I ignored for too long.’ He felt the energy between them change as he spoke, their left arms coming up to meet overhead once more. Her delicate scent teased his nostrils, and he filled his chest with a greedy inhale. With each chord of the dance, he lost more of himself to her and wanted more of her in return.
They made the final turn; he felt almost feverish from their closeness, and she sounded a little breathless. The music died out, but they stood staring at one another. The candlelight reflecting in her eyes looked like stars glowing against the night sky.
‘I’m feeling a trifle overheated,’ said she as the other couples around them applauded the musicians and moved away to change partners.
Before she said another word, he looped her hand through his arm and turned them for the row of French doors leading to the terrace. Neither spoke as they wandered further from the stuffy rooms, the masked revellers enjoying themselves with impunity, the torches radiant in the garden.
When they came to the high stone wall at the back of the property, the noise of the fête buffered by the tall hedges, Beau brought them to a stop. ‘We’ve gone too far.’
Emerald stepped in front of him. She raised a tentative hand, tracing the ink on his chest. The silk of her glove against his hot skin made him tremble.
‘Impossible, when there is something keeping us contained.’ She was staring up at him, but in the dark of night, it was difficult to make out what she was thinking.
Under her hand, his heart hammered, and he knew his resolve was crumbling with every second they remained alone. He covered her hand with his own and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
‘I like when you do that,’ she confessed in a hushed voice.
‘What?’
‘Touch me.’
Beau groaned, dropping his head to nip the soft flesh of her neck as he ran a hand up the bodice of her dress. He cupped her supple breast, reeling at the pleasure of touching her. She arched into him, and he ran his thumb over the silk, cursing the layers of fabric between his skin and hers as he felt her soften for him.
‘What do you want, little bird?’
‘This. You. More. Everything,’ she half said, half begged, her voice huskier, more arousing than he’d ever heard before. He licked his lips. Until he could put his ring on her finger, Beau would deny himself the taste of her. He must, if there was any hope of preserving her virtue, but his need to touch her had become dire, vital even.
In one quick movement, he turned her, bringing her back against his chest, the latent strength in his arm pinning her close. The evidence of his arousal pressed along the base of her spine, and when she shifted ever so slightly, grazing his hard length, he groaned. His warm lips brushed against the exposed skin of her neck. She quivered.
‘This?’ He took her earlobe between his teeth in a light grip, his tongue teasing the soft hollow at its base, before skimming his mouth along the delicate curve of her jaw.
‘Yes,’ she whispered on a gasp.
He dipped his hand below the neckline of her dress, circling her nipple with his middle finger and lightly pinching the rosy point when it hardened. ‘This?’
She shuddered in agreement.
His other hand slid down her waist, along the rolling swell of her hip, to the heavenly juncture of her legs. Beau cupped the mound of her sex, her needy heat palpable through layers of satin. His cock twitched. ‘This?’
Her voice shook with desire, and her ‘Yes’ came out little more than an airy moan. She layered her hand over his, pressing his fingers more firmly to her as she rocked against him.
Beau trailed slow, thoughtful kisses across the back of her elegant neck. She shivered in his arms when he blew softly in the little crevice behind her ear. He increased the tempo of his hand. His caress was a command. Her breaths came faster, sharper, and her body quaked against him.
‘Let go, little bird,’ he urged, in a low, glowing voice.
She moaned again and again, each one louder than the last, and Beau covered her mouth with a hand just before she cried out. Her pleasure spilled over, and the vibrations from her wild cry travelled straight down to his throbbing cock.
He could feel her legs trembling against him and wrapped his arm more securely around her. Emerald’s hips jerked, and she released a whimper. He forced himself to slow his fingers to a tender caress, despite wanting nothing more than to bury himself under her skirts to lick, suck, and tease her to a second climax.
She sagged against his chest, and he turned her to face him. Her body melted into his, and he wrapped her up tight against him, placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. Her heavy breathing and his heartbeat rang loud in his ears.
With her face still buried in his waistcoat, she said, ‘I’ve never—’ and broke off as if unsure how to finish her sentence.
He rubbed slow, calming circles over her back. ‘I would never have assumed so.’
‘It’s just?—’
He put enough distance between them to easily take her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up to look at him. ‘Pleasure is for women too.’
She nodded, but Beau could see the crease of uncertainty between her brows, and he ached for her to understand. His fingers had slipped into the glossy hair at the nape of her neck, and he wound a loose curl around his finger. The silky slip of her strands tickled his bare skin, and gooseflesh pebbled his arms.
‘I would stay wrapped up with you like this always if such a thing were possible, but we ought to return to the ballroom.’ She stirred his basest instincts and most tender impulses. Had they been married, or even engaged, he would’ve bent her over, put her hands to the wall, and taken her from behind right there in Lady Norton’s garden. It was for her own safety he saw her back to the house immediately.
He re-pinned her hair and helped her adjust the bodice of her dress, then turned her in a small circle to make sure she looked as tidy as when she first entered Lady Norton’s. Once Emerald was ready, they turned back to the house, but their steps were languid, and at the small of her back his hand hovered with a possessive touch. When they reached the terrace, he urged her forward first, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. He went to the other door, watching as she made her way towards the edge of the floor where she offered a little wave for Miss Lyon, who was dancing with a man in a turban.
For the rest of the evening, he kept his distance, although more than once their eyes met across the crowded room. He remained at Lady Norton’s until Emerald was safely ensconced in the carriage, and even then, followed it on foot the four blocks to Avon House, hanging back in the shadows till he was certain she’d been admitted through the front doors. Instead of going in after, he sat in the little park across the street. The London townhouse had always felt more like home to him than Oakmoss. He felt more at ease, his two halves more at peace. Maybe such accounted for the madness that had possessed him to act as he had. In London, he wasn’t a man divided by duty and desire. He was a singular force unto himself, undeterred in his pursuit of that which roused his soul and resolved to attain it with unyielding determination.