Chapter Thirty-Three
Hugh knew he had made a fatal mistake agreeing to this harebrained plan the moment Viola appeared on the landing in a swirl
of beaded sapphire taffeta.
His world contracted around him. There was nothing worth seeing but her. The way the fabric shimmered in the candlelight,
as if intentionally baiting his eyes to go straight to where it clung to the supple curves of her body, felt like the purest
form of torture God could devise.
She stopped on the bottom step, holding out her slender arms, clad in fiendishly appealing black satin gloves, like a soldier
waiting to pass muster. The fete was a masquerade, no doubt to allow for some anonymity as people were on their worst behavior,
and his own mask suddenly felt too tight, too itchy on his face.
Hugh knew he had been silent for too long, drinking in the sight of the fiery and white-gold curls spilling down over one
shoulder, the way the black domino mask framed her hazel eyes. The scratches on her face and neck were nearly healed thanks
to the salve, leaving luminous, clear skin brightened with a bit of saucy rouge at the cheeks and lips. The goddess Venia
would have wept with envy.
“Well?” she murmured.
And then he noticed the bodice.
What was left of it.
“What have you done to that gown?” he croaked out.
The neck had been lowered to a scandalous degree and, combined with the wicked efforts of the stays, presented the creamy
expanse of her breasts to him like an offering. One slight movement, one raise of her arm, and he knew it would reveal a hint
of nipple.
It had not—it most certainly had not—looked like that when he’d selected it in Audette’s shop. He wasn’t a madman bent on self-destruction.
Every ounce of blood in his body was traveling south, until he was no longer secure in the belief that his cloak covered his now raging cockstand. His hands brought his topper discreetly in front of him, gripping it with the same force of longing he had to touch her.
Viola instinctively made to cross her arms over her chest, only to force them back to her sides, as if settling herself into
tonight’s role. He almost groaned. Her full lips set in that little determined line that usually heralded his favorite sort
of trouble.
“What’s the matter with it?” she demanded. “We’re meant to slip in as Lord Dover and his doxy, are we not?”
That glint in her eye. The challenge. She wanted him to say it. To admit it.
He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. His mouth was dry, and his head was utterly empty of anything save one desperately sensual fantasy: taking his finger and
drawing down that little strip of fabric that remained over her pale breasts, allowing them to spill out into his hands.
Giving her the most complete pleasure she would ever know.
She had been the one to regain her senses first last night and pull away—and thank God for that. Hugh had found the combination
of her innocence and confidence in pursuing her pleasure so intoxicating, he’d been drunk on it. All but mindless, damn it.
If there was to ever be anything there, they would need to take it slow, to ensure it was what she truly wanted and not just
the heat of a passing moment.
But tonight, perhaps emboldened by her attire and role, that confidence had returned. The way she was looking at him now,
the dark heat in those eyes, was exactly how he imagined Greystone had looked each time he surveyed his new territory. Possessive.
Hungry. Victorious.
Bloody hell. He was all but panting at her, wearing an obnoxiously lavish velvet suit and tasseled boots. Damn Dover and his gaudy tastes.
It wasn’t as if it made up for his deficient personality.
And the black satin ribbon tied in a pretty little bow around the creamy column of her throat, like she was the most delightful
of gifts to unwrap . . .
It was at that moment that Willie had the misfortune of crossing from the study into the morning room. He paused midway across
the foyer, his pale brows rising in pure male appreciation of the tempting vision before him.
“Get her cloak,” Hugh barked at him.
Willie bolted into the morning room before doubling back and fleeing to the safety of the kitchen.
“Don’t yell at him,” Viola scolded. “Felicity will bring it down in a moment.”
The door to the kitchen opened, and Keyes emerged, having clearly been chosen to deal with him. She made a good effort of
looking blasé, straightening the painting of Albion’s coast that absolutely did not require straightening. When she entered
the foyer, it was with the very placid smile Hugh had learned long ago was a warning. Inwardly, he winced.
She turned, catching a glimpse of Viola, and clasped her hands together. “How perfect you look, my lady.”
Perfect? Perfect? Perfect for forcing Hugh to beat every man with eyes off her. He let out a hard breath through his nose, looking at the woman
who had raised him with utter betrayal.
“Thank you, Mrs. Keyes,” Viola said, looking emboldened by the words.
“I’ve finished hemming it!” Fizzy’s voice carried down the third-floor hall, followed by her hurried steps. By the time she
reached Viola, swirling the velvet cloak around her shoulders and affixing its gold clasp at her throat, she was nearly beside
herself admiring her handiwork.
Fizzy fell back in step beside Mrs. Keyes, her eyes limpid with pleasure.
“Let’s go,” Hugh said tersely. “God willing, this will be a brief adventure.”
Mrs. Keyes gave his arm a discreet but painful flick as he passed. Her eyes carried a clear message: Take care with her.
Too late, he knew.
They had walked in silence through the back garden, passing through the mews and nearby streets until they found a hackney.
He quickly bundled her inside, sending one last prayer to God in heaven for mercy before following.
And now that same, charged silence set in deeper as the carriage rattled around them, driving her small body into his with
every turn through Linden’s winding streets. Each time, he was forced to master the urge to drag Viola over his lap and ravish
her mouth until her lips softened their hard line.
Hugh began to wonder if the hack driver was intentionally making the sharpest turns imaginable to get to the Nine Veils borough. He nearly came out of his skin when Viola steadied her sliding body by bracing a small hand on his thigh.
She didn’t remove it, even as the carriage straightened out its path. Neither did he.
Her breath caught as if she’d surprised herself, the sound faint beneath the drumbeat of his heart. Viola’s gaze was like
the brush of rose petals against his cheek, soft but insistent. Then her hand began to glide up. Her touch was guileless,
experimental, which made it all the more riveting.
Up, making the muscle beneath her fingers quiver.
Up, until the movement pushed back her cloak, revealing another glimpse of her bosom, the way it strained the delicate bodice.
Up, to stroke the deep groove where his leg met his hip. Right, toward the obvious bulge tenting his placket. She made a little
noise, a wondering, hungry noise, and God, he wasn’t strong enough for this. He wanted her more than his next breath.
Hugh caught her fingers at the very last moment, pressing his lips to them to soften the rejection. Viola huffed in that way
he adored, and just then, he couldn’t remember why it had been so necessary to stop. She’d singed a trail of embers into his
skin, and it burned even now.
He kept her hand, turning her palm up to press a kiss there, too, for good measure.
“Perfume?” he murmured, bringing his nose to her wrist and inhaling the scent of roses and the natural musk of her skin.
“You bought perfumed gloves,” she answered tartly.
“Well done, me,” he said softly.
Viola tugged at her hand, and, with great reluctance, he released it.
“Hugh,” she said after a moment, having reclaimed her usual determination, “what are you planning?”
“Now that is an interesting question,” he said. “At any point in time, I’m planning for any number of things. You’ll have
to be more specific.”
“For the Midsummer Ball,” she said. “You do have a plan for Glenmoor, don’t you?”
“I may have the beginnings of one,” he allowed.
Her gaze turned shrewd behind her mask. “And will you allow me to help you?”
He shifted tactics. “I’m surprised you want to attend the ball at all—are you so eager to be presented to society? It will
only make the annulment that much more scandalous.”
She gazed at him evenly as the hackney coach rolled to a slow, torturous stop. “The Earl of Foxcourt, afraid of a little scandal?”
No, certainly not. But with her smirk, he was ever so slightly afraid of her.
There were two entrances to Ardent’s.
The front palatial entry, carved of dignified white marble and featuring a stunning array of less dignified statues, had been
a landmark on Regent Street for the nearly ten years since Greystone had mysteriously assumed ownership over the den of vice—rumored,
of course, to have been through a card game. In all Hugh’s best attempts to unwind the man’s financial holdings, to look for
some weakness to coax out and use to his advantage, he’d found little more than that.
It was through these imposing bronze doors that men of all walks of life had stumbled, eager to waste whole inheritances on
cards and dice, praying in vain to the hard-hearted ancient fairy goddess of luck, Fortuna, to save them when their fates
turned.
There, from the second-floor gallery, Greystone would watch the comings and goings like a lesser god, his countenance as cool
as moonstone. Hugh had only ever seen the man from a distance, and that had been close enough for him.
The invitation instructed the midsummer masquerade guests to use the front entrance, no doubt so Greystone could observe each
arrival. Hence, they chose the second entrance: an otherwise nondescript red door tucked into the piss-soaked alley that ran
behind the gambling hell. Hugh had to imagine Greystone enjoyed the thought of the Patricians being made to navigate the vile
puddles, but it was to their advantage now, arriving unfashionably early without another soul in sight.