Chapter Fourteen
After the ball, Charlotte didn’t bother ringing for a maid to assist in removing her gown. Nor did she wait for the summons she knew would come.
The route to the club had become familiar. And she no longer required an escort within the walls of the gambling hell. She went directly to the dressing room where Amélie appeared to be finishing up her own toilet for the evening.
The Frenchwoman turned at Charlotte’s entrance. “Ah, ma chérie! You are here so quickly. Your gentleman has only just arrived. A note was sent to you but a moment ago.”
Though the words implied surprise, the woman’s grin suggested she was not at all astonished to see Charlotte so promptly.
“I may not have waited for a summons,” she admitted with a flush of heat in her cheeks.
“Things are going well?” Amélie queried.
Charlotte wasn’t sure how to reply to that. Before the ball tonight, she probably could’ve answered in the affirmative. But after that dance…
She had no idea how he’d discovered her identity. She’d gone over the scene a thousand times in her mind, but all she could determine was that prior to the dance, he’d been ignorant of her connection to the Lyon’s Den. But at some point…that had changed. Drastically and to dramatic effect.
When she’d heard him say those two words—so low and dark—she’d frozen in shock. There was no way he’d said it by accident. There had been far too much intention in his tone. Intention that had flowed through his hands where they’d met her body, infusing her with crackling heat.
Utterly confused and not a small bit terrified that the man would call her out right there in the middle of the crowded ball, Charlotte had kept her head down and her composure tightly bound.
Whatever he decided to do with his sudden knowledge, she would find a way to counter it.
He wouldn’t get away without some scars of his own.
But when he left her at her aunt’s side with a deep bow and downcast gaze, she knew…
For whatever reason, he was not going to sacrifice her on the altar of public opinion. He would not disclose her secret and scandalize the whole of society.
And she wanted to know why.
That was her reason for coming directly to the Lyon’s Den.
Not because she hoped to find him submissively awaiting the consequences of his clever deduction.
Not because she was anxious and excited at the prospect of confronting him in that room—not as the mysterious masked woman, nor as Miss Charlotte Dickson, but as some amalgamation of the two.
Certainly not because she was just a little desperate to take it further than she had previously…
because now it felt as though she had to.
That he’d expect it. That it was exactly why he was already there… waiting for her.
Amélie’s gentle hand on her shoulder nearly gave her a start. “You’ve become lost in the mist, ma chérie. Est-ce que tu vas bien?”
Charlotte took a breath and met the other woman’s concerned gaze. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit over my head.”
Amélie laughed. “But that’s how one learns to swim, is it not?” Then, seeing that Charlotte did not join in her mirth, she tilted her head. “What is causing this distress?”
Taking a deep breath, Charlotte lifted the corner of her mouth in a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I may not be as fearsome as I want to be. I’ve discovered a…vulnerability in regard to my…gentleman.”
“Ah…” the Frenchwoman breathed. Then she smiled with compassionate understanding.
“That is not so terrible a thing. In fact, we must possess a certain tenderness for those we command. It is a delicate balance we create between the essences of power and surrender. You are not holding the scales, ma chérie, you are dancing on them. Leaning to and fro as you delicately give and take what is required to provide the greatest pleasure. You must intuit what he is needful of. You cannot do that if you are unfeeling and removed from the experience. He is necessary to your pleasure as much as you are necessary to his. There is no separation. Not in that room.”
The courtesan’s words resonated throughout Charlotte’s body. The truth within them, both terrifying and liberating.
“Come,” Amélie said with a gentle nudge toward the rack of black clothing. “Choose your costume for the night. You will feel better once you’ve donned your armor.”
Once again, she chose the same short black chemise from her first night.
However, instead of a corset that cinched her waist and lifted her breasts, Amélie insisted upon outfitting her in a gown of transparent black lace.
It possessed a full, flowing skirt, fitted sleeves that ended in a point at her wrists, and a plunging neckline that exposed the silk chemise beneath.
Though the gown covered her from neck to toes, it concealed absolutely nothing.
She wore no gloves this time and no jewelry. She left her hair in its elaborate coiffure, but donned the mask all the same.
“C’est magnifique,” Amélie whispered.
Charlotte felt magnificent. Her insecurities had all but completely faded as she once again embodied the fearless woman. She thanked Amélie for her help as the other woman rushed from the room—already late for her own assignation.
Taking another long moment to breathe deeply, Charlotte tried to convince herself that she wasn’t about to encounter her utter ruin at the hands of a man whose arrogance infuriated her even though his stare—his touch—his very existence seemed to trigger a blaze of sexual desire.
With a final bolstering inhale, Charlotte turned from the mirror and strode boldly to the room where she knew he’d be waiting. Every step quickening the beat of her heart. Every breath heating the blood in her veins.
By the time she stepped through the door, securing it silently behind her, her body was nearly humming with anticipation.
And then she saw him.
Already stripped naked to the waist. Kneeling in the center of the room. His hands splayed on the surface of his thighs. His focus directed to a spot on the floor no more than two feet in front of him.
Sudden, acute, and forceful need expanded like a blast inside her. Melting her reticence and concern. Obliterating fear and denial. Consuming all but the driving hunger to have him.
Sangbleu! She was in serious trouble.
But she’d gone too far to turn back now. The path had been set. Her purpose fully formed. It was clear by his posture and demeanor that he had come here to offer himself to her—despite knowing who she was. It was a gift she could not refuse.
She didn’t say a word as she started toward him, the sound of her boots announcing her arrival. His only response was a ripple of tension that spread through his abdomen.
Charlotte’s mouth watered. She had to see more of him.
“Hands behind your head,” she ordered in a moderate but firm tone, clinging to the French accent she’d previously employed in this room. The truth may be known, but there was something vital to the facade she’d created. Vital to her.
“Oui, Madame,” he replied readily, his voice textured and low. Then he lifted his arms to link his hands behind his head, forcing a lowering of his chin that was quite beautiful. But she still wanted more.
Stepping toward him—close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body—she extended one foot into the space between his knees, nudging first to one side then the other, indicating without words what she wanted.
The muscles of his thighs bunched deliciously as he spread his knees farther and farther until she hummed quietly in satisfaction.
Her hungry gaze took in the play of light on his sculpted form, the fine sheen of sweat already covering his skin, the rapid pulse at his throat.
Following some dark inner impulse, she slowly trailed her finger along the cord of muscle that ran from his jaw to his collarbone, tracing the path of that pulse, gathering a hint of moisture from his skin.
Without hesitation, she brought her finger to her lips, tasting the male saltines on her tongue.
Though he could not see her performing the action, she suspected he imagined it as the muscles of his arms bulged and his knuckles whitened. The effort he had to put forth to prevail over his instincts and hold his position was admirable.
She wanted so badly to ask him why he’d come back. She was desperate to know why he hadn’t exposed her at the ball. He’d have had every right and some would say an obligation to call out her less-than-virtuous behavior.
Yet, he was here—kneeling before her—of his own will and desire.
And in the silence of her internal contemplation, he remained patient. Eyes lowered. Breath deep and even, if not slightly quickened. Body tense in readiness.
It was the tension in him that finally urged her forward. He was waiting for something. Something only she could provide. It was her responsibility to satisfy his desires. And there was another need whispering inside her. He had bestowed his trust in her.
It was time she did the same.
She took a step back. “Stand, mon grand.”
“Oui, Madame.”
She watched his body unfold as he pushed himself to his feet without removing his hands from their position. The tightening then releasing of different muscle groups drew her gaze like a fluttering moth to the dangerous promise of death.
When he stilled again with his feet braced wide, his chest stretched and exposed, and his arousal pressed against the material of his breeches, Charlotte found herself suddenly desperate to have his hands on her.
To give something of herself as he gave to her.
To reveal some of the woman behind the mask.
But she recalled how devastating his stolen caresses had been last time. She’d have to be careful.
“My next instruction must be heeded carefully,” she warned, her voice lowering intimately. “Remember…if you do not behave, we do not continue.”
“Oui, Madame.”
Was there a slight tremor in his reply?
Turning in place, Charlotte gave him her back as she lifted her chin, arching her neck just a bit. “Remove the pins from my hair.”
There was a subtle pause. A breath. A moment. “Oui, Madame,” he whispered, his voice roughened.
She felt him step closer—his warmth bathing her back.
Then a delicate tug against her scalp. Then another and another.
He was very careful not to pull her hair, his touch was light and purposeful and ever-so-gentle.
And bit by bit, her tresses were released, falling down her back in small pieces at first and then altogether in a heavy wave.
The sound he made when her hair was fully freed—a low, growly grunt of pleasure—sent a shiver down her spine.
“Bien joue,” she murmured in soft praise. “Now, use your fingers to comb through the length, removing any remaining pins and tangles.”
He did not utter the words she required, but Charlotte’s anticipation of his touch was too great to concern herself with the infraction.
He started near the ends and worked his way slowly and deliberately toward her scalp.
The occasional snarl caused momentary discomfort, but Charlotte was far too lost in the pleasure of his attention and the way her nerves came alive with every stroke and tug.
The first time he dragged his blunt fingernails against her scalp, she gasped a breath and released it in a sigh before she could stop herself.
But a moment later he encountered the ties of her mask, still twisted through her tresses.
She felt him hesitate, as if he contemplated removing the irrelevant disguise.
She went completely still, waiting for his decision.
When she felt his fingers pull through the length of her hair again—ignoring the ties—she felt undeniable relief.
They would maintain the facade. For a little longer, anyway.