Chapter Nine #2
He most certainly had not slept well. He’d spent the night pacing his study, drinking brandy he couldn’t taste, and trying desperately not to think about the warmth of her mouth or the soft sound she’d made when he’d pulled her against him.
“Well enough,” he lied, moving to the sideboard to fill a plate he had no appetite for. “And you?”
“Quite well, thank you.” She took a delicate bite of toast, then reached for the teapot. “Would you like some? It’s still hot.”
The domesticity of the moment felt surreal. Here she was, pouring tea and discussing sleep as if he hadn’t kissed her senseless in the entrance hall. As if he hadn’t sent her to bed alone with barely controlled desperation in his voice.
“Thank you.” He accepted the cup, their fingers not quite touching as she passed it to him and settled into his chair. The silence stretched between them, comfortable on her part, excruciating on his.
He should apologize. Should explain his behavior, though explaining would require revealing truths he wasn’t prepared to share. Should do something other than sit here pretending everything was perfectly normal when they both knew it wasn’t.
But before he could formulate words that wouldn’t make everything worse, Ashley set down her teacup with a soft clink.
“I wanted to remind you about Lady Summerton’s masquerade ball tonight,” she said, her tone so casually conversational it made his head spin. “I know you’d marked it in your diary, but with everything that happened yesterday, I thought it worth mentioning.”
The masquerade. Christ, he’d completely forgotten. Lady Summerton’s annual ball was one of the Season’s most anticipated events—elaborate costumes, ornate masks, enough champagne flowing to drown propriety. Attendance was expected, particularly for someone of his rank.
“Yes, of course.” He took a sip of tea, grateful for something to do with his hands. “I remember.”
“I’ve selected my costume already,” Ashley continued, spreading jam on another piece of toast with maddening composure. “A gypsy fortune teller. Farah helped me put it together—lots of scarves and jewelry, quite dramatic really. I think you’ll approve.”
Raven’s mind immediately conjured an image of Ashley draped in colorful silks, silks he could tie her to his bedhead with, and he firmly suppressed it. The last thing he needed was more fuel for the fantasies that had kept him awake all night.
“I’m sure it will be lovely,” he managed.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him over her teacup. “But I realized this morning that I have no idea what you’re planning to wear. Did you want my help in selecting a mask and costume? I know gentlemen sometimes find such things tedious.”
The question was so perfectly mundane, so utterly divorced from the charged intimacy of last night, that Raven felt as if he’d stepped into a farce.
How could she sit there discussing costume choices when he could still taste her on his lips?
When the memory of her body pressed against his was burned into his brain?
“I…hadn’t given it much thought,” he admitted. Which was true—he’d been rather occupied with other concerns. “Perhaps something simple. A domino and mask.”
Ashley’s expression suggested mild disappointment. “That’s what every gentleman wears when they can’t be bothered to make an effort. Lady Summerton specifically requests elaborate costumes. It’s rather the point of the evening.”
“Then what would you suggest?” The words came out more tersely than he’d intended, his frayed nerves making patience difficult.
If she noticed his tone, she gave no indication. Instead, she tilted her head thoughtfully, studying him in a way that made him acutely aware of his rumpled appearance. He hadn’t shaved yet, and his cravat was tied with less than his usual precision.
“A highwayman, perhaps?” she suggested. “You have the height and bearing for it. All dark and dangerous and mysterious. It would pair well with my gypsy costume—we’d look quite dramatic together.”
Dark and dangerous. If she only knew how accurate that description was. How dark his desires ran; how dangerous he could be to her sensibilities.
“A highwayman,” he repeated slowly. “That seems rather…villainous.”
“It’s a masquerade, Raven. Everyone is supposed to be a bit villainous for one night.” Her eyes held a glimmer of something—amusement? Challenge? “Besides, you’d look very handsome in a tricorn hat and cape. Quite dashing, actually.”
The compliment, delivered so casually, sent an unexpected warmth through his chest. When had Ashley ever called him handsome? When had she looked at him with anything other than careful politeness or—as last night—desperate hope?
“Very well,” he heard himself say. “A highwayman it is. Though I’ll need assistance finding appropriate costume pieces on such short notice.”
“Simpson and I can manage it,” Ashley said confidently. “Give your valet a description of what you want, and we’ll have something suitable by this afternoon. The man is remarkably resourceful.”
“He is that.” Raven found himself relaxing slightly, drawn into the easy conversation despite his exhaustion. “How long have you been planning your costume?”
“Two weeks.” A hint of mischief crossed her features. “I wanted something that would make an impression. Stand out from the usual shepherdesses and Greek goddesses that populate every masquerade.”
She would certainly stand out. Ashley always stood out, whether she intended to or not. Even in her subdued morning dress, with her hair simply arranged and no jewelry adorning her throat, she was luminous. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache.
“You always make an impression,” he said quietly, the words escaping before he could consider their wisdom.
Something flickered in her expression—surprise, perhaps, or pleasure. But it was gone so quickly he might have imagined it. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
“It’s not kindness. It’s fact.” He set down his teacup, suddenly needing to say something, anything, to acknowledge what had happened between them. “Ashley, about last night—”
“Yes?” Her gaze met his directly, no hint of embarrassment or accusation. Just calm attention.
The words tangled in his throat. What could he say? I’m sorry I kissed you would be a lie. I’m sorry I stopped would reveal too much. I’m sorry I’m not the husband you deserve was closer to the truth but would only lead to questions he couldn’t answer.
“The opera,” he said finally, taking the coward’s path. “Your gown was…that is, you looked…” He struggled to find words that wouldn’t sound either condemning or too revealing of how much he’d been affected. “Very beautiful.”
“Thank you.” No trace of triumph in her voice, no acknowledgment that her scandalous dress had accomplished exactly what she’d intended—capturing his complete and agonized attention. “I’m glad you thought so. I was concerned it might be too bold.”
Too bold. That was one way to describe a dress that had made every man in the opera house stare at his wife with barely concealed lust. That had made him want to throw his coat over her shoulders and hide her from view. That had made him kiss her with a hunger he’d been suppressing for months.
“It was certainly memorable,” he said carefully.
“Good.” She finished her tea and rose from the table with natural grace. “Memorable is what I was aiming for. Now, shall I have Simpson come find you about the costume? Or would you prefer to handle it yourself?”
“Send him to my study in an hour.” Raven stood as well, manners ingrained despite his confusion. “I should review some correspondence first.”
“Of course.” Ashley moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at him. “Raven? I hope you enjoy the masquerade tonight. Sometimes it’s easier to be honest when we’re wearing masks. When we can pretend to be someone else for an evening.”
The observation was so astute it made his breath catch. Was that why she’d chosen a gypsy costume? So, she could hide behind the persona of someone bold and mysterious, someone who could read fortunes and see hidden truths?
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said quietly.
She smiled—a real smile this time, warm and genuine. “I usually am. About these things, at least.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone with cold toast and the lingering scent of her perfume. Raven sank back into his chair, his mind reeling.
What game was Ashley playing? Last night she’d been passionate, demanding honesty and pushing every boundary. This morning, she was serene and practical, discussing costume choices as if they were nothing more than cordial acquaintances preparing for a social engagement.
But her parting words suggested something else entirely. Sometimes it’s easier to be honest when we’re wearing masks.
What did she plan to say to him tonight, hidden behind a gypsy’s disguise? What truths might she speak when everyone around them was pretending to be someone else?
And more terrifyingly—what truths might he reveal in return, dressed as a dark and dangerous highwayman, his face concealed, his identity obscured?
The masquerade suddenly seemed far more perilous than any social obligation had a right to be.
Raven finished his now-cold tea and rose to seek the sanctuary of his study. He had correspondence to review, estate matters to attend to, and approximately twelve hours to prepare himself for an evening that felt increasingly like walking into a trap of his own making.
A trap baited with silk scarves, mysterious smiles, and a wife who seemed determined to unravel every carefully constructed defense he possessed.
God help him, he was so looking forward to it.