Chapter 14
Moonlight spilled over the open veranda, lighting most of its length, but within the garden, beneath the oaks, there was only blissful darkness.
It was precisely the haven Jessie sought, and she quickly made her way into the shadows, grateful for having escaped the crush without having gained anyone’s notice.
Beguiled by the peace of her surroundings, she stood gazing wistfully into the lantern lit gardens as the soothing strains of a familiar ballad drifted through the air. For an instant she was lost in reverie.
If only things had been different.
Perhaps she, too, would be within... dancing gaily under the dazzling chandeliers... in his arms... gazing lovingly into his remarkable eyes.
But it was not to be.
And she was no child to muse away her life on shattered dreams.
Sighing wistfully, she drew the domino mask from her head and stared at it.
Most of the guests wore one in lieu of a full costume, for fine cloth was not so easily procured here.
Her own was gold and silver to match her gown, and though it was truly a work of art, it looked rather dismal with its pouty mouth and exotic eyes. No matter, it matched her mood.
Lord Christian Haukinge was a contemptible blackguard, a swine, a lecher. He was every woman’s nightmare.
The problem was she loved him still.
The music faded and she came aware of another sound in the distance—the gentle rushing of water from a garden fountain.
It was such a peaceful, lulling sound that when the music recommenced, a minuet, seemingly louder than before, it grated on her nerves and she went in search of the font.
Following the well-worn garden path, she left behind the sounds of the masquerade and entered the serenity of the central garden.
The font was there in the heart of the hedged enclosure, water spouting from its moonlit core, cascading into an illuminated pool.
The scent of wild honeysuckle and roses wafted sweetly upon the air, filling her senses—making her forget, if only for the instant.
Hidden in shadow, Christian watched as she passed him. At the font, she removed her glove and like some bloody seductress, slid her bare fingers into the curtain of water. She sighed softly as she brought the moisture to her skin, cooling her wonderfully soft flesh.
Damn him, but he couldn’t seem to forget the feel of her.
Her performance was such a seductive one that he found himself at once aroused.
And then again, he thought ruefully, it didn’t seem to take much.
He needed only remember the day they’d lain together under the elm tree.
.. the way she’d trembled at his touch..
. the expression upon her face as she’d come to completion. ..
It haunted him still.
He clenched his jaw and thrust the image away.
It served no purpose to remember now.
He glanced away, unable to bear the sight of her.
The image of Ben Stone, the way he’d held her this afternoon, twisted his gut.
He shouldn’t care—didn’t want to care—but devil hang him if he didn’t.
Like metal to a lodestone, his gaze returned to the font, drawn despite his resolve against it.
He watched her sway seductively against the cement monstrosity, her face upturned to the inky sky as she caressed her neck with the moistened tips of her fingers.
Inexplicable anger surged within him. Did she know he was watching?
He thought it likely so—no doubt another devilish form of torture she’d devised. All evening she’d danced so light-heartedly, smiled so brilliantly with all her beaux—as though nothing in the world troubled her.
And aye, she’d managed to make his heart bleed all over again.
Before he could be tempted to go to her, he sat upon the ironwork bench, watching. God help him, he was drawn to her like a drunkard to wine, knowing she was no good for him, and yet... craving her with a need that was too painful to deny.
This time he would resist.
Closing her eyes, Jessie wished herself away from the smiling faces and blissful couples she envied so.
Though she was glad for them, it was much too difficult to watch their gaiety when every promise of happiness had vanished from her life. Lord, how she wished she’d never set eyes upon him again—more than that, even, she wished she’d never known him at all.
If only she’d known then what she knew now—that he was a contemptible blackguard who cared only for his own mean pleasures. He’d used her heartlessly, without so much as a thought for her feelings.
From the bottom of her soul she wished herself back in time.
.. so that she might undo her mistakes—or, at the very least, prayed she would open her eyes and find it had all been a dreadful nightmare, that she would awaken and find herself capable of feeling again.
Turning her face up to the stars, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a fervent, “I wish...”
“What is it you wish, m’mselle?” a painfully familiar voice inquired, startling her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and for a moment she was paralyzed with dread. Panicking at the thought of facing him again, she drew the domino mask over her face at once and spun around.
She had to search a moment to spy him.
He was seated upon the arm of an ornately carved bench, his arms crossed, his legs spread before him, linked casually at the ankles.
He stood slowly, flinging a lit cheroot upon the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before coming forward out of the shadows, regarding her all the while with an expression of supreme boredom.
Please, Lord, she begged, don’t let him realize it is me.
Her heart thundered painfully. She glanced about anxiously, hoping for a hasty retreat. God curse them, her feet refused to move. And then it was too late, he was standing before her.
His dark lashes fell momentarily, masking his eyes, and then he glanced up once more, meeting her gaze directly. “You were wishing for?”
Her nerves were near the breaking point, and his scrutiny managed to fragment her composure completely.
Should she lie? Should she run? The truth barreled out. “I-I was merely indulging in a whim, my lord. Woolgathering you might say.” She frowned behind her mask, hoping he wouldn’t read the truth behind her words.
His gaze left her as he considered her answer, and in that brief instant Jessie was able to observe him unheeded.
He was as handsome as ever—God curse him for that. Dressed in black, he blended consummately with the night. Like Ben. Unlike the other guests, however, he wore neither costume nor mask. She prayed he didn’t know it was her.
But when he looked at her again it was with narrowed eyes, and his cold, unmerciful gaze took her breath away.
In that discomfiting instant, she knew..
. concealing her face from him was pointless.
Her mask might have been made of glass, for all it seemed to conceal.
His gaze converged upon the glove she’d removed from her hand, and then reverted to the font, lingering there an excruciating moment before returning to her.
His smile was chilling. “You make an alluring picture, my love,” he said at last. “Tell me... was that performance entirely for my benefit... or would you by chance be meeting a lover?”
His question stung like a slap to the face.
Her eyes misted traitorously at his accusation.
“I-I was merely seeking air,” she told him, suppressing the urge to slap his wickedly handsome face.
She wanted to kick at him, and rail at him, and might have given in to such childish ravings had her dress not restricted her so.
She loathed these trappings, loathed the social order that forbade an open show of her anger.
God help her, but she wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her!
“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said instead, her hands trembling. “I-I believe I shall leave you to your solitude—my apologies if I have intruded!” With halted breath, she stepped around him, but he caught her arm and drew her back.
Jessie gave a cry of despair as he snatched the hood from her head. She snatched it back, her fingers tightening about the gold and silver cloth as a cruel smile touched his lips. His grip tightened upon her arm.
“Release me!” She jerked her arm free, and lifted her skirts to bolt past him, but his hand shot out once more, seizing her wrist, jerking her backward.
Her heart lurched. “Please,” she whispered, desperate to be away from him. “Let me go...”
“Nay, damn you!”
God help him, he couldn’t.
And damn him, too, because he shouldn’t have to think of her every waking moment—because he shouldn’t want to touch her even now—because he shouldn’t know the compelling desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
He’d come to the garden for a minute’s solitude, away from her haunting green gaze, her ingenuous smiles, only to have that peace intruded upon by none other than his tormentor herself.
Had she truly thought to hide behind that silly mask of hers? Foolish—one need only glimpse into those witch’s eyes to know her.
Only a blind man could not see.
“Damn you, Jessamine!” he swore again, drawing her to him and crushing her against him.
She cried out but did not resist him at once.
“Damn you, damn you... damn you,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers.
“Don’t!” she cried, and tried to break free. “No!” He paused briefly to look into her eyes, and then his gaze fell to her mouth, lingering there.
“Jess,” he said, lifting a dark curl that had fallen from her coif and stroking it between his thumb and forefinger.
He put his finger to her mouth, caressing her lips, wandering to her cheek, stroking it softly as he held her gaze.
Shivers coursed down her spine.
Jessie wasn’t aware he released her until both of his hands tangled within her hair. His fingers curled about her neck, holding her steady for his kiss.