Chapter 2
The hum of music and chattering voices faded as Heather made her way across the terrace. The sweet fragrance of late spring flowers carried on the breeze that cooled her heated skin. She padded on slippered feet to the waist-high granite railing and gazed up at the dark sky.
It was a pity that one couldn’t see the stars when in town. More was the pity that she might never lament the loss again, for she mightn’t ever return to London.
Her stomach swooped, and her chest tightened, but she swiftly dismissed the thought as ludicrous. In the past week, she and Percy had trained relentlessly in combat, enough that she felt confident in her ability to defend herself should the need arise.
Truthfully, it was the loss of her plants that she mourned. After much debate, the earl had capitulated and had given her permission to bring several of her plants aboard the ship. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
She rounded the railing and stepped onto the garden path, letting the fragrance of the flowers lure her. The voices and music faded entirely, leaving just her own footsteps on the gravelled path and a gentle breeze to fill her ears.
When her parents had passed, Heather had inherited numerous plants—in various states of germination—from their studies in botany.
And while her dear friend Juliana had promised to keep the remainder of Heather’s plants safe at Woodhaven Hall, where her new husband had remarkable conservatories, it neither brought Heather joy nor sufficiently eased her mind.
Or her heart. Since her parents’ death, her plants, her friends, and her aspirations on Bow Street were the only things that brought meaning to her life.
In the event of an emergency, many of her plants would prove useful, but predicting those emergencies, and knowing which ones to bring with her, had proven difficult.
From what little she’d already learned, some of her plants could provide nourishment while others could treat wounds, but she didn’t yet know enough of the practice of an apothecary to determine which was which.
Prior to being ensnared by the Earl of Shite and taking on her significant assignment, she’d hoped to broaden her collection of plants, with the specific intention of providing healing herbs, tinctures, and whatnot to the women of Bow Street.
She had fully intended to become their permanent provider of medicinal plants—dried or fresh, as required.
For now, however, and despite the ache it put in her heart, she would turn her focus to uncovering proof of the earl’s iniquitous dealings.
Stopping in her tracks, Heather touched her fingertips to the bud of a pink rose.
“It’s a lovely evening,” a deep, rumbling growl said from behind her.
Heather spun, her heart in her throat and her body poised for attack, staring through the obscurity at a man…dressed as a peacock.
Amusement relaxed her tense muscles. Feathers stuck out at all angles from his coat, and the purple of his waistcoat seemed somehow bright under the moon’s hazy glow.
There, however, was where the ridiculousness of his costume ended.
His legs were thick and muscular, his shoulders impossibly broad, and his neck—blimey—his neck had incredible girth.
Gloved hands double the size of hers hung at his sides, and his eyes glittered darkly behind his domino.
Beneath the mask, his lips were full, and quirked up in a cocksure grin as though the man knew precisely how his visage made women feel.
Even obscured by the darkness of night, this man was a sight. She knew large men—Percy, for example was particularly large—but, despite the plumage, this man cut a dashing figure that made her breath quicken.
“I did not hear you approach, sir,” she said breathily.
His smile grew, revealing gleaming white teeth. “My apologies for startling you, madam.”
“What are you doing out in the gardens?” Foolish question, Heather.
“Going for a walk. Escaping the heat of the ballroom,” he whispered. His gaze swept over her, from the tips of the black ribbons in her hair to the hem of her black, feather-adorned dress. “You?”
Her breath caught in her throat at the flare of heat in his dark gaze. Her friends had been right on that score—she did know that this man was interested. “The same.”
“You ventured into the gardens alone?” His voice was a breathy growl.
“Yes,” she replied on a gasp. For pity’s sake, Heather, pull yourself together!
Tingles prickled along her skin as she took in the man’s relaxed stance. There was no doubt in her mind that he would give her the last night she so desired and boost her confidence before her assignment.
She boldly took a step closer to him as the wind ruffled the feathers upon his coat and carried his impossible scent to her. Absurdly, she imagined that he smelled of salt—like the ocean’s spray—and soap. It was intriguing, alluring…and achingly familiar.
She stepped yet nearer, and his gaze darkened on hers. It became more evident the closer she drew just how very tall the man was. Despite her own substantial height, her forehead scarcely reached his chin.
Who was this man? Part of her was desirous to peek beneath his domino, but there was something decidedly thrilling about an anonymous flirtation.
A delicious heat melted low in her belly. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating off his body.
Blimey, but they had scarcely exchanged a few words in the dark and she was fully prepared to give him her virtue. In fact, she was attempting to seduce him.
Percy’s pulse fluttered in his chest, his every nerve attuned to the mysterious woman’s movements and his stiffening cock wedged firmly between his thigh and his too-tight breeches. The woman stirred the scent of flowers around her as she approached, their bodies very nearly touching.
Christ, but she was skilled at seduction.
And Percy was eager to be seduced. The daringly low-cut bodice, long black silk gloves, and matching feathered frock told him that she was a widow—a young one, at that—and likely well-versed in the art of the tryst. That was a relief, for he couldn’t taint a woman’s reputation with his name.
But a widow of middling reputation—fuck knows a lady wouldn’t venture out into the gardens alone—understood the way of society and the risks involved in a tryst.
“Does your wife await your presence in the ballroom?” she asked coyly.
He shook his head in one swift movement. “I’m unattached.”
A low, purring hum sounded from deep in her throat, and Percy’s cods tightened.
Her hair, of indeterminate colour, waved in the breeze, catching the moon’s hazy glow.
Another flash of a challenging gaze and a thick, shapely form raced through his mind’s eye, and his shoulders stiffened.
It was dark, but from what he could see of this woman, she carried herself like one who’d experienced much of the world—and had a similar physique to a certain student of his who had been inappropriately occupying his thoughts of late.
It would be wise, in this instance, to take this widow up on her offer, for evidently it had been too long.
“What is your name?” Percy blurted, his voice far lower than he recognised.
The widow’s full lips widened, and eyes of indistinguishable colour gleamed with mischief behind her mask.
“Ah-ah,” she chided on a whisper. “You mustn’t break the rules of the masque.”
He matched her grin and murmured, “You follow the rules, do you, madam?”
Her gaze burned into his as she inched closer. “The rules of the masque, indeed, must always be followed. However”—she hesitated, and his heart faltered—“the rules of society? Most assuredly not.”
A groan escaped him, unbidden. “A woman after my own heart.”
With a gloved hand, she reached up to touch one of the ridiculous peacock feathers that adorned his coat, her gaze heated. “And what if I desire something other than your heart?”
He cursed under his breath. Whatever this woman wanted, it was hers.
Her words were so soft, Percy strained his ears to hear over the rush of his own pulse.
“Kiss me.”
Without another word, Percy swept down and captured her lips with his. At the very back of his mind, he was dimly aware of their masks knocking together, but his attention was narrowed onto the feel of her and—Christ—his body’s reaction.
Lips as soft as the petals of a flower parted beneath his, her tongue matching his movements with tentative, explorative flicks. She tasted like champagne, flowers, and sin. And he bloody loved it. His cock throbbed, painfully hard against his hip, and his stomach buzzed with anticipation.
Percy was Achilles, and this widow was his heel. He was utterly helpless in the face of such intense longing.
Voices sounded from the terrace, and, with regret, Percy drew back. Without breaking their gaze, he touched the tips of his callused fingers to her jaw, and a shiver wracked her frame.
“Would you care to join me for a stroll deeper into the gardens?” The question was innocent enough, but his voice was thick with arousal.
“The gazebo,” she breathed.
He linked her hand around his elbow and led her down the garden’s path. The thrum of anticipation and desire beneath his skin was like banked coals, hot and ready to ignite.
They wove between the flowerbeds and shrubberies, making their way through the darkness. The air was cool against his heated skin, and the gravelled path crunched beneath their feet.
Heart thumping madly, he scanned the shadows, ensuring their solitude before drawing her within. The gazebo glowed milky white in the moonlight, and despite its shrouded interior, his eyes adjusted swiftly. The fragrance of flowers followed them inside.
His senses were alive. Hell, but it had been far too long since he’d had a woman.