Chapter 2
Oh no! This cannot be good.
Her eyes snapped open as she not only heard but also felt the deep voice reverberate behind her.
Slowly, she turned, keeping her hand on the door handle, and for the first time, took in the room she had sought refuge in.
A low fire burned in the hearth a few feet away, and atop the white marble mantel, two taper candles sat, casting the dimmest light over the man seated before her.
Though she could make out his form, his features were otherwise cast in shadows, creating a dangerous aura about him that made Elara shiver.
“I am waiting,” that deep, husky voice stated.
“I... it was a mistake, Your... Your Grace,” Elara answered, her voice suddenly trembling as her hand turned the door handle. “I entered the wrong room. I bid you good evening.”
She assumed the man before her was the Duke of Ashworth himself. She did not wait for confirmation, though.
She turned quickly as she pulled the door open, but before it could move more than an inch, a sudden force from behind slammed it shut.
Sweat erupted on Elara’s brow as she felt rather than saw the man’s close presence.
Heat radiated from his large figure as if he were fire itself, and she did not need to turn around to know that his body was a mere inch away from her own.
“Not so soon, little demoness,” the man purred, sending another tremor down Elara’s spine. “First, you must tell me why you were so eager to find me that you came to my room.”
Elara drew in a trembling breath, catching the alluring scents of vetiver, juniper, and musk. The combination did strange things to her senses, nearly distracting her as she did her best to swallow the fear gathering in her throat.
How can I be so afraid of someone yet so enticed by his scent at the same time?
Slowly, she turned around. The first thing she noticed was that she had to crane her neck to meet green eyes behind a plain black eye mask.
The mask accentuated his high cheekbones and well-defined yet plump lips, drawn into a straight line.
A high-collared black shirt and jacket accentuated his sharp, clean jawline.
His hair, which in the dim light she could only assume was either dark brown or black like hers, was cut short and styled in the latest side-part fashion.
Under any other circumstances, Elara wagered she would have found him handsome. However, his quickness to trap her between him and the door unnerved her, and she cared less about his looks than about his intentions.
“I told you,” she said, trying to sound calm. “It was a mere mistake. I was meant to be... elsewhere.”
The man’s forest-green eyes glittered with interest as his lips tugged into a smirk, and he shook his head.
“I do not believe you,” he replied.
Through her fear, Elara felt a flicker of her bravery return, and she set her hands on her hips as she squared her shoulders.
“Are you so arrogant as to assume that someone like me would come looking for a man like you?” she retorted.
To her surprise, a chuckle broke from the Duke’s lips.
“Everyone who has been invited to one of my parties knows the rules that are required to be followed when permitted in my home,” the Duke replied, leaning closer.
“One such rule is that guests are only permitted on the first and second floors of my home. To enter this floor risks a grave punishment.”
Elara opened her mouth to speak, but faltered. She had found a flaw in her plan and had not heard a rumor of such rules.
“Therefore, my little demoness, I must deduce that you are here not by invitation but by way of your own invention. You snuck in somehow, yes?”
“I...” Elara breathed, her heart racing in her chest as she realized she had been caught. And by the man she had come to spy on, no less. “That is not true.”
“And what other reason would a woman have to risk such feats to invade my chambers unless it was to see me and beg me for a taste of heaven?”
Elara stopped trembling then and deadpanned.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked.
“You have heard the rumors, no doubt,” the Duke whispered, reaching up to caress her jawline with his knuckles.
His touch made her shiver with pleasure, a reaction that both alarmed and worried her. He was a stranger, after all, as well as the man she suspected of hurting Evander. He had no right to evoke such feelings in her and yet…
“The... the rumors?”
“Of the pleasure I am capable of drawing out of a woman?”
It was Elara who let out a laugh this time. She had to mentally shove the pleasure from his touch down and slapped his hand away from her face.
“You truly must be the most rakish of cads if you have to say such a thing rather than trust the truth of it,” she shot back. “Surely, if you were as good as you say, I would already have been throwing myself at your feet.”
She made a show of looking down between them, then looked back at him with an impish smirk.
“But look at that, Your Grace. I am still standing.”
The Duke of Ashworth’s deep, rumbling chuckle sent butterflies fluttering in Elara’s lower belly.
“What a spitfire you are,” he said, as if impressed.
He then swept his gaze down her costume, and Elara felt every inch of her body heat up as his eyes slowly made their way back up her red silk-wrapped figure.
His brazen gaze then lingered shamelessly on her breasts, which, to her surprise and offense, made her nipples tighten, and her flesh feel suddenly sensitive against her corset.
She refused to let the shiver take over her when his eyes eventually made their way upward again, taking in her collarbone, her throat, and finally, meeting her eyes.
“That is what you are, are you not?” the Duke asked.
Elara blinked, then blushed.
“What... what are you saying?” she asked snappily.
“Your costume. You are a flame,” the Duke stated.
Elara swallowed as her heart began to hammer again.
“Yes,” she answered, trying to sound calm.
“I wonder...” the Duke mused, slowly bringing his hand up to her face again. “Would you burn my flesh if I were to touch you?”
Despite the sudden, deep curiosity about what the man’s hands could make her body feel if he were permitted to do more than caress her jaw, Elara gritted her teeth and pressed her back even more into the door behind her.
“If you touch me, I shall scream,” she replied through clenched teeth. “That is what will happen. I am not some paramour of yours to play with at will.”
“Is that so?” The sound of intrigue rumbled from deep within the man’s broad chest. “I was rather hoping you might,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers.
The sound of his voice suddenly changed.
It was still deep, almost animalistic. Yet there was a sense of wonder in his tone.
Perhaps even a touch of desperation for her to be as she was.
It intrigued Elara deeply. So much so that she did not notice at first that his hand had gradually drawn back toward her face, or that the very edge of his fingertips had made contact with her mask.
His finger trailed slowly down her cheek and along the curve of her neck, and though she willed herself still, a shiver moved through her that she could not suppress.
“Tell me who you are,” he commanded, though there was no gruffness to his tone.
Elara swallowed.
“You do not need to know who I am,” she whispered, feeling her panic start to grow. “This is a masquerade, after all.”
Another deviant smile twitched across his lips.
“Oh, but I do. I must know who dares speak to me so freely as you do,” he replied.
It was then that Elara felt her mask shift on her cheeks, felt his hand brush against the side of her face as he lifted it upward.
“No!” she exclaimed.
Her arms shot out before she could think of the repercussions, and she pushed at him.
She expected him to fall back or at least stumble, but when her palms met hard slabs of warm muscle wrapped beneath a gentleman’s attire, the Duke did not even budge an inch.
Instead, he barked out another laugh, used her twisting to his advantage, and removed her mask.
His laughter ceased immediately, however, and when Elara glared up at him, she saw he was no longer smiling either.
“You.” He gritted it, his lips sneering back with disgust. “What are you doing in my house?”