Lady Rogue (25 page)

“How goes the battle?”

“I believe I’m being tolerated. He liked me at one time, I’m certain.”

“You weren’t trying to become a member of his household then.”

The baron managed a chuckle. “True enough. Is Kit about? If he could manage a smile at Caroline, he might improve my odds of being accepted.”

Alex barely refrained from giving in to his urge to glance at Christine. “Kit wasn’t feeling quite the thing, and decided to stay in for the evening.”

Reg nodded his chin in the direction of the dance floor. “So who is Lady Masquerade?”

With a slight, bracing breath, Alex turned to look at her again. “Don’t have a clue. I was about to ask you the same question.”

Kit gracefully turned about the room in time to the music, while sweat shone off of Hague’s receded pate
as he attempted to keep up with her. Served the buffoon right for stepping in where he wasn’t needed, or wanted. She had better have saved him a waltz.

“By the by,” Reg commented, his tone wary enough to snap Alex’s attention back to him, “Augustus cornered Barbara for twenty minutes earlier, asking about your impending marriage.”

Blast it, he’d nearly forgotten about that. “What did he want?”

“No idea. If you two were speaking, you could ask him yourself.”

“Ah,” the earl returned, annoyed, “but then I wouldn’t need you.” He sighed. “Do me a favor, will you?”

“I owe you enough of them. Speak and be obeyed.”

“Keep Furth away from me tonight.” As he intended on remaining as close as possible to Christine for the remainder of the evening, the request should also serve to keep the duke away from his niece.

“Aye, my lord, I’ll do my best. And I don’t blame you. He’s not pleased that you won’t give him a name.” The baron frowned. “And neither am I, come to think of it. I know you’re the devious mastermind, but you occasionally used to tell me what was going on.”

“I know, and I will. But not tonight.”

“We don’t have much ti—”

“Go deliver your punch, boy,” he ordered, only half joking.

“Not very subtle, but all right.” Reg grinned, then strolled back toward the Brantleys.

Impatiently Alex turned to the dance floor again. He’d never heard a deuced country dance last so long as this one. As Christine turned she glanced at him again, and he felt as though sparks must be coming off his skin. The dance ended, and he headed toward her to claim the next round. Francis, though, was already standing before her, and with a regal nod and a smile she placed a hand on his shoulder as the orchestra struck up a waltz.

With a growl Alex spun on his heel and acquired a glass of punch from a rather startled footman. He
downed it at one go, wishing heartily that it had been a brandy. Trying to ignore her, though he seemed to conjure her every step in his mind even with his back to her, he strolled about the fringes of the room, greeting various acquaintances and making an attempt to keep most of the room between Furth and himself. It had been bad enough before. Three hours ago he had thought he would go mad if he couldn’t have her before she left. Now he was ready to murder Francis Henning for placing a gloved hand on her clothed waist. He tried not to watch her through four more dances, failing miserably to ignore her every move, her every gesture.

Finally he tracked down a glass of port and was making short work of it when a hand touched his shoulder. “My lord,” a light, feminine voice said from close behind him, “I believe you are about to miss our waltz.”

Without a word he returned the half-empty glass to a footman’s tray, and turned around. Emerald eyes, lit with excitement and passion, caught his from behind the beaded half mask.

“Am I?” he replied. “How very uncouth of me.” He held out his hand, and Christine slipped burgundy-gloved fingers into his and allowed him to lead her onto the floor as the orchestra struck up the waltz.

Her hand was shaking a little, and he reflected with some satisfaction that she must be suffering through the same reaction as he. Gerald’s lessons in the waltz had paid off. She moved like liquid night in his arms. Perfectly together, perfectly in sync, it was as though they had waltzed in one another’s embrace a thousand times before. Her skin smelled faintly of lavender, and he was pleased, if unsurprised. He hadn’t expected her to select a heavy French perfume like the kind Barbara favored.

“Did you see Gerald and Ivy come in after me?” she murmured. “After I dressed, I think Gerald became a little less enthusiastic about the whole thing.”

“I hadn’t noticed them,” he answered truthfully, though he could understand Gerald’s sentiments. He hated these other men gawking at her. “You are astounding.”

Her cheeks took on a soft flush deeper than her delicate rouge. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Tonight I feel…beautiful.”

Alex smiled down at her. “Only beautiful?” he teased, dazzled by the enchantress in his arms. “By God, I felt safer when you were in breeches.”

“Safer?” she repeated, tilting her head to one side to contemplate him. “Are you still afraid of me, then, Sir Wolf’s Head?”

“I am trembling, my Lady Masquerade,” he murmured. And she was, as well. Her ruby lips gave him back a shy, sensuous smile, and it was with great effort that he kept from bending his head down and kissing her. He was holding her far closer than proper custom dictated, her burgundy skirt swirling about his black Hessian boots. He seemed aware of everything about her: her quickened breathing, her half-parted, smiling lips, how tightly she held his hand, the warmth of her other hand on his shoulder. Trembling he might be, but it was not with fear.

The waltz ended, and he brought her to a standstill. Reluctant to release her now that he had her, Alex kept hold of one hand and transferred it to his arm. “Who is next on your dance card, my lady?” he queried with forced lightness. Tonight was for her, after all, whatever he might wish.

Christine shook her head. “No one, my lord.” She glanced about the room. “I do wonder,” she continued, “if you would accompany me out to the balcony for a moment. I feel in need of a breath of fresh air.”

All at once he did, as well. “Of course.” He nodded, and with a swift look about the room, led her through the masked crowd to the doorway. Surprisingly enough for this late in the evening, the ivy-shrouded balcony was empty, and she freed her hand from his arm to lean over the railing and look out at the garden.

“I feel like a fairy princess,” she said with a sigh.

“You are far more than that,” he murmured in response, stepping up beside her.

She turned to face him, and lifted her gloved hands
to pull the mask from his face. She dropped it to the stone floor and ran her silken fingers lightly along the skin of his cheeks. Scarcely breathing, Alex leaned forward and tilted her chin up. Very slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. Her arms slid about his neck as she leaned into him, inviting him to kiss her more deeply. He complied, and her mouth opened to his teasing request.

When he finally lifted his head to draw a ragged breath, she pursued him, rising on her toes in her delicate slippers to kiss him again. “Don’t stop, Alex,” she whispered.

With a smile, he turned her toward the moonlit garden and carefully lifted her mask onto her hair. The small of his back against the railing, he slowly slid his hands down the sides of her face and down her neck, to pause along her bare, creamy white shoulders. The shoulders her damned prized lawn shirts had kept hidden from him for over a fortnight. On impulse he bent down and kissed them, then returned his mouth to hers.

“Everton—”

Christine jumped, pulling away, and Alex’s eyes flew open to view the Duke of Furth coming to a stop in the shadows of the doorway. Before she could turn, he clamped his hands down hard on her shoulders, keeping her locked against him. “Your Grace.” He nodded, the color draining from his face. He had hoped with every fiber of his being that it would not come to this, and at nearly the same moment realized that it had been heading in exactly this direction from the moment he had met Christine Brantley. And to his further dismay, he had already decided on which side he had landed.

“Sorry for the interrup—”

“No need to apologize, Your Grace,” he cut in, lowering his eyes to find Christine’s gaze locked on his. Her face was white, her expression alarmingly distressed. “Lady Masquerade and I were merely…becoming acquainted.” Willing her not to bolt, he slowly slid his hands up her shoulders and carefully lowered the mask back over her eyes.

“Fine time and place for it,” the duke grumbled, obviously out of countenance that one of his men could actually be enjoying himself when there was a spy to be caught. Thankfully, he knew to be subtle about the source of his irritation. Alex had no wish to see Christine leap from the balcony to make her escape.

“Anytime is a fine time for this,” Alex murmured at her, and lowered his mouth to her ear. “I’ll get him away. No need to worry.”

She searched his face for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether or not she could trust him. Then, with a quick breath and an almost imperceptible nod, she slid along him until she gripped the railing with both hands, her stony face resolutely turned toward the garden and away from her uncle.

With a quick glance back at her, Alex bent and retrieved his own mask, then strolled over to take Furth around the arm and lead him back toward the bright, noisy ballroom. “Your Grace, have I ever complimented you on what an attractive young woman your Caroline has become?” he said amiably.

Furth ignored the bait, instead looking behind them toward the balcony. “Who is she?” he asked.

“No one you need be concerned about,” Alex returned firmly, knowing full well he would be paying for whatever he said tomorrow, after she was gone. If he could let her leave.

The duke lifted an eyebrow, but continued toward Caroline and the duchess. “Defensive, aren’t we?” he noted.

Alex forced a smile. “With your timing, you should be grateful I’m only being defensive.” That part, at least, was true, for he was having a difficult time keeping his hands from shaking and his mind even remotely on the conversation.

“Hm. Odd thing for a betrothed gentleman to be saying in regard to another woman.”

“That is another story entirely,” Alex said swiftly, “and an entirely false one, which I will remedy in a few days.”

“You’ve a great many things to accomplish in the next few days, then,” Furth pointed out, making certain Alex knew exactly what he was implying.

“And I shall,” he said, relinquishing his hold on Martin Brantley’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

As quickly as he could manage without looking like he was hurrying, he turned back to stroll about the fringe of the crowd toward the balcony. He’d nearly reached the door when Barbara Sinclair, her eyes glinting through her gold sun-goddess mask, materialized before him.

“You have gone too far,” she hissed, her fists clenched. “Flaunting her in front of everyone. I won’t let it continue. I won’t have them laughing at my expense.”

“You’re the one who went too far, Barbara,” he returned calmly, keeping his voice low. “I’ll discuss this with you later. Now smile and stand aside, or our betrothal will end before it’s begun.” He sketched her a jaunty bow, and watched the skin of her lips stretch into a false, unattractive smile. Apparently seeing an acquaintance she urgently needed to speak to, she waved at someone across the room and hurried away.

With a quick breath, he stepped through the double doors and back out to the cool balcony. It was deserted. “Damnation,” he muttered, smacking his fist on the stone railing, not really surprised. He’d doubted she would stay at the ball with Furth in attendance. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Y
ou could have stayed, you know, Ivy,” Kit said, sitting at Mrs. Downing’s dressing table and scouring makeup from her face. “You didn’t have to follow me back here.” She was in little mood for conversation or explanation, anyway; all she could think of was Alex kissing her, and Furth nearly finding her out. She was taking far too many chances.

“I know,” Ivy returned, perching on the edge of the dressing table. “What did he say to you to upset you so?”

Kit eyed her pink-skinned reflection and set the cloth aside when it appeared that she had finally removed the last of the
faux
color from her cheeks and lips. “It wasn’t Alex,” she corrected, unable to explain further. She began on her hair, pulling at the clips and pins with which Ivy’s maid had expertly put it up.

“Someone else did something to upset you, and Alex didn’t kill him?” Ivy pressed, raising an eyebrow. “Now, that is a surprise.”

At that Kit grinned. “A duel would have been exciting, wouldn’t it?” She broke into laughter as she considered the possibility. “Can you imagine? The Earl of Everton and the Marquis of Hague, dueling over a female who until yesterday was a boy?”

Her companion eyed her. “I believe you had Francis Henning’s attention, as well.”

“Oh, Ivy,” Kit returned, laughing harder, “Francis
proposed
to me. He said I was Aphrodite come to visit the mortals.” She stood and offered an elaborate curtsy. “Everyone said I was spectacular.”

“You were,” Ivy agreed. “You are.”

Suddenly feeling self-conscious in the face of the lavish compliments she’d been given all evening, Kit sobered a little and looked over at Ivy. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, Kit, you can’t have been displeased with your transformation.”

“No,” she replied slowly, smiling again. “I wasn’t.” When her eyes had first met Alex’s across the ballroom, she had felt as if she were floating a foot above the floor. He had said she was astounding, and had kissed her, and hadn’t turned away. “I felt…beautiful.” She sighed. “I’ve had women tell me I was handsome, but who the deuce could take that seriously? Tonight was the first time I believed any of it.” She stretched out her arms and wrapped them around herself. “And I liked it, Ivy. I truly did. I liked the way they looked at me.” Kit closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “I liked the way Alex looked at me.”

Ivy regarded her for a long moment, her gaze assessing. Finally a slow smile touched her lips. “Do tell.”

Kit finished fastening the buttons of her waistcoat and reached for her coat. “I can’t wait to hear Francis’s version of events, tomorrow.”

Ivy’s expression abruptly faltered, and Kit’s own smile faded. She was leaving London tomorrow. She would never know what Francis thought of Lady Masquerade, or what the
ton
had thought of the mysterious stranger at their masked ball.

“What would you like me to do with the gown?” Ivy inquired, gesturing at the garment draped across the bed.

“Whatever you like,” Kit replied, stepping over and regretfully fingering the soft silk skirt. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned. “I’ll never wear it again.” She reached down and picked up the black, glittering mask. “I would like to keep this, though. Just to remember.”

“You don’t have to leave London, you know.” Ivy’s expression was earnest, her hands warm as they clutched Kit’s.

“Yes, I do,” she returned, pulling free and tugging on her coat. “Barbara Sinclair already knows about me. Sooner or later everyone else will. I doubt Alex would want the scandal.” In an odd way, it made her grateful to Lady Sinclair. Whatever lay in her heart, Alex’s mistress would undoubtedly make it impossible for her to remain. She had no choice but to carry out her father’s wishes.

With a last look at the marvelous gown, she went downstairs and said her good-byes to the Downings, then climbed into the hack Gerald had hired for her. The Duke of Furth had very nearly seen her, and yet it seemed more important that Alex had not even hesitated to protect her from her uncle. More than anything else, she wanted him to look at her again as he had when they had kissed, as though he would shatter if he couldn’t have her.

A few lights were still on at Cale House as she hopped down from the hack. Wenton pulled the door open as she topped the last step, and backed into the shadows of the entryway while she handed him her hat and gloves. She turned and he helped her off with her greatcoat, hanging it on its customary rack.

“Is Alex home yet?” she asked, though she wasn’t certain her heart was steady enough to see him again.

The butler didn’t answer, but instead ran his fingers under the collar of her coat and skimmed it off her shoulders.

“Wenton!” she exclaimed, shocked. As soon as her hands were free of the garment, she whipped around to let the butler know exactly what she thought of his behavior. “What do y—”

A hard, warm mouth clamped down over hers, smothering her protest. She knew the feel, the touch of the lips covering hers, and after a stunned moment returned the kiss with all the frustrated passion that had been gathering inside her. A hand reached up and tugged the
band free from her hair, letting the short, wavy locks fall loose around her face. Alex forced her back until she came up against the door. Only when he had her pinned there did he lift his head.

“Alex—”

“Shh,” he murmured roughly. “Shame on you for leaving me there like that,” he chastised. His eyes lowered, and his hands swiftly went to work on her waistcoat. “Drive a man mad, then vanish. Not this time, chit.” In a moment he had it open, and pulled it off her shoulders, as well. “I’m only bloody human, after all.” It dropped to the floor beside her coat.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Ruthless, you are,” he muttered, continuing as though she hadn’t interrupted. His mouth claimed hers again, teasing it open with his lips and his tongue. Kit’s fast, unsteady breath stopped in her throat as his long fingers touched her cravat and began to untie it. His mouth trailed along her cheekbone to her ear, and she gasped as he took the sensitive lobe between his teeth. Her heart beating raggedly, she pressed against his lean, tall form, feeling the growing hardness through his breeches, and the sudden warmth between her own legs. As the cravat drifted to the floor, she gathered her wits enough to glance about the darkened hallway.

“Where is Wenton?” she whispered, jumping a little as his hands touched her waist and began pulling her shirttail out of her leggings.

“Sent him to bed,” he murmured in her ear.

“And everyone else?” she insisted, gasping as her shirt came free and he began lifting it in his hands.

“Sweet Lucifer, chit. To bed, for heaven’s sake,” he whispered.

She pulled her shirt down again, too accustomed to caution to be able to give in even to him in such an exposed place. “What if they hear something?”

“Christine,” he murmured in exasperated protest, and stepped away.

She thought with sudden, cold dismay that she had ruined it again, and started toward him, ready to say, or
do, anything to convince him to continue. He held her off with one hand, then bent down and swiftly picked up her scattered things. With a swift tug he pulled her against him and kissed her, then easily swung her up into his arms.

“Where are we going?” she queried shakily, leaning up to kiss his ear in an awkward imitation of his own actions.

He swallowed. “Your bedchamber, my dear,” he whispered, turning for the stairs.

“
Your
bedchamber,” she corrected, with the last bit of rational thought left her. She wanted him, with a fierce, burning hunger, but she would not make it so easy for him. Whatever she might be, she was not Barbara Sinclair. She would not let him pass her off in his mind as a mistress to be bedded and forgotten—whether that’s what she was or not.

He hesitated, then shifted her closer against him. “Mine,” he agreed huskily, and headed up the stairs.

She half expected and more than half wanted to be dumped on the mattress and set upon, but Alex stopped beside the bed, set her on her feet, and dropped her clothes to the floor. He kicked the door shut in a satisfyingly impatient masculine manner, stopped for another lingering kiss, then strode over to the fireplace, tossed a few more logs onto the flames, and returned to stand in front of her.

“I believe this is where I am supposed to offer to take myself elsewhere and leave you in peace,” he said softly, reaching out to caress her cheek. “I—”

Shaking with a sudden alarm that he might actually abandon her in this state, Christine closed the small distance between them and lifted her hands to pull his face down to hers. As she had been wanting to do for what seemed like forever, she ran her fingers through his wavy black hair. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I was about to say that I have no intention of doing any such thing,” he continued. “Not tonight.”

His hands skimmed down her back, and then tugged at her shirt again. For a moment she couldn’t breathe.
He wanted her. Not Barbara Sinclair, or any other of his stupid mistresses. Alex wanted
her
. Trembling, she lifted her arms, and he pulled the garment off over her head. For a moment he paused, looking down at the tight wrap that bound her chest. Slowly he ran his finger along her skin just above the cloth, and she shivered again. He found the knot that she used to bind the thing, but abruptly embarrassed, she pushed his hand away.

“I want to see you,” he said. “Let me see you.” Alex smiled, and her heart skipped a beat. He was so handsome, with his disheveled hair, tousled by her fingers, and a hungry glint deep in his azure eyes. “You’ve kept yourself hidden from me for weeks,” he continued, “and now tonight you let half of London see your splendid bosom. Don’t torture me further, dear one.”

Shakily she lowered her hand. He undid the knot, and slowly pulled the wrap from around her, making every soft tug of his fingers on the cloth a caress along her whole being. When the wrap finally slid to the floor, baring her breasts to his intense gaze, he stopped and took a quick, held breath.

“Finally,” he murmured, lifting his hands to caress them. “And well worth the wait, I might add.” Slowly he ran his thumbs over her nipples, bringing them to thrilled attention.

She gasped in response, and his gaze immediately returned to her face. She smiled shakily, and with a return smile he bent his head and kissed the base of her throat. His lips ran slowly along her shoulders and her collarbone, and down her sternum. His tongue traced a circle around her areola, and then he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked lightly. Unable to help herself, she moaned and arched against him, twining her fingers through his hair. Without his ever having touched her before, it amazed her that he could know so easily how to arouse her, how to set her trembling.

Alex trailed his lips over her left breast, then sat her down on the edge of the bed to pull off her boots. “You’re wearing too damned many clothes,” he grumbled with a half-annoyed grin, but she could see that his
hands were shaking a little, and that he was not so composed as he apparently wished her to think.

“Well, take them off,” she demanded breathlessly, and he chuckled.

Christine ran her fingers along his shoulders and arms restlessly, wishing he would hurry before he remembered how little business they had being together. Once she was in her bare feet he pulled her upright again, and went to work on the buttons of her breeches. He was looking at her face closely, gauging every expression, and with a swift, soft smile he leaned down and brushed his lips along her cheek. “My chit,” he whispered, and the possessive tone made her tremble.

Her breeches followed the rest of her garments to the floor, and he spent a long moment gazing at her. “Sweet Lucifer,” he finally murmured. “You are exquisite.”

This time his kiss was hot and demanding, and she rose on tiptoe against him as his hands slid down her waist to her hips and buttocks, then pulled her closer still. Her bare skin beneath his touch seemed to burn in the night air, and the hardness pressing into her through his breeches was unbearably close, and unbearably far.

“Alex,” she murmured, her hands tugging at his waist, “now you’re wearing too many clothes.”

He laughed, sending her floating again, then reluctantly loosed his arms from around her to shrug out of his coat. “Let’s remedy that, shall we?” Her shaking fingers trailed and tripped over his as they both worked to remove his waistcoat, and she nearly choked him in her haste to pull off his cravat.

“I’m sorry.” She grimaced, finally loosing the thing.

He smiled and bent down to kiss the nape of her neck. She tugged his shirt free, then pulled it off over his head. The warm, male scent of him sent another surge of moist heat between her legs. Alex removed his boots, and a moment later his breeches and stockings followed hers to the floor. As she looked down at his unfettered, aroused manhood, a twinge of uneasiness ran through her, but then he was kissing her again, and cupping her breasts in his experienced, long-fingered hands.

“Trust me,” he breathed. “Just this once.” Laying her down on the bed, he slid up beside her. His mouth teased at her breasts again, and she groaned, rising up against him. “You like that, don’t you, chit?” he murmured, lifting his head to look at her, amusement and desire in his eyes. “You like me to touch you.”

“Yes,” she returned breathlessly.

His mouth trailed lower, his lips and tongue caressing her ribs and belly and tickling her navel, and then moved still lower, to the blond tangle below. “And do you like this?”

“Alex, stop teasing,” she pleaded, wondering if he was driving her mad intentionally.

He lifted his face to look at her, while his hand brushed up along the inside of her thigh. “No tease this time,” he said in a rather unsteady voice, and lowered his head again. As he reached the apex of her thighs she instinctively tried to close against him, but with his hands and his mouth he convinced her to relax again.

“Please,” she whispered almost soundlessly, writhing beneath his expert ministrations. “Alex.”

He slid up along her body to meet her eyes again, to kiss her deeply, probing her mouth demandingly with his tongue, while his hands continued to explore her. She had wanted this, wanted him, since she had set eyes on him. Her own hands began a hesitant exploration of his shoulders, his back, and his chest, and she tilted her head a little sideways to kiss his nipple. He made a small sound deep in his throat that turned the burning inside her to molten fire.