Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) (3 page)

The night vibrated with life, hummed with excitement, and felt as if it had been kissed by promise. Margaret could hardly contain herself, but luckily, she did not have to, this being an evening for revelry and fun. She intended to enjoy every moment of it.

It had been so easy to slip away unseen. She’d gone to bed straight after dinner, feigning a headache and dismissing her abigail. Her parents would attend the fête, and had departed not long after dinner, thinking her tucked away in bed. She had lain there impatiently, wringing her hands and counting the minutes. After they’d been gone approximately fifteen minutes, she’d vaulted to her feet, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she’d knelt to retrieve her gown and accessories.

She’d dressed quickly, no easy feat to accomplish on her own. Lacing her own corset had proved trying, but she’d managed to cinch her waist and lace herself properly before donning her gown. She couldn’t help a sly smile when she’d met her reflection in the mirror. The corset and gown worked together to lift and display her bosom most enticingly. With her shoulders bared and cleavage so tantalizingly exhibited, she had never felt more alluring in her life. This was the woman she wanted to be, the sort of lady she knew the Duke of Avonleah would take notice of.

She’d always been talented when it came to styling her own hair, so she had arranged her locks into an elegant chignon at her nape, with a few wispy curls pulled free at her ears and forehead for a softening effect. She wore no jewels, as she could not risk being noticed by them. With her mask to hide behind, Margaret knew she’d be able to walk right past her mother without drawing her attention. Should she don her ruby necklace, however, the baroness would know her at first glance, and she would be in a world of trouble.

Covering the ensemble with a voluminous hooded cape, she stole downstairs silently, her eyes sharp for any sign of servants who might wonder what she was about. If anyone caught her, she’d planned to inform them that she wished for a breath of fresh air in the small garden behind the townhouse.

Fortunately, the stairwell and vestibule had been clear, and she’d slipped away unnoticed. Once free of the house, she clung to her reticule—which contained her mask—and begun her search for a hansom cab.

It did not take long, and before she knew it, she was being whisked away to Westminster, where boats waited to transport anyone with the necessary coin to the Vauxhall Stairs. Margaret made sure to keep her face shadowed by the hood of her cloak; though if anyone could see her, they’d be sure to notice the excitement dancing in her eyes as the sights, sounds, and smells of the pleasure gardens reached out to them from across the Thames.

She slid her mask on before leaving the boat and alighting the stairs, her wide eyes drinking in every single detail as she paid the required fee and entered the gardens. Rotundas and a colonnade of supper boxes, where meals could be taken, faced the illuminated orchestral stand. The glow of the lanterns rivaled that of any starry night—particularly considering the smog of London often obstructed one’s view of the stars, anyway. The soft, yellow glow gave the entire scene a sense of surrealism; she felt as if she walked through a dream.

All around her, revelry ensued. Dancers, acrobats, and singers could be seen here and there surrounded by applauding crowds. Vauxhall proved a feast for the eyes with its winding paths leading past ruins, illuminated statues, and—as far as the eye could see—gravel paths on which promenaded the people of London. Mingled with the cream of society were those who could afford entry to the gardens and had come for a peek at the spectacle. Among the lords and ladies of the
ton
, courtesans in daring gowns made eyes at the gentlemen, young couples clung to each other and stared in awe, and painted doxies plied their trade. Young men home from university, titled bachelors, and married men alike could have their pick of the litter at an event where inhibitions were known to be lowered and all manner of scandalous behavior excused.

The atmosphere felt decidedly sensual. Heat flushed the back of her neck when she witnessed people dancing much too closely, lips meeting and hands groping. Behind almost every statue and in any alcove, a young couple—and in some cases threesomes or foursomes—could be found in the throes of passion, heedless of their surroundings.

It would have distressed her to find Avonleah in such a position, when her heart had been set upon finding him and forcing him to take notice of her. However, she had yet to lay eyes on him. Even wearing a mask, Margaret would have known him. Besides, a man like him did not bother arriving on time at any affair. He could be counted upon to arrive fashionably late. She was content to wait for him while enjoying the exhibition.

She procured a flute of champagne from one of the many masked waiters making their way through the crowd, sipping while she skirted the edge of the crowd gathered around a troupe of acrobats. She clapped and drank champagne while the troupe awed them with their feats of daring. Her head spun as the drink travelled straight to her head. She had never been allowed more than one glass of champagne, and even then, the baroness had watched her closely to ensure she did not over-imbibe.

Before Margaret realized what she had done, she’d drunk three flutes and felt remarkably happy and carefree.

When she neared the orchestral pavilion, she became caught up in a group of dancers surrounding it. A pair of arms came around her, and before she knew it, she was swept into a boisterous waltz—not the slow, sedate dance of a ballroom, but rather a celebratory reel that caused her head to spin as the masked gentleman whirled her about.

“You are an enchanting beauty,” the man shouted to be heard above the music and laughter of the other dancers. “Does my angel of the night have a name?”

“Maggie!” she proclaimed without thinking.

Throwing caution to the wind, she decided she could be ‘Maggie’ for the night. It was a common enough name and the mask had emboldened her. Besides, she’d never waltzed in public before, and no man had ever called her ‘an enchanting beauty.’

“Ah, Maggie,” the young swain said as he spun her about. “Take me to the stars, love.”

Margaret realized his intent when she felt the hard length of him pressed against her belly. She blushed furiously and avoided his gaze.

“I can’t,” she said. “I am … I am waiting for someone.”

“I see.” He shrugged and continued spinning her about. The man was quite a graceful dancer. “Pity. Whoever the bloke is, I hope he knows he’s the bloody luckiest man here tonight.”

The dance ended, and before long, she fell into the arms of another gentleman. She lost herself in the music—she’d always loved to dance—and the heady rush of the champagne coursing through her. She went from partner to partner, her cheeks hurting from the smile that refused to allow her face rest. She’d almost forgotten about her search for the duke.

At least, she’d forgotten until she came face to face with him. Or rather, she came face to chest with him. Her current dance partner gave her a careless spin, sending her into the arms of a man standing on the edge of the crowd … a man whose hard chest felt like heaven against her cheek, and whose scent sent a jolt of awareness down her spine.

Powerful arms came around her, steadying her. She made no attempt to move away from him, her hands coming up to his chest, resting just over the lapels of his coat. Her gaze traveled up from the top button of his waistcoat to the snowy white linen of his simply tied cravat, to the delectable throat she wished to nibble and lick, and onward to his strong chin, firm lips, aquiline nose, and—finally—his electric blue eyes peeking out at her from behind his simple black mask.

Those eyes smoldered, locking with hers, and his sensual mouth curved into a half-smile.

“Well, good evening,” he said in a low, purring tone.

Margaret shuddered as she realized he had not yet released her from his hold. When she did not answer, he grinned, stunning her with a display of perfect teeth.

“Are you all right, Miss?”

She nodded, quickly finding her tongue lest he think her an imbecile.

“Of course,” she answered, sounding as breathless as she felt. “I am perfectly fine. My dance partner was just a bit …”

“Careless,” Avonleah finished for her, shooting a pointed glance at the man who’d flung her into him and who still stood by as if he expected to reclaim her. He shrunk away at the duke’s glare and disappeared into the crowd. “If you were mine, I’d take much better care of you.”

She didn’t miss the double entendre in his words, or the heat in his stare when his eyes traveled over the curve of her nose, her rouged lips, then farther down to the bosom pressed tight against him. She did not know where her boldness came from, though if she had to guess, she’d blame the champagne.

Whatever the cause, Margaret found the courage within herself to give him a coy smile and press her body more fully to his. Satisfaction shot through her as shock flickered across his face, followed by amusement and desire.

She leaned close and whispered in a husky tone, “I am certain you would, my lord.”

Camden remained unsure of what exactly about the woman in red and black beckoned to him. From the moment he’d first seen her, twirling in the arms of one dance partner after another, he’d been drawn to her.

It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a beautiful woman before. In fact, he had indulged in affairs with woman far more stunning than this one. She was pretty, with her apricot skin, luscious, sable locks, and teasing, heart-shaped mouth. In a London ballroom, she’d hardly be considered a diamond of the first water, but something about her—here, tonight, beneath the light of thousands of lanterns—captivated him.

Odd that he should think of her in a London ballroom, when he did not know if she came from the nobility or not. She’d called him ‘my lord,’ so obviously, she knew he was one. He decided she could not know his identity; otherwise, she’d have called him ‘Your Grace.’ Camden should have corrected her, but found he did not want to. He did not know why, when his title had always gone a long way toward capturing a lady’s attention.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked, even as he took one of her hands in his and twirled her back into the throng of dancers.

His hand remained tight at her waist and he held her far closer than would be considered decent in any ballroom. However, they were not in a ballroom, and he always did what he pleased. Right now, the way her thighs felt moving against his as they waltzed pleased him.

“Yes,” she murmured, as if she didn’t realize he’d already swept her into the waltz.

Her breathless whisper heated his blood in his veins and sent it racing straight for his cock.

Christ above, who was this woman? A graceful dancer, which meant she was at least genteel. Her manner of dress suggested widowhood, or perhaps a profession as a courtesan. She was far too well-dressed to be of the usual Haymarket ware, the painted-up doxies who tried to imitate grand ladies. Her tones sounded cultured, her felt skin smooth and soft, and she still possessed all her teeth. Definitely genteel, if not noble. He’d never met her before; of that, he felt certain. He did not think he could ever forget a woman so exquisite.

“Will you honor me with a name?” he asked, his eyes finding hers through the red and black mask covering the upper half of her face. A few black feathers rested against her left cheekbone, and her lips had been stained with rouge, making them even more inviting.

“Maggie,” she replied.

So, they were only trading first names? All the better. It would only add to the mystique of the evening.

“Camden,” he responded. “What brings you to the Gardens this evening?
Never tell me you are here to meet someone.”

Maggie graced him with that coy smile of hers again; just a slight upturning of her lips at the corners, causing him to want to run his tongue along the seam of her mouth.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I
am
looking for a gentleman.”

Camden would not let disappointment claim him. He’d become accustomed to getting what he wanted, and tonight, he’d already decided he very much wanted Maggie.

“Whoever he is, forget about him,” he declared, leading her into a graceful turn. “Be my companion for the night. You won’t regret it.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, her perfectly plump lips pressed together as if she contemplated his offer.

He imagined those lips wrapped around his cock, her red rouge staining him in a ring of desire while her tongue circled his head.

“Well, I did not have any particular gentleman in mind, you see. So, I suppose all there is left is for you to convince me.”

Arching an eyebrow, he swiftly led her into another turn, whirling her too far on purpose and taking her from the midst of the multitude. Ducking behind a statue, he spun her again, taking them clear out of view of the dancers and revelers and behind a high, thick, flowering hedge. The scent of the blossoms enveloped them as he pressed her against the shrubbery. His hands spanned her waist and he sank into her, bending his knees a bit so his hips aligned with hers.

Maggie gasped, her eyes wide and disoriented. He loomed over her, his parted lips sliding along the line of her jaw. She smelled heavenly, like rose oil and something else he could not identify. She tilted her head back, her hands gripping his biceps tightly. Her breath ruffled the curls at his temples, and her throaty whimper caressed his ear in a low, seductive note. He claimed her mouth in a crushing kiss, his hips grinding against hers as his tongue swept her lower lip, demanding entry into her mouth.

She opened for him, returning the kiss with a fervor matching his own. Her hands came up to his shoulders and she clung to him, her tongue mating artlessly with his.

He had kissed dozens of women, and fucked more than he could count. Many of them had been far more experienced than Maggie—her kiss told him the truth of her innocence—yet, none of them had coaxed the response from him she had. He burned for her, his every muscle taut and coiled, ready to spring. She was so eager, throwing herself into their kiss with such wild abandon he could hardly contain his primal response.

Pressing her against the hedge, he grasped her hips and pulled her closer against him, relieving the tension in his groin. He slid his hands up her waist, over her ribs, finding the mounds of her breasts through her gown. She gasped against his mouth, her breath coming in breathless pants that caused them to heave in his palms. He kneaded her, his eyes drawn to the creamy flesh cradled by her bodice. He wanted to jerk the gown down, exposing her nipples—nipples he knew would be as pink as rose petals.

Not here,
he told himself.
Not now.

Something about this woman made him want to take her back to his bed, lay her across it, and fuck her into the mattress.

His mouth left hers and trailed a path down her neck, then even farther, until he was making love to the valley between her breasts with his tongue. She cried out sharply, then bit her lip to contain it as he nuzzled her soft flesh, leaving a row of hot kisses along the top of each one.

“There is so much I want to do to you,” he murmured. “I want to take you to bed, Maggie. I want to undress you and lick every inch of your delectable body. Then I want to lay you on your back and fuck you.”

She groaned, arching her back and pressing her body more fully to his. He grinned, reaching down to cup her arse, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Would you like that, Maggie? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Yes, I want that.”

He chuckled, giving her a little kiss near the corner of her mouth. “So, I have convinced you, then?”

The bold vixen returned, and she flashed him a catlike smile.

“It seems you have, my lord,” she purred. “Now all that’s left is for you to impress me.”