What a Duke Wants (23 page)

Even with Douglas’s continued effort to keep the talk away from Bella, Mark’s mind returned to her again and again. He was angry, furious. She should not have left—she should have trusted him, talked to him. He would have listened, not argued. Or at least not argued much.

It was good he would have a mask tonight. He did not want people questioning his scowl.

He grabbed the mask off a table and shoved it down upon his head. Damn, with its furrowed brow it was scowling too. At least nobody would question that. The problem was he didn’t know how he’d answer if he was asked why he frowned.

He was enraged, but he didn’t know at whom. Most probably at himself.

I
sabella stood at the top of the stairs looking down at the crowd below. She was partially hidden by the curve of the wall. She laid her hand upon the cool marble of the banister, wanting to run more than she ever had before. Masters would be there. And Violet. And Lord Peter. And she didn’t know who he was, but chances were her mysterious follower or his employer would be there also.

Tapping her fingers on the banister, she debated—and took a single step forward.

She was tired of running—and even more importantly it seemed that no matter how far and fast she ran she was always found. She had been sure nobody had followed her to Annie’s house and yet the note had been on her pillow. She’d considered running to her sister and begging Violet to hide her, but that would be the first place they would look.

A deep breath. Another step.

And another.

The mask was firm upon her face, the blond wig covering her own coppery curls. She should be safe.

Another step.

The light silk of the dress drifted up, partially baring one leg. She hadn’t realized it would do that. Think of it as distraction from anyone looking at her face. She doubted even Mark would recognize her knees.

She could see through the grand double doors to the dance floor. There were only two Graces visible. She needed to be there for Annie’s sake. Annie had said she would slip out at eleven-ten and it was now eleven-twenty.

What did Lord Richard look like? What costume was he wearing?

How was she to make sure both that he saw her and that she avoided him if she didn’t even know what he looked like? She should have asked Annie. It was too late now.

She pulled in a final deep breath, spread a smile across her face, and sauntered into the room, hips swaying.

Not halfway across the room, she stopped and slowly turned. A prickle of awareness made its way up her neck. Her gaze scanned the crowd. What had made her stop? Three King Henry VIIIs. A shepherd with two sheep. Who would come to a party dressed as a sheep? A woman dressed in Arab garb, her belly bare. There had been pictures of such clothing in one of Violet’s books. A Viking. Several knights. Two damsels. Far too many Grecian gods and goddesses to count. Or perhaps they were Roman. How did one tell?

Still, nothing to cause her alarm.

She started forward again, and saw him. One of the multitudes of Greeks—although actually he clearly was Roman. A centurion.

Mark was here. The air rushed from her lungs and for a moment she felt faint.

Chapter 23

W
hy was it always the fear you did not have that came to be? With all the multitude of parties and events in celebration of the coronation, he should not be here. There were, she was sure, at least a dozen other events he could have attended. So why was he here?

Did he know Annie or Lord Richard? Surely Annie would have mentioned something. Or would she have? She had waited until the last minute to mention Masters’s and Violet’s attendance.

Forcing her eyes from Mark she scanned the crowd again. Her brother and sister were nowhere to be seen. Why was she sure she’d even recognize them? And if she did, why did she think they’d not recognize her? She’d known Mark almost instantly.

Her gaze slid back to him. He was beautiful. The word did not normally spring to mind when she looked at him, but the tight-fitting leather chest piece was a work of art. And his legs. She’d never given his legs enough notice before. She swallowed, feeling heat rise in her chest.

It had been only a day since she’d seen him, but her body cried that it had been at least a week. She put a hand to her cheek, hoping the mask would hide her flush. It was growing very warm in the ballroom. The dozens and dozens of candles that lined the walls and hung from above could take the blame for now. And the press of people—they were what pulled the air from the room, leaving her lungs empty.

As if sensing her presence Mark turned. His glance passed over her, and then returned. He stared at her feet, and slowly his gaze moved up, pausing at thigh, and hip, and breast—and back to breast, up to lips, back to breast. She almost laughed out loud at the relief. Not even Mark seemed capable of looking at her face. Oh, his glance was moving up again. She shifted to turn more of her left side toward him, sloped her shoulder to let her dress gape. His gaze dropped again.

A waltz began playing and he stepped toward her, his eyes still fixed well below her face. She tried to ease back into the crowd. If he didn’t recognize her now he would as soon as he heard her speak. Someone stepped behind her and she had to wildly sidestep to avoid the stomach of one of the Henry VIIIs. This one looked far too real and Isabella had no desire for that type of contact.

Turning quickly she ran into a hard, firm chest—at least it was not a chest she knew. Her eyes darted up and stopped. She might not know the chest. She did know the man.

Lord Peter St. Johns, her sister’s husband, wearing a devil’s horns, but no mask.

He glanced down at her, smiled, and gently lifted her away. With the barest of nods he turned and headed toward a woman dressed in angel’s wings, her face fully covered by a sheer waxed-cloth mask. Her face might be hidden, but not her flowing red hair or her curves. It had to be Violet.

Isabella started toward her sister. It would be so wonderful just to be near her. Even if they did not speak, Isabella would content herself with the knowledge that they had been close.

A hand reached out, blocking her way. Strong, tanned hands, a slightly lighter, well-muscled arm. This arm she did know. This man she did know. Almost unwillingly she raised her eyes to Mark. Their glances met for the barest of moments and then he inclined his head toward the dance floor.

The waltz was still playing. It had probably only been seconds since it began, although it seemed like hours as Isabella glanced again at her sister. She could not see her face, but it was impossible to miss the way her body softened and leaned forward as Lord Peter drew near.

Mark coughed, drawing her gaze back.

She looked down at his hand and placed her own within it. The tightening of his fingers bespoke safety, a safety she did not trust. He turned and she followed him to the floor. He placed one hand upon her waist and, still holding the other tight, lifted it high, swirling her out onto the dance floor.

Happiness. She should still worry. She should keep her guard up, but Isabella had always loved to dance and, as Mark held her as close as propriety would permit, she let herself get lost in the music. There would be time enough to fret when the dance ended. This moment she would take and keep, locked deep within. Whatever happened in the future, the warm clasp of his fingers, the perfect rhythm of the music, the feeling of his gaze upon her lip would stay with her.

And then it was over. They slowed to a stop and stood for a moment, silence between them. Did he have as little desire for speech as she did?

“I want to kiss you,” Mark whispered against her cheek as he leaned forward, bringing her hand to his lips.

Did he know who she was? And if not, why did he want to kiss her? Was she that forgettable?

H
e didn’t know why he had said the words. Mark stared down at the young Grecian goddess before him. He wished he could see her eyes, but the depth of the mask shadowed them from his view. He’d thought she was Bella at first glance. Her lithe and seductive movement as she edged around the dance floor had seemed too familiar.

Unfortunately that could only be wishful thinking. He’d wanted to find her and let himself believe that he had. There was no way that Bella could have gained entry to a party such as this one. He peeked another glance down at her breasts, not wanting to appear rude. And Bella would certainly never have worn anything like that. Even the clothing she’d bought since becoming his mistress was discreet. For God’s sake, her nightdresses were barely transparent.

At least she didn’t smell like Bella. The musk she was wearing was almost overpowering.

The breasts were very similar, the same perfect size and delicate shape. Would they taste the same, like salty strawberries? What was he thinking? He’d barely met the girl and he was thinking about suckling her breasts and wanting to kiss her. He’d never been this way with anyone but Bella.

Bella. This was all about Bella. Was it coincidence that he’d chosen a girl who reminded him so much of her? No, he was honest, it was not.

She hadn’t answered his statement, which was probably a good thing. Bella or no Bella, a gentleman did not tell a gently reared girl that he wanted to kiss her only moments after meeting her.

“I’d like that too. But where?” Her low whisper called his attention back to her mouth.

He blinked and could only hope his own mouth had not fallen open. She could not have really said that—could she? He looked at her more closely, wishing he could see under the mask. “The terrace? The library? The servants’ hall?” He glanced about. “Behind that large potted tree?”

“Do you know the way to the servants’ hall?” She kept her voice so quiet it was hard to hear.

Damn. He had no idea. He’d never been to Lord Richard’s house before and it certainly wasn’t a question he could ask. In fact, the only place he could find with some certainty was the terrace and it was unlikely to be empty given the lovely weather. The potted tree was starting to hold real appeal.

“Should we explore?” She offered her hand.

He paused, surprised at the guilt that suddenly ate at him. He should not be doing this. He should be thinking about Bella.

Only Bella had left him.

He placed her hand upon his arm and headed toward the high open doors leading out to the terrace, the scent of night jasmine leading him forward.

W
hat was she doing? Isabella wanted to stop and run, but her feet kept moving. How dare he be hunting for another conquest when he had only left her bed that morning? It didn’t matter that they’d fought, didn’t matter that she’d run. He should not be doing this.

If he did realize who she was—she didn’t think he had, yet—then she did not want him to connect her to Annie. She had spoken as quietly as she could, investing her voice with an exaggerated upper-crust accent she had not used since she first fled London.

Her lips were dry. Her whole mouth was dry. Was she really going to do this?

There was no way she could resist one last kiss. It might be unwise, it was unwise, but she could not leave now.

They stepped out onto the terrace, the hot summer air cooling rapidly as twilight fell. The crowd was almost as tightly packed here as it had been on the dance floor. She spotted several couples peering about as if looking for their own darkened corner.

A faint breeze blew across the yard, causing an almost audible sigh from everyone. Isabella started to turn toward it when she realized several of the gentlemen were staring at her. She dropped her gaze. The wind had lifted the panels of her dress, revealing her leg to midthigh. Clenching her fingers, she fought the urge to pull everything back together. Instead she lifted her chin and met each gentleman’s eyes in turn. She pursed her lips, ran a hand down her side, pulling the fabric tight.

“Let’s go back in.” Mark was not pleased with the attention she was getting.

“I am only letting them look.” She kept her voice pitched low, as quiet as she could manage. “There’s never harm in looking.” In truth, she was suddenly feeling very powerful. It was amazing what feeling desirable could do—desirable and in control.

That was why she’d said yes to Mark, invited the kiss.

She wanted his lips upon her own one more time—but also, she wanted to feel wanted, wanted to know that she was something special. She might be angry that he was looking for another so quickly, but when the other he chose was she it caused a tingle to run the line of her spine. Out of a ballroom full of beauties in scant dress, he had chosen her.

“It is not looking I am interested in—either mine or theirs.” He sounded firm, but his arm was pulling her from view.

She leaned closer to him. “I rather thought you liked looking. I can’t believe that it was my sterling wit that drew you before I had even opened my mouth.”

They entered the ballroom again, avoiding the dance floor. He pulled her closer as couples swirled by. “Would you like to dance again?” he asked.

It was a hard decision. Years, if not decades, could pass before she had another chance to dance. “Would you be disappointed if I said yes?”

“I cannot promise you more than another dance without raising gossip.”

“Ah, but that is the joy of a masquerade. How will anyone know how many dances are with me, and not them?” She tilted her head toward the edge of the floor where the two other Graces stood a few yards from each other. It was lucky the terrace had been crowded. She’d promised Annie she’d stay in sight until twelve-thirty. Forgetting her friend because of Mark would be very poor form.

Mark laughed, a low rumble deep in his throat. “I hadn’t even noticed them. I thought you were a goddess.”

“Is it a letdown to find yourself with only a Grace?”

“Not at all.” He looked across at the other two. “It’s strange, you look identical and yet I feel no desire to sweep either of them into a dark hall.”

Was it really her he was drawn to? It seemed impossible, but then it seemed impossible that he did not know her when she had known him instantly. Again her mind told her to flee, but she held tight to his arm. “I am awaiting that dance.”

“I do believe a new one is starting.” He led her out onto the floor.

This time it was a simple country dance, fast, but precise. And fun. So gloriously fun and carefree.

Her breathing was heavy by the time the music stopped and she let him lead her toward the refreshments table. She didn’t care what was offered as long as it was cold.

Champagne. She’d only had champagne once before. Accepting the fine crystal glass, she raised it to her lips. Cold. Bubbles. The sharp tang. Another sip. She drained the glass. Mark offered her another.

She shouldn’t, but this was not a night for shouldn’ts. It felt as if the bubbles were filling her brain, making each moment more wonderful than the last.

He leaned near her, his breath brushing her neck. “I want to kiss you more than ever. I want to taste the wine on your lips, feel your pleasure in each new experience.”

She pulled back, stared at him. His face was almost hidden by the scowling mask. Only his lips, soft and full, lay revealed. “Do you speak to every woman in that fashion? You must have quite the reputation.”

He ran his thumb across her bare palm. “No.”

She wanted him to say more, to whisper more sweet nothings—but who was he whispering them to, to Isabella, or to a stranger at a ball? She took another sip from her glass, playing for time. She didn’t know what she wanted—or she knew, but wasn’t sure it was what she should do. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should. I never lie.”

She knew better than that. She would not be in this situation if he’d told her he was a duke from the start—not that he’d lied exactly. She glanced at the clock. Soon Annie would be back and it would be time to leave. Her Cinderella moment would be finished. “Let us dance again.”

“If that is your pleasure.” They slowly walked back toward the dance floor.

A portly man slid in front of them, a slight wobble to his stance. “I think it’s my turn to escort the lady. It’s unfair to hold on to the pretty ones.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Mark answered, “but I do believe you are speaking of my wife. Have care what you say.” His hand dropped to his belt. “This sword may be only a toy, but I assure you I can have very real steel in hand by dawn.”

His wife? Why had he said that? Why did it send a quiver of hope straight to her heart?

The man turned and left without another word.

“Sorry about that, it seemed the easiest way to get rid of him. And as you said earlier, nobody will be able to connect us later. Even I may not recognize you in the morning.” Mark turned and looked at her, his lips drawing tight. “You’re not married, are you?”

“Would I have told you I was willing to kiss you if I was?”

“I would hope not.” He did not sound sure.

She was about to assure him that she had never wed when she suddenly remembered who she was supposed to be. Annie most certainly was wed. What of the other two? If only Annie had told her something more. Surely at least one of them had remained single. She refused to lie. “No, I have never married.”

“You sound sad.”

“Is it not every woman’s dream to marry?”

She had meant the question facetiously, but Mark replied in utmost seriousness. “In my experience, no. Many women seem to marry out of duty or desperation, not desire.”