A Lady of Notoriety (The Masquerade Club) (10 page)

He lowered his voice. ‘Did you wish for a divorce from your husband, Daphne?’

Her stomach flipped. Her response was shrill. ‘No. Of course not.’ She had not wished that, had she?

He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Tell me about your husband, Daphne. About your marriage.’

Tell him? That her husband was good to her, that he indulged her, but even so, she had never been a good wife to him?

She swivelled towards Hugh. ‘I—I—’ She twisted her skirt with her hands. How she felt about her marriage did her no credit at all. ‘Would you still consider me your friend if I told you I did not wish to talk about this?’

‘Of course.’ His spine stiffened and he took another sip of brandy.

As did she. ‘Please understand, Hugh. I cannot talk about my marriage any more than you can talk about your eyes.’

He stood. ‘You are correct. I do not wish to talk about my eyes, although there is not much to talk about. I will either be blind or not.’ He searched for and picked up his cane. ‘I am going to retire. I’m not very good company for you tonight.’

She rose, too, and put a hand on his arm. ‘Please do not be angry with me, Hugh. Please. I want this time between us to be—to be—free of any past. Heedless of any future. I want to enjoy being friends now, while we are here.’

‘I am not angry with you, Daphne.’ He turned to her, but could not see to face her directly. He placed his hand over hers. ‘I hope sometime you will trust me enough to tell me what it is that makes you so sad, but you are correct that tonight is not the night. I need to get myself in order first.’

His fingers, long and strong, wrapped around hers. The gesture brought tears to her eyes. No one touched her any more. No one held her, not since the abbess had once enfolded her in her arms. Daphne, sobbing like a wounded child, had clung to the old woman as if the abbess had been her last hold on forgiveness. She wished she could be held now. She wished Hugh could hold her and comfort her, but she didn’t deserve his embrace, not after wronging his family and deceiving him.

To her surprise, he released her fingers and slid his hands up her arms, to her shoulders, her neck, her face. His palms were warm and gentle against her cheeks, and his touch roused her like no man’s touch had ever done before.

His cane fell to the floor and he cupped her face with both hands. ‘I wish I could see you,’ he murmured.

He’d never touch her if he could see her, she knew. This might be her only chance to receive the comfort for which she yearned. There was no resisting it.

His thumbs stroked the tender skin of her cheeks, and she felt as if the imprint of his touch would remain for ever with her. But she wanted—needed—more. Her body quivered with need. With desire. She wanted something more precious than comfort. She wanted Hugh.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rose on tiptoe and urged his head lower. His lips were so near she tasted the brandy on his breath. She trembled with desire, but feared closing the gap between them. Perhaps he meant only to comfort her. Perhaps he did not want her at all.

He held her face more firmly, and the thrill of it radiated throughout her body. He guided her face still closer until his lips took possession of hers with a need all their own.

Her body ignited with passion, passion for this man. She thought she might perish if she could not feel his bare skin against hers, to join her body with his. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted any man. Even her husband.

Even Xavier.

This was new to her. Irresistible. It would do no harm to make love to him, would it?

He pulled away from her. ‘I had best say goodnight.’ He lowered himself to search for his cane.

Shaken and bereft, she crouched down to retrieve it for him, her head close to his. ‘Hugh?’ She touched his arm.

He found her face again for one more caress, even more gentle than before. ‘Goodnight, Daphne.’

Tears rolled down her cheeks as he straightened and walked away from her. Why had he stopped? He wanted her as well, did he not?

After he left, she sat a long time, thinking, trying to calm herself, trying to talk herself out of needing him.

Chapter Ten

T
he clock in Hugh’s room chimed the hour. He counted each chime. One...two... Ten...eleven...twelve. Midnight.

Even though Carter had readied him for bed two hours ago, even though the man had left him with a bottle of brandy, Hugh remained awake, drinking and rocking.

At least night evened the odds. In darkness no one could see.

Who was he fooling? He heard the hiss of coal in the grate. The glow from the fireplace would give a person with eyes enough light to make out the furniture in the room. Eyes that worked, that was.

If he wished to be completely honest with himself, he’d admit what was really keeping him awake.

Daphne.

His thoughts were consumed by her. A second kiss with a promise of passion equal to the first had done it. He’d counted how many times she poured herself brandy. Only three times and all had been short, not enough to explain her response to him. No, she’d chosen this kiss with a clear mind.

Had he gone too far? He’d meant only to touch her.

Hadn’t he?

His masculine urges were surging, unleashed by that kiss. She was not far, a few steps away. He could find his way. By God, he believed he could find his way without his cane, without feeling for the walls. She drew him so strongly he did not need the glow of coals or a lamp in the hallway.

To bed a widow was not a scandalous matter, but all he could think of was that he would risk creating another child she would need to give up. For all her cool manner to him at first, it was now clear she was a passionate woman whose desires could be easily aroused. The responsibility was his to keep in control of his baser needs. How long could he restrain himself? Even if he decided to behave himself now, could he resist trying for another kiss later? Every moment with her would be one of decision.

To bed her or not.

He burned to feel her bare body beneath him. To fill his palms with her breasts and rub her nipples against his skin. He wanted to bury himself inside her and bring her to pleasure at the same moment of his release.

He took a swig of brandy, not bothering with a glass.

What he ought to do was get himself to London, put himself in the suffocating care of his mother and endure it for a week. Or longer, if his eyes could not heal. If his eyes could not heal, what other choice would he have? It had been unfair of him to impose himself on Daphne, especially since he’d prevented her from proceeding on her way. Wherever that may be.

He drank again and let the liquor burn down his throat into his chest.

Carter could make the arrangements for him. Hire a carriage. It was not even a day’s journey.

He heard the door open. Might as well ask the man now before he lost his nerve. ‘Carter?’

The scent of roses reached his nostrils. ‘It is not Carter.’

He stood. ‘Daphne. What are you doing here?’ Good God. He wore nothing but his drawers. ‘I’m not decent.’

She remained near the door. ‘Neither am I.’

‘Why, then—?’ he began.

She stopped him. ‘Don’t speak.’ He felt her move closer to him, felt the heat of her when she came near. ‘I—I felt so unhappy when you left me tonight.’

She was close enough to touch and he wanted to touch her. ‘I had to leave you, Daphne. And you should leave me now.’

‘I was thinking,’ Her scent, her voice, her nearness, intoxicated him. ‘I am a widow and widows have certain licence.’

But she was also a woman and women conceived children.

‘We are close, are we not?’ she said. ‘Why can we not be close in—in a physical way, as well?’

‘There are risks, Daphne.’

‘No one will know.’ Her voice rose. ‘Except the servants, of course. Monette and Carter would never gossip, I can assure you, and we’ll be leaving the others. They will not care what we do.’ She put her hands on his bare shoulders.

His resolve could stand only so much. ‘There are other risks, as you well know.’

‘I do not care.’ Her fingers played in the hair at the nape of his neck. ‘Please, Hugh? We have only one week. Can we not spend it truly together?’

One week. Or perhaps one night. Maybe he could risk one night. He could still leave for London in the morning. One chance to love her. Could he turn it down?

Her hands slipped down to his chest. ‘After one week you will be off on your travels and I will return to my home.’

‘Or I’ll be blind,’ he said.

She threw her arms around him and pressed herself close to him. ‘Do not say you will be blind. You will see. You must see. You must do all those things that make you happy at last. Life cannot be that unfair to you.’

She could not be wearing anything but a nightdress. One thin piece of fabric between them. He was aroused, painfully so.

‘I can feel that you want me, Hugh,’ she whispered. ‘Make love to me.’

He could not refuse.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He knew just how many steps it took to reach it. ‘Are you certain, Daphne?’

She reached for him, clasping his arm as if she had the strength to pull him onto the bed. ‘I am very certain.’

* * *

Daphne’s heart beat so rapidly she thought her chest would burst. She had brazenly offered seduction to Xavier more than once, but this was different and she did not know why. She only knew that she’d break into a million shards if she did not soon feel Hugh’s hands upon her skin.

He stood at the side of the bed, removing his drawers while she pulled her nightdress over her head. When she tossed it aside, it brushed against his arm.

He caught it and held the fabric in his hand. ‘I wish I could see you.’

‘I just want you to touch me.’ She reached for him, impatient to have him next to her on the bed. On top of her. Inside her. ‘Look at me with your hands.’

He climbed on the bed, kneeling over her, her legs between his. His hands touched her lightly, making their way to her head. His fingers ran through her loose hair, like one might run hands through cool water. He combed through the length of it, reaching its ends and exploring the feel of it.

‘Your hair is longer than I thought,’ he said. ‘With some curl. What colour is it?’

She hesitated to say. He could not possibly identify her by hair colour alone, could he? Many women had her hair colour. ‘Blonde.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It is blonde.’

‘As I imagined it to be.’ He played with her hair, twisting it around his hands, threading it through his fingers, creating sensation that flooded through her.

He explored her face, as he’d done once before, but this time his fingers were reverent, stroking each contour as if he were sculpting her himself out of pliant clay. Could he feel what other men saw with their eyes? Would her face matter to him? She did not want it to matter to him. Or perhaps she did. She wanted him to admire her, did she not?

Tears of confusion sprang to her eyes. Oh, dear! How would she explain tears at such a moment? How could she tell him she did not wish to be beautiful for him, merely loved?

Luckily his hands moved to stroke her neck and trace the contours of her ears. She blinked away the tears and savoured the lovely sensations his fingers created. He slid his hands down farther, reaching her breasts, stroking, tracing around her nipples. Her back arched in response. His hands had been gentle in their exploration, but now she felt their strength as he pressed her flesh more firmly, again taking possession as he’d done with the kiss.

She flared with need. A moan escaped her lips and her body ached for him. Her hands grasped him, kneading his skin, not so much exploring him as urging him to keep touching her, to keep filling her with need.

His hands slid farther, pressing against her rib cage, reaching her waist and spanning it with his fingers as if measuring. Yes, she knew her breasts were full, her waist narrow, and her bottom fleshy enough to please a man. How often had she been told of it?

‘Does it matter to you, how I am shaped?’ she asked, her voice tinged with both annoyance and gratification.

‘Matter?’ He swept his hands up and down her torso. ‘This is the only way I can see you.’

She did care how he perceived her, she realised. ‘Do—do I please you?’

He leaned down and possessed her lips, his kiss long and dizzying. Her muscles melted like butter left too close to the oven.

‘You please me very much, Daphne,’ he murmured, still touching his lips to hers. ‘You have pleased me since the moment I first woke in this room.’

Her spirits soared. He could not have known anything of her appearance then, not even by touch, and still she pleased him. A memory flashed. Of her husband undressing her like a doll and looking at her, admiration glowing in his eyes.

No. She did not want to think of her husband at this moment. She wanted to think only of this night, of this man. Of Hugh. She could seek happiness for a week, could she not? A week with Hugh should be enough to last a lifetime.

He splayed his fingers over her abdomen. She slid hers down his back. Everywhere she touched was firm muscle. How thrilling to think of that masculine power beneath his skin. The light in the room was dim, a mere glow from the fireplace, but it was enough to reveal his magnificence. She could not help but compare him with Xavier, who she’d imagined to be at the peak of masculine perfection. Hugh was not perfection, but there was glory in his rough-edged manliness.

Enough exploring,
she wanted to scream.
Take me now.

She arched her back and pulled one of his hands down to where she ached for him.

Pleasure me,
she wanted to say, but she’d never before spoken such wanton words.

She did not have to tell him. His fingers touched her with exquisite intimacy, exciting her even more acutely. Fevered cries escaped her lips, and she writhed in the glory of his touching, stroking, building need and pushing it to the breaking point.

She could keep silent no longer. ‘Please, now, Hugh. Now.’ She pressed his buttocks and scraped lightly with her fingernails. ‘Now, Hugh.’

But first he leaned down and kissed her again, moving his tongue until her mouth opened to him. His tongue was warm and wet and tasted of brandy. When he broke the kiss, he thrust into her and her exhilaration flared. She liked that he was not gentle, not careful. He was assured, skilled. He knew her body was slick and ready for him.

He moved with equal skill and control, just the right cadence to calm her need, but to allow it to rebuild slowly, like an avalanche she’d witnessed once when visiting the mountains in Switzerland. It started slow, building and building until everything in its path was consumed by it and swept along.

She was swept along, almost giddy at the wonder of the journey.

When his control broke, she was enveloped by the wildness of it, his animal growls, his abandon, until the pleasure burst inside her and he thrust one final, frenzied time. He’d spilled his seed inside her, his gift, the part of him that was now part of her.

He exhaled a long breath, and his weight grew heavy on top of her for a moment before he rolled to her side and nestled her against him. ‘Daphne,’ he murmured.

Words swirled inside her, words of wonder and thanks and joy, but she could not speak them. She kissed him instead, a long, lingering, tender kiss into which she put all she could not say.

They made love again. And again. Until finally sated and satisfied, she lay next to him, bare skin to bare skin, enjoying the mere fact of his breathing, the soft sound of his heartbeat.

* * *

Hugh felt as if his bones had melted like candle wax. Not an essence of tension remained inside him. He was where he most wished to be.

Next to her.

‘Daphne, Daphne,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing could ever be better than that.’

‘Mmm,’ she said, which he took as agreement.

He knew she’d experienced as much passion as he. He knew she relished it equally as much, but before he could help it, the past crept in. Had it been that magnificent with her husband? If so, what a lucky man. Had it been like that with other men?

She sighed, a contented, satisfied sound. ‘I always had the sense there was more.’ She snuggled closer to him. ‘Now I know for certain.’

Was she reading his thoughts now? ‘Do not tell me you have never experienced the like of this with a man before?’

‘Like this?’ She laughed a soft, near-silent laugh. ‘No.’

It made no sense. She’d been created for lovemaking. How could he believe that no man had ever discovered that before? Had her husband been a fool? The other men, as well?

‘My husband was the only other man I’ve bedded.’

Were their thoughts joined as well as their bodies and souls? Even after making love to her once, Hugh felt a part of her and she, a part of him.

Hugh stroked her glorious hair. The finest silk threads could never feel as luxurious. ‘Your husband—?’ he began to ask. He’d all but promised he would not ask about her husband again, but he’d also assumed there had been someone else. If she had not gone to Switzerland to wait out a pregnancy and to give up a baby, then why had she gone?

‘My husband was older,’ she went on. ‘Twice my age and more. A vital man, even so. I was very young when he married me. Barely seventeen. It was a very advantageous match for me. He was wealthy and of greater status. His—his lovemaking was—’ she paused ‘—different.’

He frowned. ‘Were you unhappy?’ Was that the unhappiness he sensed in her?

‘Unhappy?’ She seemed to consider this. ‘No, not unhappy. Just young and foolish and filled with silly ideas.’

He thought her so serious a person. ‘Silly ideas? I do not believe you.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Her tone turned sad. ‘I had very foolish notions.’

He rose up on one elbow, wishing he could look down on her. ‘What sort of foolish notions?’

She paused again before finally saying, ‘I was quite indulged, but I wanted what I could not and should not have. It took me a long while to accept that I should be content with what I have been given.’

There had been another man; he knew it. ‘Was it another man, then?’

Again she paused. ‘Yes. Once, but not really. I mean, nothing came of it.’