An Improper Wife (2 page)

She was out the door, across the stone balcony and down the last of the four steps when behind her a voice said, “Have you gone mad?”

Caroline froze, skirt held above her ankles. It had been too easy. She released the dress and slowly turned. Lady Margaret stood at the top of the stairs, the ridiculous pannier she wore spanning half the width of the steps. Caroline started to speak, then paused when another masked domino and sultana emerged from the ballroom. He pulled the sultana closer and she responded with a giggle. They rushed down the stairs, headed for the seclusion of the gardens. Longing stabbed at Caroline. She was a fool to have thought she belonged here.

Margaret’s gaze followed their retreat, then shifted back to Caroline. “Looking for a bit of privacy?”

Caroline ignored the cold—she had left her wrap inside and had not intended on retrieving it—and leant against the stone pillar. “I am alone, as you can see.”

“Yes, I can see you are…now.” Margaret took two of the steps, stopping so that she towered over Caroline. “Perhaps you have a lover waiting in the garden?”

Caroline sighed. “How did you know it was me?”

Margaret snorted. “We have known one another since the nursery. I would know you in any disguise. Just as you recognised me—and do not deny that is the reason you fled.” She descended to the fourth step so that they were eye level with each other and said in a voice barely audible over the music filtering from the ballroom, “You are to marry on the morrow. What in God’s name are you thinking?”

“As you say, tomorrow I marry. I go from grieving betrothed to wife.”
Unwanted wife
, she mentally corrected. So much so that her future husband’s business had taken precedence over their marriage and he refused to come to England until the very day of their wedding. “Surely, I can have this,” she added, “my last night of freedom.”

Margaret arched a brow. “Do not expect the privileges of rank then flout the responsibilities.”

Caroline snorted. “Responsibilities be damned. I have worn black a full year and will wed the Viscount tomorrow, as my rank dictates. Tonight, I am not Lady Caroline, heiress to twenty thousand pounds a year, soon to be Viscountess. Tonight, I am Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, who indulges her whims as she wills.”

A couple appeared from the garden shadows beyond the light cast by the open balcony doors. The dark wig on the woman dressed as Curiosity was askew and leaves clung to the cape on the gentleman dressed as Death.

Margaret frowned and waited until they’d ascended the stairs and entered the ballroom before saying, “If word of your escapade reaches his lordship, you may well not become Viscountess.”

“By God, I shall rip off my mask now!” Caroline declared.

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Pray, forego the dramatics.”

Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Where is your sense of adventure? What is this spell that has turned you into a prig?”

“Good sense and age,” Margaret replied. “The same spell you should have fallen under long ago.”

Caroline gave an unladylike snort. “A year of mourning has soured me. As if being betrothed to that indifferent man hadn’t been enough,” she added under her breath.

Margaret’s face softened. “Perhaps his brother will be better.”

Better? She’d heard rumours. Lord Taran Robertson demanded obedience. As apathetic as John had been, Taran was forceful in his cravings—his sexual cravings. She’d even heard he’d used a paddle on a mistress when she’d been disobedient. A thrill streaked along her spine. Controlling and dominant, yet virile and passionate. She remembered the new Viscount of Blackhall. Eyes the colour of copper laced with amber strands had darkened to a rich brown when he’d met her gaze in the instant before bending over her hand. She’d been sixteen, too young to recognise the tremor of awareness in her stomach as desire.

When John died, Taran had become Viscount of Blackhall. A prickle skimmed her arms. Odd, that the same twist of fate that had taken her father had repeated itself and saved her from John. Both had died in riding accidents. Despite her lack of feeling for John, his death had come as a shock. Finding herself betrothed to the brother ere the body was cold had been an even greater shock. She’d had her uncle to thank for that. No. Her father. Had he not left his brother-in-law in charge of her fortune, her future might have looked very different.

Loneliness closed around her heart. She missed her father. He had been a good man, who couldn’t accept that his wife’s brother, privateer Phillip Etherton, was the infamous pirate Peiter Everston. The fortune Phillip Etherton had amassed came as a result of blurred lines between protecting the seas for the Crown, and murder. But wealth wasn’t enough. Uncle wanted to join the elite circles of society, and her marriage to the Viscount of Blackhall was the price.

“John cared nothing for me,” she said, more to herself than Margaret. “He was cold and unfeeling.” As would be his brother. A lifetime of cold nights and dreary, lonely days stretched out before her.

Margaret placed a hand on her shoulder. “I have heard otherwise.”

“From his mistresses, no doubt.”

“A man may have as many mistresses as he likes,” Margaret replied. “It is no shame to the wife.”

“I shall provide the required heir,” Caroline replied with an aplomb she was far from feeling. “I am going.” She turned and continued down the stairs.

“Car—Aphrodite,” Margaret called, but Caroline didn’t turn back.

Chapter Two

“By God,” Caroline cursed ten minutes later.

Lord Forbes had not been boasting when he’d said his garden maze was unmatched in all of northern England. She blew out a frustrated breath. Of all the nights to become lost in one of the damned labyrinths. She turned down another bend and a white stone statue became visible ahead on the left. Caroline groaned. Already, she’d seen half a dozen replicas of Greek and Roman goddesses. This statue, she realised upon approach, was a large cherubim. The half-moon peeked through a hole in the veil of clouds, illuminating an alcove just ahead.

“Thank God.”

Caroline hurried forward. As expected, a stone bench lay nestled between the bushes. She hiked up her skirt and stepped onto the bench. Wind rustled across the hedge tops, setting her nerves more on edge. She scanned the acres of perfectly manicured shrubs that cut and curved in all directions.

“Bloody hell,” she cursed.

In the distance, the rear of the maze gave way to trees that stretched heavenward, but she stood no chance of navigating through the twists and turns that led to them. She faced the mansion and studied the path leading back in that direction.

“Left, right, second right, third—no—second left,” she said, while reciting a silent vow never to have a stupid maze on any of her properties.

Caroline turned to jump from the bench and shrieked. A masked, kilted god stood nearly eye-to-eye with her. She stumbled back. He seized her waist and yanked her forward. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck to keep from falling and her cheek met the warm, damp flesh of his shoulder. Her heart raced at a gallop.

“Careful, my lady.” The deep, cultured English accent didn’t quite disguise the hint of Scottish burr.

Gooseflesh chilled her arms. Yet, her body warmed. Her nipples hardened to erect peaks against the thin fabric of her costume.

“My lady,” he prodded.

Fear that he would feel the heat of her arousal immobilised her.

“I can stand here all night, if it pleases you,” he murmured.

The erotic vision of him doing just that while she rubbed her nipples against his hard body snapped her head up. Dark eyes indistinguishable from the shadow stared at her through a black eye mask.

A flurry of butterflies swirled in her tummy. “I am lost.” She cursed the breathless note in her voice.

“Nay, I found you.” He shifted. A dusting of hair at the nape of his neck tickled her fingertips. He slowly slid her body against his as he lowered her to the ground.

The scent of leather and cloves clung to him. She inhaled, heart fluttering, then tilted her head up. “You have my gratitude, sir. I would be even more grateful if you could direct me out of this…this…labyrinth.”

“Even
more
grateful?” he repeated.

Caroline became aware of the rough wool of his kilt against the sensitive skin of her thigh. She willed her racing heart to slow. Here was the warm flush that had been missing with the domino in the ballroom. Cruel fate.
Far too late has come my redemption
.

“Would you like to return to the masque?” His hands dropped from her waist.

A strange sense of loss washed over her. She steeled her resolve to go home and stepped away from him. “I am leaving.”

“Through the gardens?” The harshness in his tone startled her. “It is more likely you fled the festivities to meet someone. The blue domino, perhaps?”

Caroline stiffened. “Anyone attending the masque is well aware of the frolicking taking place in these gardens.”

“Frolicking?” he repeated.

“You are here, sir. Need I feel recrimination because I am a woman? Bah,” she added in a mutter. “I have no time for this foolishness.”

She meant to head towards the mansion, but he blocked the way, so she turned deeper into the maze.

“My lady.” He grasped her arm.

She dropped her gaze to his long, dark fingers. His hold, though light, held her firm. An unexpected vision of those strong fingers gripping her hips while he pumped into her from behind caused her to snap her head up.

“No time for
this foolishness
?” He lifted his free hand and drew a thumb along her bottom lip.

Heat coursed through her veins. There was no misreading the invitation. Had he read her mind? He offered what she so desperately desired, a night of passion in the arms of a man who hungered for her. This man would demand more than she could afford—but suddenly wanted with every fibre of her being to give.

He pulled her an inch closer. She took the step haltingly. Amusement showed in the upturn of his mouth and he tugged her so near that her nipples came into contact with his warm chest. A tremor radiated through her. In all her planning, she hadn’t considered a man might steal her breath as well as rational thought. Heat crept into her face. She disengaged her arm from his grasp.

“Forgive me. I—” She faltered, unable to trust her ability to resist should he twitch even a muscle. “I fear I may have grossly misrepresented my position.”

He gave a low chuckle. “Most who attend these events misrepresent their position. That is the brilliance of the masque, Aphrodite, the night is ours.”

A jolt to her pussy drenched her folds. She took a step back only to find the awareness intensified when he countered by stalking closer. The prickle of the hedge against her back halted her retreat. He stopped a hair’s breadth from her. Scents of peony and juniper mingled with the dizzying scent of him, assailing her senses. Caroline tilted her head up. Moonlight glinted in the eye slits of his mask.

She drew a sharp breath when he bent and whispered a kiss on her neck. His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “You are beautiful.” He flicked his tongue against her beating pulse point. “I want to steal you away, but I will settle for having you here.” He cupped the back of her head, angling her mouth for a kiss. She parted her lips and his tongue glided along hers. A low groan rolled from his chest as he pressed the hard length of his cock against her abdomen.

“Having me?” Clutching fistfuls of his shirt, Caroline allowed her head to fall back.

“Yes,” he murmured, and blazed a trail of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, to the curve of her shoulder. He traced the swell of her breast, then found and pinched a beaded nipple.

She cried out. He tugged down her bodice, exposing a taut tip, then plucked the bud between his lips and gently bit.

“So sweet.”

“My lord,” she breathed.

He threaded his fingers through her wig. The wig shifted. Caroline jerked to shove it back into place, brushing her hip against his erection. He sucked in a breath and yanked up his kilt. She froze at sight of the full erection jutting towards her, as if begging her to take what she wanted. His warm fingers closed over hers and guided her hand downward, where he firmly wrapped her fingers around his shaft.

She startled at the velvety smoothness. He was so…she squeezed. Not rough or calloused—her heart raced—what had she expected? Caroline realised with a horrified start that she had no idea what to expect, and released him as if he were a snake. She flattened her palms on his chest in an effort to distance them and met the warmth of his sculpted torso.

“Good Lord.” She snatched her hands back.

He cupped her derriere, lifted her more intimately against his arousal, and rested his forehead against hers, their masks touching. “Let me touch you.”

Her pulse jumped. They were alone. Margaret believed she had fled the masque. What could a little touch hurt?

“Yes,” she whispered before she could change her mind.

He set her feet back on the ground, then slipped a finger beneath the dress and shoulder. Gooseflesh raced along her arms where his warm fingers touched her. She shivered. His gaze remained on her as he slipped the dress off her arms. The fabric dropped to her elbows, exposing both breasts.

Silence drew out between them. She trembled, but knew her reaction was fear and not the damp air that crept across her flesh. What had happened? Had he changed his mind? Caroline stiffened. Was she not beautiful enough? She lifted her gaze to find obsidian eyes staring from within the slits of the mask. He watched for another long moment, then lifted a hand and cupped a breast. She shuddered.

His mouth curved into a slight smile. “Do I please you, Aphrodite?”

Caroline was unable to utter a sound. He gave a low laugh, then bent and traced a circle around her nipple with his tongue. Cool night air chilled the places his hot mouth and tongue touched. She grasped his shirt. A woman’s moan of pleasure abruptly intruded on their solitude.

He straightened. Caroline yanked her bodice over her breasts. He pulled her close, sheltering her from view. Whispered words drifted towards them from the maze entrance.