Lady Em's Indiscretion (7 page)
Then she realized her bodice had shifted
again. When they came to the top of the set, she surreptitiously
twitched it back into place.
“I must thank you again for coming to my
rescue, sir,” she said as they stood awaiting their turn to rejoin
the line.
“It was my pleasure. In truth, I had seen
you from above and was hoping to ask you for a dance.” He cleared
his throat. “I hope that Grand Turk did not frighten you too
much.”
“No, he was merely making a nuisance of
himself. My footman awaits me and would have protected me in any
case.”
“You came alone?”
Livvy paused, knowing how scandalous her
behavior must seem. But it was unlikely they would meet again, or
that he would recognize her.
She nodded. “And you?”
“I came with my cousin. He has been plaguing
me for some time to come with him to one of these affairs. I agreed
only to prove I am a hopeless case, beyond the pleasures of
dancing.”
“Is that why you chose to be the skeleton at
the feast? A joke on your poor cousin?” she asked playfully.
“A rather feeble joke, I suppose,” he said,
looking down at her with an expression that was suddenly intent.
Hungry.
“Have you accomplished your aim, then?
Proven that you are a hopeless case?”
He stared down, light from the chandeliers
again reflecting in his eyes. Brown. No, not brown: a rich
mahogany, deep and velvety, fire in their depths.
“Perhaps not.”
His voice sent another current of warmth
curling through her. A dangerous feeling. One she’d not felt since
she was seventeen.
Then it was time for them to rejoin the
dance. Livvy did so with a mixture of regret and relief, which only
grew as the dance progressed to its inevitable end. She curtsied
toward her partner, the warmth he’d kindled strengthening as he
swept her a deep bow.
She did not want to feel it. And yet . .
.
“I must go now,” she said, forcing the words
out.
He stared down at her, mouth tightening. In
disappointment?
“Must you?” he asked softly. “I would very
much enjoy another dance.”
“I . . . think I must go.”
“At least allow me to escort you to your
footman.”
She nodded, reluctant to part any sooner
than necessary. And she did feel safe with him. As he took her arm
once more, she stole a glance toward his profile. He was licking
his lips; he was about to speak. Was he going to ask her name, or .
. . Lud! She’d read about it so many times in novels. He might be
planning to invite her to a late supper. In stories, that always
ended in the heroine’s seduction and ruin. The authors of those
novels did not, perhaps, realize that ruin could take more
respectable forms.
In any case it was time to leave.
She sped up, but a moment later the stranger
spoke.
“Forgive me if I seem forward,” he said,
with disarming hesitancy. “But I should very much like to
know—”
“Ah, there you are! You shan’t run away
now!”
Livvy turned to see the Turk coming their
way from the opposite end of the ballroom. Her escort glanced back,
then took her arm and began to lead her on a crooked path through
the milling revelers.
The Turk’s loud voice boomed again. “I’ll
see your face before the night’s done, you jade!”
Death steered her ever faster through the
crowd, then pushed her gently against one of the pillars that lined
the sides of the ballroom. Shielding her with his body, he pressed
her head to his shoulder and draped his cloak around her.
Her heart galloped as his muscular form
pressed against hers. First in fear, then, as he did nothing more,
an old, familiar heat flowed through her, stoked by the sharp
intake of his breath, the betrayal of his unmistakable masculine
reaction to their closeness.
It was wonderful and terrifying.
And all he did was hold her. He made no
attempt to kiss or fondle her, merely hiding her under his cloak,
his body subtly vibrating with his restraint. Nothing more. He
demanded nothing more.
Desire flushed her body, and she stiffened.
She couldn’t allow this, didn’t want to feel anything like it
again. But she didn’t wish to run away either. So they stood for
long moments, pressed so close that she could barely distinguish
his labored breathing from her own, while desire ebbed and flowed
with her fears.
Then he shifted. “I think . . . he is gone,”
he whispered.
She looked up at him, but it was too dark to
see his face. His ragged breath spoke of arousal. The heat rose
inside her again, like a madness. Recklessly, she stretched upward,
on tiptoes and raised her face to him. Another tortured breath, and
he lowered his face to hers.
His kiss was shockingly sweet: shy,
hesitant, as he pressed his lips almost chastely against hers and
stilled his body. As if he guessed what she wanted when she herself
had not known. Dreamily, she succumbed to pleasure; she parted her
lips and kissed him back, relishing the firm roundness of his lips,
the taste of him, the merest hint of wine on his breath.
She gasped as the stranger’s tongue curled
around hers. Shocked, she submitted to his slow, tentative
exploration, sensing she had but to say the word and he would stop.
But she didn’t wish to stop him. She lifted her arms to embrace
him, ventured to flick her tongue against his. A shudder ran
through his body; he let out a low groan, yet did nothing but kiss
her.
Walter had never kissed her like this; she
had not known that anyone
could
kiss so.
Then thoughts of Walter fled. The stranger
deepened his kiss; she let out a little moan of pleasure. He
pressed against her more closely and she tightened her embrace,
whimpering, returning each flutter of his tongue. She felt safe yet
lost, feasting yet hungry, helpless with longing for more.
A chill came over her. She froze, then
pulled her face away.
She had vowed never to be helpless
again.
“I cannot . . . I am sorry. Let me go,” she
whispered.
For a moment Death continued to press her
against the pillar, the rhythm of his breath harsh, his body
hard.
“Please,” she begged, terror constricting
her throat. “Let me go. I should never have come!”
Then he backed away, slowly releasing her.
As she slid out from under his cloak, she nearly wept with relief.
He was a gentleman after all.
“Forgive me,” he said in one shuddering
breath. “Please don’t be frightened. I won’t touch you again if you
don’t wish, but please let me—”
His eyes were dark, full of desire and
remorse; his voice low and caressing. She was touched, but it was
wrong to stay. It was terribly wrong of her to have encouraged
him.
“I must go,” she interrupted before she
changed her mind. “Please don’t follow me!”
Legs shaking, she ran along the side of the
room, vaguely aware of curious glances as she dodged groups of
people in garish costumes, bumping into some. She rushed into the
sparsely filled entrance hall. Thank God! There was Charles, solid
and reliable, coming forward and holding her dark blue evening
cloak.
“Is someone causing you trouble, ma’am?” he
asked worriedly.
“No, no, but I must leave now.” Frantically,
she pulled on her cloak and lifted the hood over her head.
Then a mad indecision came over her. She
glanced back toward the ballroom. Had the stranger followed her, to
make sure she left safely?
“There you are! Promised myself I’d see your
face, and more, before the night’s through!”
She began to tremble. The Turk was
approaching. She’d forgotten him, but now there was no choice but
to leave.
“You’ll not touch my mistress,” said
Charles, interposing his formidable mass between Livvy and the
oncoming man.
“Leave the lady be!” Death’s resonant voice
rang through the entrance hall. Livvy peered around Charles and saw
the Turk turn to face his antagonist.
“Who the devil are you and how are you going
to stop me?” the Turk asked, with all the bravado of a
drunkard.
In two swift strides, Death closed the
distance between them; in another heartbeat, his fist swung into
the Turk’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.
A woman screamed. Several persons started
toward them.
“We must go, my lady!” said Charles.
Death stood over the Turk’s rolling and
cursing form, eyes blazing grimly through the holes in his
mask.
The Turk staggered to his feet. “Damn you,
you doxy!” he shouted, staring at Livvy, then at Charles, then back
to Livvy. “I’ve a notion who you are, and once—”
He lunged toward Death, only to be knocked
neatly to the floor again. More screams echoed. A crowd began to
form.
“We must go,” insisted Charles. Putting an
impersonal arm around Livvy, he half-led, half-dragged her
away.
She stumbled along, not daring to look back.
Death was more than a match for the Turk. There was no need to
worry about him, or even to think about him ever again. They’d
shared a few dances. A kiss. Anything more was unthinkable.
Impossible. And it always would be.
She choked back a sob as Charles helped her
into the carriage. This was just a temporary madness. She would
laugh about it tomorrow. But as she watched the Pantheon recede
through the window, it was all Livvy could do not to cry.
* * *
The Morning Intelligencer,
March 10,
1809
The Author of this column thought himself
inured to the Licentious Behavior commonly displayed by Persons
attending those most Iniquitous of Entertainments, Masked Balls at
the Pantheon Theatre. However, at Yesterday’s Ball, even this
Author was shocked by the behavior of a certain Lady D— of Kent, a
Widow, who was seen sporting with Lord A—, a Nobleman known for his
Promiscuous Inclinations. It is this Author’s regretful conviction
that Lady D— will continue to welcome Solace for her Loneliness
from such Gentlemen who prefer Beauty and a Liberal Character to
Modesty and Virtue.
T
he Incorrigible Lady
Catherine
(“The Three Disgraces” Book 1)
(“The Three Disgraces” Book 2)
(“The Three Disgraces” Book 3)
(a traditional Regency novella)
Available in Paperback
Elena Greene grew up reading her mother’s
Georgette Heyer novels, but it wasn’t until she went on an
international assignment to the United Kingdom that she was
inspired to start writing her own. Her first Regency romance was
published in 2000 and was followed by five more Regencies and a
novella. Her books have won the Desert Rose Golden Quill and
Colorado Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence. Her Super Regency,
Lady Dearing’s Masquerade
, won
RT Book Club’s
award
for Best Regency Romance of 2005. Elena lives in upstate New York
with her stroke survivor husband and two daughters.
Find Elena online at:
