Masque of Betrayal (12 page)

“If my personal life were in better order,” Thomas answered reluctantly.

“A problem with your mystery lady?”

Thomas grimaced, drumming his fingers nervously on the table. “Not a problem, precisely. Just a disagreement regarding our degrees of involvement.”

Dane recognized the symptoms only too well, “You’re in love with her.”

Thomas gave a short, humorless laugh. “To say the very least … yes.”

“And she?”

A pause. “She
says
she loves me. But every blasted time I make plans for our future, she becomes vague and uncooperative. I don’t know what to think.”

“Women have a way of keeping us off-balance,” Dane concurred dryly. “But perhaps she is truly not ready to settle down. Is she very young?”

“Not
that
young.”

Dane frowned at Thomas’s evasiveness. “Why won’t you allow me to meet her?”

Thomas brought his glass to the table with a thud and came to his feet. “Please, Dane, don’t press me. I’m not up for it.” He straightened his waistcoat and glanced down at his timepiece. “Besides, it’s half after six. Didn’t you say you were due at the Holts’ at seven o’clock?”

Dane stood as well, his elegant black evening clothes perfectly molded to his tall, powerful physique. “Yes. I’m escorting Jacqueline to the Binghams’ party.”

“You’re becoming rather involved with Jacqueline Holt, are you not?”

Dane grinned. “Rather.” He placed a supportive hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Thomas … if you need assistance from me …”

“… then I shall certainly ask for it,” Thomas finished with a tired smile. “Go and fetch your lady, and enjoy yourselves.”

“Are you seeing
your
lady tonight?”

“No. Not tonight.” Thomas looked away.

“Thomas—”

“Good night, Dane,” Thomas interrupted abruptly. “I really must be off.”

Dane nodded. “Of course.”

But he was worried.

“Tell me,
mon père,
do I look suitably dressed for an evening with Philadelphia’s aristocracy?” Jacqui’s question was asked in a bantering tone, but George Holt did not laugh. Watching his elegant daughter spin about the sitting room in her scarlet and gold satin gown, he realized, with more than a twinge of sadness, that his little girl was gone. In her place was a stunning young woman. A young woman who, if George’s suspicions were correct, was falling in love.

“You look exquisite, Jacqui.” He gave her an indulgent smile. “Lovely enough to dine with the President himself. Dane Westbrooke is a very lucky man.”

Jacqui flushed, brushing an imaginary speck off her full skirt in order to avoid her father’s knowing eyes. He’d always been able to read her thoughts far too easily.

“You’re beginning to care for him.” George’s voice was filled with gentle understanding.

Jacqui lifted her head with a start. “He intrigues me,” she qualified. “And he accepts me for who I am.”

George smiled. “Who is that, my beautiful daughter?”

Jacqui gave him a pointed look. “You’re teasing me, Father. You, better than anyone, know the answer to that question. I am exactly as you raised me to be … strong, independent, and committed to what I believe in.”

It was true. Since Marie Holt had died unexpectedly ten years before, George had encouraged Jacqui to be, not only his beloved only child, but his intellectual partner and confidante as well. So, unlike the other young ladies of her age, Jacqui had been educated, not only in French, music, and the like, but in politics, literature, and business. All of which she took to like a fish to water.

She had been keeping the ledgers for Holt Trading throughout her teens, and George couldn’t ask for a more thorough, painstaking accountant.

If there were times when Jacqui’s bold tongue and unwavering political opinions made George wonder if perhaps he’d been too lenient in her upbringing, he did not allow himself to dwell on it. Nor did he allow himself to ponder the ramifications of her controversial undertaking this year past. Some things were better left alone.

With eyes that were suspiciously bright, George went over and took Jacqui’s hands. “Yes, Jacqueline, you have turned into exactly the woman I always prayed you would be. I only wish your mother were alive to share in my joy.”

Jacqui felt her throat tighten. She and her father rarely spoke of her mother. After ten years, the pain was still fresh.

Raising up on tiptoes, Jacqui placed a warm kiss on her father’s smooth-shaven cheek. “You’d best be going,
papa
,” she murmured. “Monique will be waiting.”

He gave her a mock scowl. “You’ll forgive me if I act the part of the doting father for a bit. I plan to wait until your escort arrives before I take my leave.”

“Then you needn’t wait any longer, Herr Holt,” Greta announced, appearing in the room. Her normally ruddy complexion looked even rosier than usual. “Herr Westbrooke has arrived.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her apron and adjusted the bow in the back.

Jacqui fought back a smile. “Thank you, Greta. Please show Mr. Westbrooke in.”

Greta scowled. “You should not be down here, Fräulein,” she scolded. “A gentleman should be kept waiting a respectable period of time before his lady appears.”

Jacqui could no longer suppress her laughter. “That is ridiculous, Greta. I
am
ready. Why would I pretend
not
to be?”

“It isn’t proper for …”

“Don’t waste your breath, Greta,” George advised, seeing an oncoming argument. Checking his timepiece, he noted that he was expected at Monique’s home in a quarter hour. “Show Mr. Westbrooke in.”

Bristling, Greta barked, “Very well, sir.” She cast an annoyed look at Jacqui and made a loud sound of disapproval. Then she hastened off.

“Thank you, Father,” Jacqui said, her eyes twinkling. “We might have been here the remainder of the night.”

“That is precisely what I was afraid of.”

“Herr Westbrooke,” Greta bellowed from the doorway.

Dane strolled in, tall and bronzed as a Greek god, dark as Lucifer himself … and magnificent as sin.

Jacqui felt her insides melt.

“Good evening, Dane.” George extended his hand.

Dane shook it. “Good evening, George.” The acknowledgment was automatic and Dane hardly knew he’d made it. His gaze was fixed on the melting vision in red and gold who stood beside her father.

“Jacqueline.” Dane kissed her hand. “You look beautiful.” He wanted to do much more than kiss her hand. He wanted to take her in his arms and bury his lips in hers, to run his hands through her thick, shining mahogany curls. He wanted to drag her to the floor and make slow, exquisite love to her.

“Dane.” Her tone was even as she greeted him in return, but her eyes promised him a far warmer greeting when they were alone.

“We had best be going.” Dane was eager to collect on that promise. He raised his head and, for the first time since he’d arrived, met George Holt’s stare. The older man was watching Dane’s reactions to Jacqui with a combination of keen insight and paternal protectiveness. Both of which Dane recognized. He felt a twinge of guilt for what he had planned … but only a twinge.

“Shall we?” He offered Jacqui his arm.

Jacqui slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, accepting his arm … and all that she suspected went with it. The die had been cast. “Father … we’ll see you there?”

George gave a definitive nod. “You most certainly shall. I’m on my way now to fetch Monique and then it’s off to the Binghams’ home.” He turned back to Dane, a trace of concern in his eyes. “Take good care of my Jacqui.” The message was clear.

“I will,” Dane assured him soberly. It was no lie. The method he had chosen was a bit unorthodox, but his final intent was as decent and honorable as any father could wish. “Come, Jacqueline, my coach is waiting.”

Dane led Jacqui out of the house, where his liveried driver waited patiently beside a light but elegant coach. Dane instructed his man as to their destination, then assisted Jacqui into the enclosed vehicle, settling himself across from her.

“This is lovely,” Jacqui murmured, gliding her hand over the fine upholstery. “I am impressed.”

“Don’t be.” He grinned easily. “At least, not with my carriage.”

“Imported directly from England, I presume?” Jacqui asked pointedly.

Dane’s grin widened. “Actually, purchased from the Clark Brothers on Chestnut Street right here in Philadelphia. They readied it for me at the same time that they prepared a similar one for President Washington. Anything further you’d like to take exception to, my sweet?”

Jacqui lowered her lashes, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “The night is young, Dane. Perhaps later I shall think of something else we might debate.”

Abruptly, Dane moved from his seat to Jacqui’s, dragging her onto his lap. “Fine. But for now, I don’t want to argue. In fact, I don’t want to talk at all.” He buried his hands in her hair, lifting her mouth purposefully to his. “This ride will be far too short for my liking,” he muttered against her lips. “I plan to use every minute to my advantage.” He caught her bottom lip lightly between his teeth. “Every minute.”

He didn’t wait for her response, but took her mouth wholly, hungrily, under his. He lifted her small, resisting hands from his chest and wrapped them about his neck, pressing her so close to him that she could scarcely breathe.

Breathing was the last thing on Jacqui’s mind. Crushed against the solid wall of Dane’s chest, plundered by the demanding pressure of his mouth, she felt surrounded by his power, possessed by the dark, enveloping, sensual allure that drove them together. The slow rocking motion of the carriage lulled her, the illusion of being utterly isolated from the world intoxicated her, and the exhilarating feeling within her built higher and higher … the relentless urge to give in to the forbidden taste of what was to come.

Dane tasted his victory. “Let yourself go,” he whispered against her trembling mouth. “Just this once, love. Let yourself go.” His open mouth slid across her cheek to the side of her neck and up, until Jacqui could feel his hot breath against the shell of her ear. “We’re finally alone,
mon chaton
,” he told her, sliding his hands up and down her quivering arms. “We have only a few precious moments. Please, Jacqueline, give in to it. You want more. I know you do … I can feel it. Let me give it to you.” His mouth returned to hers, urgent, coaxing. “Let me …”

Jacqui gave a soft whimper, whether of surrender or protest, she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. She was already sinking into a hypnotic sexual spell, tightening her hold around Dane’s neck even as he lowered her to the smooth seat of the carriage. She felt his weight on top of her and it was heaven … heaven. Giddy with newfound sensation, she arched her body upward, seeking more contact with this addictive man who held her pleasure in his hands.

Dane had thought he was in control of his passion. He was not.

Feeling Jacqui’s soft beauty, even separated from him by layers of clothing, he went taut, desire crashing through his being with the force and intensity of a tidal wave. He tore his mouth from hers, blindly tugging down the sleeves of her gown, kissing her shoulders, her collarbone, the upper swell of her breasts. He said her name in an agonized whisper, slid his hands beneath her, his fingers shaking so badly that he could barely get past the first button of her gown.

He had just managed to free the last of her buttons, his hands gliding inside to touch the warm satin skin of her back, when the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

Lost to everything save the exquisite ecstasy of having Jacqueline beneath him at last, Dane was slow to respond to her urgent plea for him to stop.

“Dane!” The second time Jacqui pounded her fists on his shoulders, frantic with the knowledge that their carriage had arrived at the Binghams’ grand mansion and that Dane was making no attempt to release her. “Damn it, Dane, we’re here!”

This time her words penetrated his passion-drugged haze. With a low groan of pain, Dane lifted his head, his breathing harsh, his jaw clenched with the discipline of bringing his body under control. He met the startled, vulnerable look in Jacqui’s eyes, and all at once nothing mattered but the self-censure, the bitter regret he knew she must be feeling.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” He hoisted himself back to a sitting position, appalled at his own lack of restraint or discretion. He had planned to seduce her slowly, gradually, this short coach ride merely the first step toward completion, a skimming of the surface. Instead, he had all but tossed up her skirts and taken her in a five-second frenzy of need. So much for his iron control, his reputation as the consummate lover. Dane scowled, cursing under his breath. He could hear his driver preparing to dismount, and, determined to save Jacqui further embarrassment, Dane hastily drew her up, refastened her buttons, and adjusted her gown. “I’m sorry, love,” he repeated softly as he completed his task.

“I’m not.”

Dane froze at Jacqui’s blunt admission, uttered with absolute candor.

“You’re not … what?” He must have misunderstood.

Jacqui reached up to rearrange her disheveled curls. She felt marvelous, on the brink of some incomparable sensual discovery; vital, alive. “I’m not sorry,” she qualified, tucking the loosened pins back into her thick tresses. She lifted her head and gave Dane a dazzling smile. “It was wonderful, wasn’t it?”

Dane stared at her in amazement, hopelessly captivated … and, yes … wildly aroused, by her startling, uninhibited spontaneity. “Yes,
chaton
,” he managed, “it was wonderful. But I was concerned—”

“The Binghams’, sir!” the driver called loudly from the other side of the carriage door.

Jacqui flushed. “I believe we have arrived at our destination.”

Dane caught her hand, brought it to his mouth. “We are not finished,” he told her, his voice raw, his gaze probing her haunting midnight eyes. “In fact, we have barely begun.”

Jacqui met his penetrating look without shyness or hesitation, letting her fingers brush the warmth of his lips. “I know,” she returned quietly. Then, without another word, she turned to alight from the coach.

Taking a deep, calming breath of the scented June night, Jacqui forced herself to focus on the splendid Bingham residence, its formal gardens running the full length of the ground from Fourth Street to Willing’s Alley. Escorted by her father, she had attended but one of the Binghams’ renowned balls, but their lavishly decorated home, modeled after that of the Duke of Manchester, was not easily forgotten. Tonight, it was fully lit, bidding entry to scores of powerful and affluent guests.