Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) (10 page)

He smiled radiantly at her promise, but she felt her heart sinking into her stomach. The moment of truth had come, and while she had the power to refuse him, she could find no reason to. What would she tell him?

I’m sorry, Sheridan, I cannot marry you. It’s just that I must remain constantly available so I can act as a lover to the Duke of Avonleah. I’d rather be his mistress than your wife, you see.

It was ridiculous to keep him waiting any longer than necessary. The season was ending and with it, so must her affair with Camden. She would tell him tonight, when he came to meet her. She hoped that by morning, she would feel less guilt over what she must do, and more certainty.

Darkness had descended on the garden, with only the barest hint of moonlight from behind the clouds illuminating it. Maggie stood waiting for him in the far corner, against the stone wall concealing the Seymours’ townhouse from their neighbors. She wore a simple white nightgown beneath a dark navy dressing gown. Her hair fell loose down her back, hanging in soft waves.

Camden grinned as he approached, enchanted by the sight of her standing before him, kissed by moonlight. He reached for her, taking her waist in his hands and pulling her against him. She tried to speak, but he muffled her words, kissing her with the all the hunger he’d kept at bay during their evening at Almack’s.

She whimpered, her palms coming up to his chest. His body roared to life against hers, his every inch hardening … including the organ between his legs.

She broke the kiss, staring up at him. “I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

He’d been about to tease her over her loaded words until he studied her face in earnest. Her eyes appeared watery, as if she’d been crying, her lips parted as if she were breathless. He scowled, his arms tightening around her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Anger knifed through him at the thought of someone upsetting her. “Was it that blackguard, Cranfield? Tell me he hurt you, and I’ll call him out right now. He won’t live to see the sun rise.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that. Well, it is about Mr. Cranfield, but he did not do anything untoward. He asked me to marry him tonight.”

His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. “What did you say when he proposed? Were you overcome with emotion? Did you fall into a fit of tears and promise to love him forever?”

She pushed away from him, a tear falling over one eyelid and caressing her cheek. “Camden, please. This is hard enough. I have not given him an answer yet, but I will tomorrow when he calls on me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, unsure of why it trembled so. He’d known this day would come. Sheridan Cranfield was her best prospect for marriage.

“You’ll refuse him, of course,” he said with a shrug. “Make sure to let the bloke down easy.”

Her jaw dropped, her cheeks coloring with indignation.

“How dare you think to tell me what to do?” she hissed, keeping her voice low. Her family and a household of servants slept just beyond the garden and anyone could hear them if they raised their voices too loud.

He reached for her, grasping her shoulders in a tight hold. “Is this what you want? To be Lady Margaret, Viscountess of Perth? Spending your days taking calls from people you barely even like and your nights …” he trailed off as his mind filled with images of Sheridan Cranfield between her thighs, causing his stomach to churn. His hold on her tightened. “You don’t want him, Maggie. Being his wife would snuff out that flame living inside of you. We both know it.”

“What am I to do?” she cried, her tears flowing unchecked now. “Refuse him and continue acting as your whore?”

Camden started, feeling as if she’d slapped him.

“Maggie, I am the only man to have ever made love to you. That hardly qualifies you as a whore.”

“We aren’t married,” she insisted. “It is bad enough that I will go to my husband sullied by premarital intercourse.”

“You think that is the worst part?” he challenged. “Think how devastating it will be the first time he lays you down and enters your body. In that moment, you will be consumed with thoughts of the man you truly want on top of you, inside of you.”

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “Dash it all, we’ve made such a mess of things, haven’t we? I wish I’d never gone to Vauxhall Gardens.”

The sting he’d felt previously swelled to a throb at her declaration. “Maggie …”

“If I hadn’t,” she continued, “perhaps I could have saved myself from this pain … this agony of wishing I belonged to you in more than just a physical way … and realizing I never will.”

She pulled away from him and backed away. He remained where he stood, shoving his hands down into his pockets.

“Think what you will,” he said, “but I have no regrets. I hope that in time, perhaps you will come to view our time together differently … with fondness, as I intend to.”

She shook her head, her next words coming out on a sob.

“It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? His Grace, the Duke of Avonleah, breaking hearts all over London.”

“Wait just one moment,” he retorted. “I am not the one ending this. You’re the one abandoning me for Cranfield, of all people!”

“I suppose it is all my fault, really,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I knew better. I knew you were good for no more than a few tumbles. Yet, I had to go and fall in love with you.”

Her declaration slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs. He could only stand there, gaping at her as she dashed the tears away with the back of her hand.

“Never you worry about me, Camden,” she said, her voice still shaking as her chest continued to heave. “I will make certain to fade into the background again. I’m good at that, remember? You’ll hardly notice me at all, the milky viscountess and her bland husband. I’m certain you won’t miss me at all.”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and ran, swallowed up by the darkness and foliage.

He stood where she’d left him—for how long, he did not know. When he finally forced himself to move, he realized he was trembling. He’d had his share of arguments with women, especially those he’d conducted affairs with. Yet, none had ever shaken him to his very core. Seeing hurt in Maggie’s eyes had affected him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Turning away from the Seymours’ townhouse, he crossed the garden and scaled the wall. He took his time walking back to where he’d left his carriage and driver waiting, hands deep in his pockets as his mind raced over the encounter.

He did not know what had come over him, telling Maggie she couldn’t marry someone else. He’d never been the possessive type. Any woman he associated with had never meant enough for him to care if she kept other lovers. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been completely monogamous.

Except for your short time with Maggie.

True, their affair hadn’t lasted long; yet, he was startled to realize he hadn’t touched another woman since the night he’d met her at Vauxhall. There had been the doxy he’d found at Covent Gardens, but her lips had been around his cock just long enough for him to realize Maggie was who he truly wanted.

Scrubbing a hand over the light stubble sprinkled across his jaw, he sighed, shaking his head to clear it. This was not like him. He’d been with Maggie for a few weeks; hardly long enough for either of them to have developed an attachment.

Yet, she’d all but admitted to being in love with him.

His chest constricted as he remembered her whispered words. She loved him; yet, had chosen to marry someone else. The panic and rage that thought caused confused him. He could hardly think through the maelstrom brewing in his gut, causing him to feel sick.

However, one thing became clear. Maggie was his. She had been since the first time his lips had claimed hers, the first time they’d waltzed before Vauxhall’s grand pavilion. He could never allow her to belong to someone else. Just the thought caused him to go mad with envy. He was still possessed with the urge to call the man out and end his life on the dueling field.

No, that would not do. She’d never forgive him for killing her fiancé. Besides, putting the other man out of the picture wouldn’t be enough. Maggie needed to know that just as fully as she belonged to him, he belonged to her.

Margaret studied her reflection in the gilt mirror hanging just outside of the rose drawing room. Her mother beamed proudly as she adjusted the sleeves of her white morning gown. The baroness had decided the color fit the occasion. Sheridan was the first of their morning callers, and had requested a moment alone with her. Of course, her parents knew nothing of his proposal the night before, and naturally assumed he intended to declare himself now.

“This is ever so exciting!” she gushed, taking Margaret’s face in her hands. “My little girl, married. I have waited so long for this day.”

She forced a smile, hoping her fatigue did not show. The redness of her eyes had only just cleared, though there wasn’t much she could do about the dark circles. She’d spent hours weeping after leaving Camden in the garden. She’d mourned what she had lost, as well as what could never be. That was over. Now, she must move forward with her life. She felt certain the pain would ease over time. Soon, Camden Rycroft, Duke of Avonleah, would be no more than a distant memory. Perhaps, she could conjure a bit of the fondness he’d spoken of the night before.

She only wished she could apologize to him for her outburst. It wasn’t as if he’d promised her anything beyond a sexual relationship. She had no right to be angry with him, or hurt because she’d been stupid enough to lose her heart to him.

“How do I look?” she asked, trying to match her mother’s smile.

“Lovely,” the baroness answered. “He is waiting for you, my dear. I will await you both in the adjoining salon. We’ll celebrate over tea when it is over.”

She nodded. “That sounds lovely, Mother, thank you.”

The baroness retreated, leaving her standing before the door to the rose salon, which stood slightly ajar. The room held an air of romance, which was why she supposed the baroness had ordered Sheridan shown here. Mahogany furniture upholstered in shades of mauve, with thick, white rugs underfoot. Shades of red filled the room, and the sheer, white curtains allowed in just the right amount of sunlight, causing an ethereal, pinkish glow.

Sheridan stood when she entered, his hands clenched behind his back. He smiled as she approached, his hair in an artful tumble of blond curls around his face.

“Good morning, Margaret,” he said. “I trust you slept well.”

She forced a smile and came beside him, lowering herself onto the sofa he’d been occupying a moment ago. He sat beside her.

“Quite well,” she lied. “Thank you.”

“I hope you don’t think me too forward for coming straight to the purpose of my visit,” he said, turning to face her. “Have you come to a decision regarding my offer?”

His gaze remained hopeful as he waited for her reply.

She folded her hands in her lap, clenching them to stop them from shaking.

“I have,” she said. She paused, taking a deep breath. “I have decided—”

A sharp knock on the door interrupted them. Sheridan scowled as she stood, brows furrowing as she turned toward the door.

“Whoever could that be?” she murmured.

A moment later, the door opened to admit Ames, the butler. He executed a stiff bow, and when he straightened, a calling card materialized in his gloved hand. “His Grace, the Duke of Avonleah.”

She gasped, words failing her. She felt as if she would faint.

Sheridan stood, squaring his shoulders. “The baroness ordered that we were not to be disturbed,” he blustered, his face and neck reddening.

“I am quite certain whatever you wish to discuss with Margaret can wait,” said a deep voice from behind the door.

Camden materialized, his stare glacial as he leveled it on Sheridan.

“See here, Avonleah—”

“Tread lightly, Cranfield,” Camden murmured, his voice lowering as he advanced upon Sheridan. “You are not a viscount yet. Even if you were, I think we both know I possess the power to ruin you. Shall you vacate the room and leave the lady and me alone, or do I need to remove you bodily?”

Sheridan’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest swelling with indignation.

“Your Grace should consider that you intrude upon a private moment,” he ground out from between clenched teeth, “and not seek to keep the lady occupied for any longer than necessary.” He swiveled his turbulent stare on her. “I will await you in the corridor, Miss Seymour.”

“I am so sorry, Sheridan,” she whispered. “I’ll only be a moment.”

He nodded, though she clearly deciphered the panic causing his pupils to dilate. He saw Camden as a threat, even moments before he would secure her promise to marry him.

The second they were alone, Margaret turned on him.

“How dare you!” she railed, hands balling into fists. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? The gossip this will create will follow me for weeks! Did you not think of the scandal you would cause, coming here?”

“Yes,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I did.”

Her face heated in annoyance, her spine bristling. “Well? What do you want, Camden?”

“I don’t want you to marry him, for a start,” he murmured, edging closer.

She sighed. “We discussed this last night, and my decision had not changed,” she argued, backing away. His nearness would only make it harder to resist him, to send him away once he’d had his say. “You cannot simply ask me not to marry someone else because you want me to go on being your plaything.”

“You are right.”

His declaration took her by surprise. She’d been prepared for an argument in which he tried to convince her to do that very thing. “I am?”