Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) (6 page)

As he sat there, allowing the erotic encounter he’d just had with Maggie to fill his mind, he wondered if she realized that she’d been far more than he could have imagined, as well.

One week later …

“Margaret? Margaret! I vow, you’ve had your head in the clouds all afternoon. Have you even heard a word I’ve said?”

Margaret snapped to attention when Cordelia’s shrill voice cut through her wandering thoughts.

“Forgive me, Cordelia,” she said, patting the other girl’s hand. The two walked arm and arm through Hyde Park, their abigails following at a close distance. “I don’t know what has come over me.”

“I do.” Cordelia’s expression grew smug. She held Margaret’s arm tighter and turned to face her, leaning in so the brims of their bonnets nearly touched. “I know your secret.”

She stiffened, fighting to keep the shock suffusing her from showing upon her face.

“You do?” she whispered, her pulse galloping at the thought.

She’d been so careful that night, ensuring no one saw her come or go from her family’s townhouse. Leaving Camden in the dead of night while he slept had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do; yet, it had been necessary. She’d made it back to her room just before her parents arrived home from Vauxhall, tucking herself safely away in bed with no one the wiser.

Cordelia nodded. “You wicked girl, why did you not tell me?”

She swallowed past the lump rising in her throat and fought to control her breathing. Lowering her gaze, she took a deep breath.

“How did you know?”

“Mother and I were paid a call by the Marchioness of Whenhold this afternoon, and she mentioned the intimate dinner party she is hosting at the end of the week. Since she knows you and I are the best of friends, she thought to mention that you had been invited. Oh, you are so very bad for not telling me that Mr. Cranfield was the one to secure your invitation!”

A wide grin split Margaret’s face when she realized the secret her friend had accused her of keeping wasn’t the one she feared to speak of.

She smothered her sigh of relief with a giggle.

“I did not think it important,” she replied. Sheridan Cranfield, heir to a viscountcy, had become her most persistent suitor.

“Not important?” Cordelia hissed, keeping her voice lowered as they neared a group of gentlemen promenading toward them down the lane. The two smiled and greeted them politely before continuing on. “Of course it is important. The marchioness told us he all but begged her son to secure seats for your family at the table. The two were chums at Cambridge, you know.”

“I am sorry for not telling you,” she replied. “I suppose I’ve just been preoccupied.”

“Of course you have,” her friend soothed. “We shall have to discuss what you’ll wear. You must look your best. I daresay there’s a proposal in your near future, Maggie.”

She fell silent as they continued upon the path.

Cordelia was right, of course. Mr. Cranfield’s interest in her had become more than apparent, and as the season went on, he’d firmly established himself as the frontrunner for her hand.

It should have excited her. He would inherit the title of Viscount, along with a large inheritance. Aside from that, he was pleasing to look at, with soft, blond hair tousled in the style of Byron, and a tall, slender frame always accentuated by his well-tailored clothes. He had kind green eyes filled with warmth, and was charming, besides.

He’d become her best prospect for marriage, and even if she could not claim to love him, she could someday come to feel affection for him. It would not be hard if she tried, as he’d proven himself to be a genial sort.

Yet, thinking of marriage led her to contemplate a wedding and the inevitable consummation. When she thought of lovemaking, Camden’s electric blue eyes filled her mind. Her cheeks grew warm and her neck flamed hot at the thought of him between her legs, filling her with his cock, pumping in and out of her with wild abandon. As always, her body reacted by heating her blood and causing the tell-tale flutter of desire between her thighs.

He was the only man she wanted, the only one who stoked the feelings within her that she associated with desire and love. It was ridiculous, really. Before the night of the masquerade, they’d never spent a minute in each other’s company. He hadn’t even known her name.

Her girlish fantasies of a man she barely knew had been satisfied and now she would have to move on with her life.

More than certainly, this was what Camden had done.

***

“Hmph.”

Camden glanced up from the buttered toast on his plate and met Aunt Albina’s cool stare. “Aunt?”

She took a sip of her tea and set it back into its saucer.

“Nephew,” she replied with a sniff. “I am certain you realize the end of the season is upon us.”

Turning his attention back to the toast, he stifled a sigh of exasperation. His nerves were frazzled enough as things stood without his aunt’s haranguing.

“I am well aware,” he said. “I will be glad of it. London is never so appealing as when the majority of the
ton
has retreated to the country.”

“Hmph,” she muttered, carefully slathering a biscuit with lemon curd.

“Oh, blast it all!” he grumbled, slamming his teacup onto the saucer with a clatter. “If you’ve something to say, I bloody well wish you’d get on with it!”

Her calm in the face of his outburst did not surprise him. Neither did the stern look she gave him from across the breakfast table.

“My, aren’t we in a mood this morning.”

“I am not in a mood,” he protested.

“Like hell you’re not,” she countered. She dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand. “You’ve been in a dudgeon all week.”

She was right, but he would be damned before he admitted it aloud.

“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me,” she continued, signaling a footman for more tea. “The season is almost ended, and if you’re going to choose a suitable bride, now would be the time. You know, before they’ve all been snapped up.”

He couldn’t fight it this time. A groan of frustration tore from his throat, and he lowered his head into his hands. Running his fingers through his disheveled hair, he fixed his undoubtedly bloodshot eyes on Albina.

“If and when I decide to make an offer, I will be sure to inform you,” he said with as much civility as he could muster. His foul mood made it damned near impossible. “In the meantime, might I suggest you not get your hopes up? There does not exist a single chit in all of London possessing any of the qualities I’d wish for in a wife.”

Albina rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Yet, your requirements for a bedmate remain shockingly low.”

His jaw tightened, but he managed to bite back a stinging retort. Clearing his throat, he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I have quite lost my appetite.”

Actually, he hadn’t come to the table with an appetite to begin with.

“Very well,” she said. “I shall see you this evening, then?”

He paused in the doorway and turned, frowning. “I have plans.”

“Of course you do—with me. The Marquess and Marchioness of Whenhold’s dinner party is this evening, remember? You promised to escort me, and I’ve already accepted on both our behalves.”

The last thing he wished to do was attend a dinner party. She’d probably talked him into going in an attempt at matchmaking, and he felt certain he’d only accepted to shut her up.

“I’d quite forgotten about that,” he grumbled. “Nevertheless, I shall fulfill the commitment. Until tonight, Aunt.”

He made a hasty retreat for his study. He’d kept himself locked away there for most of the week, answering correspondence from the managers of his various country estates, going over accounts and ledgers with his man of business, and generally avoiding contact with anyone and everyone unless absolutely necessary.

Taking a seat behind his desk, he picked up the key to the top drawer and opened it. His teeth clenched as he reached for the slip of paper he’d found beside his pillow the morning after the Vauxhall masquerade.

Uncertain of why he continued to torture himself, he opened it and read the words written in a neat, feminine hand for what had to be at least the tenth time.

Dearest Camden,

I know you are probably wondering why I left without saying good-bye. I feared that if I woke you, you’d ask me to stay and such an offer, I would not have been able to resist. I must return home before my parents arrive. I am certain you understand.

I cannot thank you enough for an extraordinary evening. The time I spent with you can never be forgotten. You can be sure I will carry the memory with me always.

All my love,

Maggie

That was it. No address, no promise to come visit him again, not even a last name.

Nothing.

With a heavy sigh, he crumbled the note and dropped it onto his desk. What the devil was wrong with him? He was Lord Camden Rycroft, His Grace the Duke of Avonleah. He could have any woman he wanted from here to Scotland; yet, his mind had become clouded by sable curls, an ivy leaf-shaped mouth, and eyes like pools of melted chocolate.

Meanwhile, he wondered if she had thought about him even once since leaving him without so much as a good-bye.

Was it all a game for you, sweetheart? Did it amuse you to give me your maidenhead so you could go back to your friends and whisper that you’ve been ruined by Avonleah?

Or, he realized with a feeling of nausea rising in his gut, perhaps she’d set out to trap him into marriage. He scowled at the notion. No, that could not have been it. There had been no witnesses to their encounter, no one to hold him accountable for ruining her.

What, then?

He was driving himself mad for lack of answers. If that didn’t do the trick, his want of her would. Despite his many attempts at curbing his lust, he’d been unsuccessful since the night he’d met Maggie. A visit to The White House three nights ago had gone sour when none of the offered whores had succeeded in capturing and holding his attention. He hadn’t so much as touched a single one.

A walk down to Convent Garden the following night hadn’t worked, either. The doxy he’d chosen had tried, and he’d paid her for her effort, but it had taken all of five seconds for him to decide hers wasn’t the mouth he wanted to feel around his cock. Angry and unsatisfied, he’d gone home and drowned himself in brandy. The spirits had dampened his desires for one night, but would not work the next.

Instead of attempting to find a woman to take succor in, he’d taken care of the matter himself—something he hadn’t done since he was a young man at Oxford, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he hadn’t eased the erection that had persisted for the past three days, he would have gone insane or killed someone. Closing his eyes and thinking of Maggie’s parted lips, spread legs, and bouncing tits had done the trick, and a few minutes later, he’d come with a flick of his wrist and a small amount of relief.

However, now that he’d gone and opened the bloody drawer again and read her letter, he was right back where he’d started. He needed to find her. He had to know the motive behind her behavior, if nothing else. Perhaps he could tempt her back to his bed for another night or two. That would be enough to cleanse his palate of her for good, and he could move on with his life.

He did not have a surname or title to go on. He could not very well ask anyone about a girl named Maggie. If he showed the slightest interest in any lady, the gossips would spread the word like wildfire and every eligible girl named Maggie in London would set his cap for him. The notion caused a shudder to roll down his spine.

He would have to start paying better attention to his surroundings. While she’d said they didn’t run in the same circles, there remained a chance he could encounter her. Once he found her again, he would not let her go until he’d slaked his want of her once and for all.

Margaret followed her mother over the threshold of the townhouse belonging to the Marquess and Marchioness of Whenhold. The butler greeted them before ushering them up to a beautiful drawing room done in shades of blue and silver, where their hosts waited with the guests who’d been first to arrive.

Sheridan Cranfield was present, looking quite dapper in his black evening attire and white linen. He gave Margaret a bright smile as he came forward to greet her. The tousled curls arranged artfully about his head fell over his forehead as he acknowledged her and her parents with a polite bow.

“Lisbroke, how wonderful it is to see you this evening,” he said. “Lady Seymour, that hairstyle is quite becoming.”

“Why, thank you,” the baroness simpered, preening proudly as she dipped into an elegant curtsy. Of all the suitors who had expressed interested in Margaret, the baroness liked Mr. Cranfield the best of all.

Her father acknowledged Sheridan with a silent nod, and the young swain turned his attention on her, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe.

“My, Miss Seymour, aren’t you a vision this evening?” he murmured.

She curtsied, trying to force a smile. His hungry gaze did not affect her half as much as a certain duke’s had. “You are too kind, Mr. Cranfield.”

She had chosen her gown with care—white satin embroidered in a fine silver lace, spring-green bodice. After all, it was a rare thing to dine with a Marquess and Marchioness. She wore her finest shawl, and had chosen to don her pearl necklace and earrings for the first time—she’d been saving them for a special occasion.

If she were going to marry Sheridan, however, she supposed she had to get used to evenings like this. He would be a viscount someday, and socialized in much higher circles than hers.

“I would be honored if you allowed me to introduce you to the Marquess and Marchioness,” Sheridan said, stepping aside and sweeping his arm toward the couple chatting with guests on the other side of the large drawing room.

“Of course, we’d be delighted,” the baroness said with a wide smile, accepting Sheridan’s proffered arm.

Her father gave her an affectionate smile as he extended his arm to her, and Margaret accepted it. The two fell in step behind Sheridan and the baroness, following them to where the rest of the party had gathered.

Miles Godfrey, Marquess of Whenton, was a man of few words, like her father. His wife, Frances Godfrey, proved far more talkative as she welcomed them to the townhouse and introduced them to her son, Arthur, the friend of Sheridan’s who had secured their invitation.

Margaret smiled politely and endured the small talk that persisted as they waited for the last of their guests to arrive—a person of great importance the marchioness seemed excited to have in her home.

While Margaret should have been excited to be hosted by people of such high rank, the thrill of it had faded quickly. She’d grown bored by the time the butler entered the drawing room and announced the arrival of their esteemed dinner companions.

“His Grace, the Duke of Avonleah,” he announced in an even tone, “and Lady Kearsey, Dowager Viscountess of Laureldown.”

Margaret’s spine stiffened at the mention of his name. The cold fingers of dread teased the back of her neck, and she fought for composure as she forced a lump of panic down her constricted throat. She had no choice to but to turn and acknowledge him if she did not want to appear rude to her hosts.

Clenching her trembling hands before her, she turned, her heart taking residence in her throat as she waited for his gaze to find her. The marchioness swept forward with a bright smile, greeting first the duke, then a woman Margaret knew to be his great-aunt.

He looked divine in austere black and white relieved only by a black and gold waistcoat and the black diamond resting in the snowy white linen of his cravat. His black hair gleamed in the light of the candles as he bowed to the marchioness and murmured a greeting.

Margaret’s lower lip disappeared between her teeth, her lungs burning with the breath she held. As Avonleah stood, his cool blue stare surveyed the room. His jaw ticked with the subtlest movement as his gaze met hers and held. His stare left her a moment after finding her, perusing everyone else in the room as he was brought forward for introductions.

Did that slight movement of his jaw indicate recognition? His stony expression was difficult to discern, while she felt as if everyone in the room would know the truth if they happened to look upon her just then. Surely, the evidence of her night with the duke had been written all over her face for everyone to see.

Her heart galloped in her chest, its pace quickening as the marchioness brought the duke to her family, at last.

“Allow me to introduce Lord Seymour, Baron Lisbroke, and his wife, Lady Seymour,” she said, gesturing toward Margaret’s parents.

Camden’s face became a mask of polite interest as he bowed to her parents. “I am honored,” he murmured.

As he rose, his gaze found hers again and held.

“A pleasure, Your Grace,” her father replied.

“This is our daughter, Miss Margaret Seymour,” her mother supplied, taking Margaret’s arm and pulling her forward, as if serving her up on a silver platter. It would seem the baroness had found yet another opportunity to practice her matchmaking, with the loftiest prize of all dangled before her.

Margaret curtsied, forcing her eyes to the floor. If she held his stare any longer, someone might notice.

“Your Grace, it is nice to meet you,” she said. Her voice sounded even and calm, which belied her racing pulse and burning lungs.

“Charmed,” he replied with a slight incline of his head. Then, he turned away from her and began speaking with Sheridan and Arthur.

She exhaled slowly and pretended to listen as her mother and the marchioness struck up a conversation about the latest styles on display in their favorite millinery.

For the present, it seemed her secret remained safe. While she’d hoped to avoid encountering the duke, it could no longer be helped. She would get through the evening with as much grace as possible. There existed no chance for a confrontation here, in front of an entire drawing room full of dinner party guests. She was safe for now.

However, Margaret realized with startling clarity that her safety would be short-lived. The duke now possessed the last piece of the puzzle that made up the mysterious Maggie. She could no longer hide from him behind ambiguity … not when he now knew her surname.

You’re being silly. The duke has bedded many women, and you will not be the last.

She did not understand where this sense of panic had come from. After all, the duke was known for his prowess, but also for his discretion. The night of the masquerade had ended, and she doubted he’d given it a second thought. She likely mattered to him very little, if at all.

For some reason, that thought distressed her far more.

***

It would have been funny if he hadn’t been caught off guard. When he’d been invited to dine with the marquess and marchioness, the last person he’d expected to encounter had been Maggie. Or rather, he supposed he should think of her Miss Margaret Seymour.

He now knew the identity of his mysterious bedmate; yet, discovering it hadn’t made him feel any better. When their gazes had met from across the room, his blood had surged in his veins in an instant, causing his pulse to thrum in his throat and his cock to swell in his breeches. It had taken every ounce of his restraint to keep from taking her arm, dragging her from the room, and laying her upon the nearest sofa so he could seat himself between her thighs and fuck her until she begged him to stop.

As conversation buzzed around him, he focused his attention on pretending she was not in the room—which should have been easy. However, Sheridan Cranfield and Arthur Godfrey did not seem inclined to allow him the moment of respite.

“I say, Cranfield,” the future marquess mumbled in hushed tones. “I can certainly see why you were so hell bent on securing an invitation for Miss Seymour and her family.”

The mention of Maggie had Camden peering at her from the corner of his eye. She smiled as she listened politely to the marchioness, but it was not the wide, hoydenish grin he’d come to know. It read as false, strained. A frown tightened the corners of his mouth.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Cranfield murmured. His eyes swept over Maggie in a way that set Camden’s teeth on edge. “I intend to make an offer by the season’s end.”

Maggie, wed to this pretentious little upstart?

He fought to keep his face a cool mask of slight boredom.

“Congratulations, old boy,” Arthur said, extending a hand to Cranfield. “The first of our set to get leg-shackled!”

“You behave as if the lady has already agreed to marry you,” Camden muttered, one hand clenching at his side.

Cranfield took on the appearance of a frightened bird as he turned to face him. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

Camden’s level stare never wavered from his. “Nothing of any consequence,” he replied, his tone cooler than a snowy gust of wind.

Cranfield looked as if he wished to contradict Camden, but as quickly as his mouth opened, he snapped it shut.

Camden turned away from them both, a self-satisfied smirk curving his lips. Yet another perk of the dukedom—no one would dare speak against him and risk incurring his wrath.

His smile grew as he found Maggie alone with her mother and the marchioness. Her father had left the ladies to their conversation and joined the marquess and several others for a drink before dinner on the opposite end of the drawing room. His aunt had found a place on a sofa, beside the marquess’ mother, the dowager marchioness.

“Oh, Your Grace!” Lady Seymour exclaimed as he neared them. “I did not have a chance to tell you that I find your tiepin to be most exquisite.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said with a gracious smile.

“I’ve always found a more austere mode of dress becoming on a gentleman,” the marchioness remarked. “I suppose we can thank Brummell for the dandified fashions overcoming the ballrooms of London. So much fussiness can hardly be deemed masculine.”

“Hmm, I quite agree,” the baroness murmured. “Don’t you, Margaret?”

He gave Maggie a knowing glance. “Miss?”

Blossoms of pink spread across her cheeks, and her lips parted ever so slightly.

His tongue came out to wet his lips at the sight. He wanted to slip his tongue between those parted lips and taste her.

“Yes,” she squeaked, before clearing her throat. “Less is more, I always say.”

“Oh my, Lady Frances,” the baroness exclaimed all of a sudden. “What a beautiful painting you have there.”

Camden stifled a chuckle as he followed the baroness’ gaze to the other side of the room and the painting she indicated.

“Do you like it?” The marchioness preened proudly. “Come, you must have a closer look. Jacques-Laurent Agasse painted it. I find his work to be quite divine.”

The two linked arms and promenaded along the perimeter of the room toward the painting … leaving him and Maggie quite alone on their side of the room.

When he turned to face her, he was confronted by her back. She’d turned away from him, pretending to inspect an ornate vase set upon a table that was a work of art in and of itself. The arrangement of flowers bursting from the top of it was lovely, but hardly worthy of her intense scrutiny. Camden grinned as he approached. She attempted to avoid conversation with him.

“Well, well,” he murmured, pausing just before the toes of his evening shoes touched the hem of her gown. “Miss Margaret Seymour, we meet at last.”

She tensed, her back going stiff. “Your Grace—”

“Camden,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

“
Your Grace
,” she rasped through gritted teeth. “Please, this is quite unseemly.”

He stole a glance over his shoulder to ensure they went unseen. His broad shoulders all but shielded her from the rest of the room, and the others had become too entrenched in their own conversations to notice them. He brought his hand up, allowing his fingers to trail from the nape of her neck, down to where her dress began, then farther, tracing the row of tiny buttons running down the back of the garment.

“My name, love,” he murmured, his eyes fixating on the curve of her neck and almost-bare shoulders. “I want to hear you say it again, as you did the night we slept together. You whispered it when I teased your perfect tits with my tongue. You moaned it when I tasted your sweet little cunt. You screamed it when I fucked you.”

She shivered as he shifted, just a bit closer. So close now that his breath rustled the stray hairs caressing the back of her neck. Her shudder caused his cock to pulsate with painful insistence. The thrill of being near her again overcame his good sense and he lowered his head toward her, his lips brushing the back of her neck.

“Camden,” she mewled, swaying back toward him. The swell of her derrière brushed against his crotch, almost crippling him.

He gritted his teeth and moved beside her, fighting against the erection begging to be sheathed.