Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) (7 page)

“That’s better,” he growled. “Now, what have you done to yourself?”

He pretended to inspect the arrangement, as well, but studied her in his peripheral vision. Her white and spring green gown was lovely; yet, hardly did her justice, not as the scarlet getup she’d worn to the masquerade had.

She frowned, turning her head a tick and spearing him with a confused glance. “I beg your pardon?”

“What happened to the vivacious little vixen I spent the night with?” he demanded, his voice raising a bit. “The one who waltzed with me beneath the stars and kissed me so boldly in public? The one who gave me one of the best nights of my life before running out in the morning without nary a good-bye? What have you done with her?”

She squared her shoulders, avoiding his gaze once more.

“You are mistaken if you believe the woman you met is who I truly am. I wore more than one mask that night, Camden. This is who I am. Miss Margaret Seymour, daughter of Baron Lisbroke and Lady Seymour. Prim and proper lady. For God’s sake, I am not even allowed to waltz in public yet.”

He heard the derision in her tone. The woman she claimed to be was not who she truly wished to be; that much became clear.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I believe this mask—the one you wear now—is the true façade. It is no wonder I never noticed you. How could I, when you’ve hidden your true self away?”

She lowered her gaze to the carpet, though her shoulders remained squared, her head erect.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, the
ton
isn’t exactly forgiving toward women who step outside the dictates of society—especially when one is not of high rank like, say, a duchess.”

He frowned. Damn her, she was right, and now he felt like a bloody fool for the things he’d said. Of course she played the role of the biddable daughter and debutante. She could never make a good match, otherwise. Although, now, if she did make a good match, she’d have the devil of a time explaining her lack of virginity. While many women of the
ton
were familiar with ways of tricking their bridegrooms into believing they’d deflowered a virgin, Maggie did not seem the type to stoop to deceit.

“Meet me tonight,” he whispered, ensuring once more that they went unheard. “You can be yourself with me, you know that.”

“I cannot,” she said. “The first time was a risk. To do it again would be …”

“The fulfillment of your wildest dreams,” he said, when she’d trailed off. “You confessed as much to me, remember? However, you did not allow me to prove my prowess beyond the one time we made love. Don’t you want to know what it’s like to straddle me and ride my cock? Or to rest on your hands and knees while I fuck you from behind, giving me the perfect view of your pretty little backside?”

She bit her lower lip and her eyes slid closed. “Camden, please.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “There will be plenty of that.
Yes, Camden. Please, Camden. More, Camden.
You want it, Maggie, and so do I. Come to me tonight.”

Her eyes flew open, darting as she seemed to think over his proposal. He held his breath. She teetered on the verge of capitulating; he could feel it.

“You can spend the rest of your life as a stuffy, boring, married lady if that is what you wish,” he continued. “But before then, you should know what true pleasure is. Do something for yourself, something you truly want, before you’re forced to bend to duty.”

A breath of a moment passed between them before she replied. Her answer came out a whispered, tortured sound.

“Yes. I want it.”

He grinned. “Good girl.”

“But, you must come for me,” she added. “It isn’t safe for me to travel alone in the dead of night, so I demand an escort.”

His smile grew wide and wicked and he turned to face her. “That, I can do.”

“How’s your champagne?” Camden asked, his gaze penetrating hers from across the table.

They sat before a roaring fire in his bedroom, with a bottle of champagne on ice and a bowl full of strawberries between them. Margaret forgot her earlier trepidation and relaxed, determined to enjoy the night. She’d been afraid when she’d slipped out through the servant’s entrance out into the garden and scaled the gate in the dead of night to meet him. Her heart had thundered in her chest as he’d lifted her into his phaeton, dashing in all black with a cape and hood concealing his face and lending him a roguish air.

Now that they were here, fear faded away and her thoughts became consumed with what carnal pleasures the night would bring.

“The champagne is delightful,” she murmured between sips. “I’ve always loved it, but am never allowed more than one glass, and even then, only on special occasions.”

He grinned, lifting the bottle from its silver bucket and refilling her now empty glass.

“By all means, drink as much as you wish. I want you to enjoy yourself. I can always fetch another bottle if we need it.”

She giggled as the bubbles from her glass tickled her nose. “It’s all very scandalous, at least for me. A month ago, I never would have thought I could be bold enough to sneak out of the house for an amorous liaison.”

He took a sip, his lips glistening from champagne when he pulled the glass away. Her mouth began to water at the thought of tasting his mouth, the heady combination of Camden mixed with the delicious champagne.

“I must confess, it’s new for me, as well. I haven’t had to sneak around with a woman in ages. I haven’t had a bedmate since university that required such stealth and discretion.”

Her heart sank at the reminder that she was not the sort of woman he would have chosen under different circumstances. She’d presented herself to him under false pretenses. It wasn’t his fault she did not live up to the image in her daily life.

“If it isn’t something you wish to do again, I would understand,” she said, lowering her eyes and plucking a plump, red strawberry from the bowl.

He reached for her hand, stilling it before she could bring the fruit to her lips. He stole it from her grasp and attended to the duty himself, his blue gaze fixating upon her lips in interest as she parted them for a bite.

“I would hide wherever you wish, for as long as you wish,” he murmured. “That is how badly I want to be with you, Maggie.”

She frowned as she chewed.

“Why?” she asked once she’d swallowed. “I am no one.”

“Sheridan Cranfield hardly thinks of you as no one,” he said, devouring the other half of the strawberry. “He made his intentions quite clear this evening.”

Her gut churned at his revelation. While she’d known Mr. Cranfield would eventually propose, knowing he’d already publicly declared himself drove the realization home in the most startling of ways. It was no longer a possibility—Camden’s revelation had turned it into an absolute certainty.

“Oh?” she said, attempting to keep her voice light.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and giving her a pointed glance. “Will you accept?”

“I will be expected to,” she said with a sigh. “He is the heir to a viscountcy and a large inheritance. He is a far greater catch than I ever expected. I suppose I would be a fool to refuse him.”

He fell silent for a moment, studying her with a curious stare. He cleared his throat, turning his gaze away and settling it on the fire burning in the hearth. “Do you always do as you’re told?”

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “No. I’ve been told that a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens is not an appropriate soirée for a young debutante to attend. Yet, I went anyway, didn’t I?”

A small smile curved his lips. “That you did, my sweet. Yet, you just admitted that rebelling against what’s expected of you is a new adventure for you.”

“There is adventurous,” she said, reaching for another strawberry. “And then there’s stupid. The daughter of a mere baron, refusing a viscount?”

“He isn’t the viscount yet,” he argued.

“Still,” she retorted. “His is the best offer I’m likely to receive.”

“And why do you suppose he wants to marry you?”

“Perhaps he knows I could be a good and dutiful wife to him.”

Even as she said the words, they rang hollow. Was that what she wished to be—a good and dutiful wife?

He shook his head, frowning as if his thoughts were the same as hers.

“He doesn’t know you. Or rather, he does not know the real you. He sees a pristine debutante, a paragon of virtue and grace. Would you like to know what I see?”

He stood, circling the table toward her, his booted footsteps dull thuds upon the carpet.

Her pulse began to race in response to his nearness, her chest heaving as her lungs contracted.

“Yes,” she whispered as he rounded the back of her chair, one hand coming up to her shoulder.

His fingertips traced one collarbone, trailing a leisurely path down toward her cleavage.

“I see a vixen,” he murmured, one hand cupping her breast as the other found her opposite shoulder. “A fiery siren with the power to torment a man to madness.”

Her laugh came out on a rush and melted into a moan as his fingers tweaked her nipple, causing it to go hard, rasped and teased by the material of her bodice.

“I am hardly so magnificent as to be compared to a siren.”

His fingers found her hair, deftly removing the pins securing the strands into a simple chignon at the nape of her neck. The locks fell loose, brushing her shoulders and back when the last of the pins fell. He set the pins on the table beside her before raking his fingers through the long tresses.

“Shall I coax you to arousal and prove you wrong?” he challenged. “I seem to remember making love to a rather passionate, confident woman not a fortnight past. Are you not that woman?”

She sighed, turning her face into his open palm and reveling in his touch. He lifted her chin, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw and forcing her to meet his gaze.

“I am,” she whispered. “I meant what I said to you in the carriage that night. I am just a young lady who wants to be free from the bonds of expectation. It’s true, you have seen in me the one thing no one else ever has.” She tilted her head back and studied him, turning in her chair and resting her hands against his rippled abdomen. “Won’t you tell me something about you that no one else knows? It’s just, you’ve so easily guessed at my deepest secrets. I hope it is not too much to ask that you share at least one with me.”

His jaw clenched as he stared down at her, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath and then released it.

“You want to know me,” he said.

She nodded. “More than anything.”

“I was never supposed to be the duke, you know,” he murmured, one hand coming over hers where it rested against his stomach. “My brother, Garret, was duke before he died in an accident. Thrown from his horse, while riding on the grounds of his country estate.” He paused and laughed, a short bark dripping with scorn. “
My
country estate now, I should say.”

Everyone knew of the freak accident that had caused Camden’s ascent to the dukedom. Yet, Margaret allowed him to continue without interrupting. Whatever revelation he planned to share, she felt privileged just to know he wanted her to be aware of it.

“I cannot pretend becoming a duke did not bring its share of perks,” he continued, absently stroking her hair. “Yet, there are times when the guilt of it becomes crippling. What sort of man enjoys stepping into the shoes of a dead man? When I find myself enjoying the power and the respect, the influence … there is a voice in the back of my mind reminding me it was never meant to be mine in the first place. Then I wonder if I am not the most black-hearted bastard to ever walk the Earth.”

She wrapped her arms around him and held him, resting her cheek against his middle and squeezing him tight.

“That’s not true,” she whispered. “I do not believe you are a bastard. Lord Garret died in a tragic accident. Just because you are well-suited for the role of duke does not mean you cannot also mourn his death. The Duke of Avonleah is a title, a figure to be respected and admired by society. Garret Rycroft was a person, a man. A son, and a brother. Just as Camden Rycroft is a separate entity.”

He smiled down at her. “You are the only person to ever admit to understanding that there is a distinction. Or, to preferring the man over the duke.”

“Yes, that is true,” she murmured, turning her face inward to press a kiss just below his navel. He shuddered, prompting her to repeat the motion, moving lower toward the waistband of his breeches. “Just now, I wouldn’t care if you were a bloody chimney sweep. I want you, Camden.”

His response came out on a choked gasp as she reached up to cup the erection straining the front of his breeches. She slid her fingers up and down the length of his cock, marveling at how hot to the touch he was. Leaning forward in the chair, she pressed a kiss against the tip. His hips bucked, his hands coming up to her shoulders to steady himself.

She worked to free him, anticipation singing in her blood as she revealed his cock inch by inch. The shaft sprang free and strained toward her, the head purpled from the blood pooling there.

“Yes, love,” he mumbled. “Let me feel your sweet lips around me.”

She pulled his breeches and drawers farther down and slid her hands beneath his shirt to caress the ridges and planes of his stomach. He loosened the garment before pulling it over his head, baring his chest and abdomen.

Reaching for him, she palmed his shaft and stroked him once, watching in rapture as his abdomen muscles clenched in response. Her gaze locked onto the bead of moisture glistening on the tip of his cock, and she smeared it with her thumb, coating his swollen head. He moaned again when her tongue circled him, flooding her senses with the taste of both him and his seed—a taste both foreign and exciting at once.

“You little tease,” he growled, gripping her hair and holding tight.

She licked him again with a playful laugh, causing his breath to quicken. His hips surged, thrusting toward her and brushing the seam of her lips, begging for entrance. She opened her mouth and took him in, her cheeks caving as she sucked him in with one long pull. His fingers tightened around her hair, every muscle of his arms straining as he seemed to wrestle for control. His taste filled her, wild and intriguingly masculine. She retreated before taking him in again, caressing the underside of his cock with her tongue. Glancing up at him, she watched desire transform his face, finding a fierce sort of pride at the knowledge that her touch was responsible for his pleasure.

Closing her eyes, she enveloped him over and over, suckling with a hunger she’d never experienced. The smell and taste of him excited her, and his guttural moans filled her ears, causing her nipples to tighten and her inner walls to spasm with longing. She wanted his hard, hot cock to fill her the same way it filled her mouth now. She whimpered as the thought of him, hips slamming against hers as he thrust between her spread legs, filled her thoughts.

She clenched her thighs to ease the ache, but it only grew as he gripped the back of her head, thrusting into her mouth much the way she imagined he would thrust into her. Suckling harder, she moved her head in time with his thrusts and brought one hand tentatively up toward the heavy sac bulging with unspent seed below his cock.

“Christ, Maggie!” he bellowed. “Yes, touch me there. That’s good. Goddamn it, that’s good.”

His legs trembled, his chest heaving as he gasped and groaned. His thrusts became frenzied, his grip on her hair almost painful as he plunged and withdrew. She matched his pace, her fingers caressing his balls and further heightening his ecstasy.

“I’m about to come Maggie,” he groaned, releasing her hair and gripping her shoulders to push her away.

Grasping his hips, she brought her hands around to his firm buttocks and held fast, refusing to let go. She wanted to experience him in every way possible, including the taste of him filling her and running down her throat. Continuing in her erotic ministrations, she clung to him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his backside, which flexed as he thrust into her mouth one last time and spent.

He groaned, gritting his teeth as his completion tore through him and streamed into her mouth in hot spurts. He tasted salty and slightly sweet, a wild and heady flavor that struck her as primal and inherently male. She’d never tasted another man before, but knew he was the only one who could taste like this.

Camden sighed, resting his hand against the back of her chair as he withdrew from her mouth.

Margaret stared up at him expectantly, watching as he seemed to gather his bearings.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, reaching for her hand and bringing her to her feet.

She giggled as he pulled her up against his body, his palms pressing against the curves of her buttocks, his fingers digging into her flesh and holding her tight against him. “Was that a good ‘bloody hell’?”

“If it had been any better, I’d be dead,” he said with a little laugh of disbelief. “In the time since we were last together, I’ve often thought about what it would be like to have those pretty little lips wrapped around me. My imagination couldn’t conjure anything half so good.”