Royal Regard (33 page)

The king’s masquerade ball at Vauxhall was a
not-to-be-missed event, though she had objected she couldn’t attend
with Myron sick in bed. Prinny had simply required her attendance,
encouraged by Myron’s frequent insistence she enjoy herself, even
as he shivered under blankets in a room as warm as the Sahara.

With the problem of a costume presented to
Charlotte and Michelle, they had settled on an English version of
an Ottoman concubine’s attire, although Bella had argued a hareem
girl would never wear anything that looked so much like a
gypsy.

Char had snapped, “If you tell anyone you
know what a hareem girl wears, you will be finished in London, and
the same goes for telling anyone you are dressed as a fortune
teller.”

“I am long since finished in London, and with
a mask on, I can wear anything I like.”

Charlotte’s
modiste
had managed to
design a dress that appeased both women: it didn’t include the
Turkish pants Bella wanted, that really might finish her, nor the
sheer fabrics Charlotte initially chose.

Earlier in the evening, once Charlotte donned
her Cleopatra costume to complement Alexander’s stiff-necked
Antony, she and Michelle had descended on Bella, who could not keep
from fretting about leaving Myron alone while he was still
recovering from his last bout of this new illness.

Char had unsuccessfully argued against
Bella’s old-fashioned corset, saying, “I doubt sultanas wear stays.
Now, hold still or your hair will be crooked.”

“I would have no waist or bosom at all
without my corset, and this dress is nothing but waist and
bosom.”

Michelle had wisely stayed out of the
argument, until chancing to remind Charlotte as she laced the
garment, “A heathen woman might appear without undergarments, but
Madame
is no heathen. She wishes to display herself to
advantage, and how can she do so if she is uneasy in her
clothes?”

Now, Bella found it to be true: she was more
comfortable masked and in erstwhile armor, fielding fewer
judgmental stares. The unlikely release from her duties at Myron’s
bedside made her reckless and a little bit wild. This rash mood was
only heightened by her restlessness near Lord Malbourne, now much
nearer than he had ever been.

Certainly, she had been using him to bring
Wellbridge to heel, but that didn’t make him any less attractive.
In no danger of falling in love, she might be falling into
something less… enduring. Shy she might be, and overprotected, but
she wasn’t entirely unaware of the possibilities between women and
men. The thoughts haunted her during those moments she wasn’t in
the vicinity of one of her—no,
the
—dukes.

Without the sound of Malbourne’s voice, there
would be no placing him in the crowd. For the first time since
they’d met, he wasn’t in unrelieved black from head to toe, but
rather in crimson: his knee breeches, waistcoat, jacket, dancing
pumps, and domino mask were in matching red satin, covered in a
short velvet cloak of the same shade, and he was sporting red
papier-mache
horns.

“How could I not know your beautiful eyes, my
sweet?”

“And how could I miss you,
Monsieur le
Diable
, when you are finally wearing your true colors?”

Malbourne stepped closer and ran the back of
his index finger along her temple and down her cheek. Bella looked
around, but they were suddenly well hidden in a dark garden alcove,
an ancient tree surrounded and shadowed by box hedges.

He laughed, “How good of you to notice. I
only hope I may tempt you to sin this night.”

When he leaned down to unfasten the scarf
across her face and steal their first kiss, her gasp was caught
between his lips before she could speak, and in only a few moments,
her right hand involuntarily moved to the back of his neck, if only
to keep herself from falling when her knees melted. The other hand
tangled with the lapel of his jacket, feeling the hard muscle of
his chest underneath.

He wrapped his left arm around her and pulled
her close, and she didn’t know how to object, or if she wanted to.
The nape of her neck tingled beneath his hand, under the shifting
hairpiece. His mouth moved along her jaw line, and she felt the tip
of his tongue reach her earlobe, then drag slowly down her throat.
She moaned quietly as his fingertip traced the edge of the bodice,
dipping underneath to tease her nipple, pebbling under his
touch.

She choked and finally stepped back,
forcefully pushing his hands away.

“
Monsieur le Duc
,” she said, with far
less force than she had hoped, “you must not...”

He whispered in her ear, pulling her to his
chest again, “We will not be found,
ma petite
. Your good
name will not suffer for taking this small pleasure with me.”

She pulled away, then took another step back,
but her shoulder brushed against a tree trunk and could retreat no
further. Nor could she scream or the whole of London would know she
was alone in the dark with a devilish Frenchman.

Her voice squeaked, “No,
Monsieur
, I
cannot. I have a husband at home and my cousin is waiting. I only
wished for a few minutes away from the crowd. I never meant—I
really must—”

He placed his hands against the tree, one on
either side of her head, leaving her no escape, overwhelming her
with his large frame and the enticing scent of bergamot from his
hair. “Bella,
ma chère
, you lie.”

“No—I—”

“You want my touch, my darling. You have all
but begged me with your sweet glances, hoping for my hands on your
body, telling lies about your love for your husband.”

“I didn’t mean—I never—I didn’t even
see—”

Her explanations were cut short when his body
drove hers backward. She pushed feebly at his chest, struggling
under his weight holding her against the tree trunk. One hand
covered her mouth and the other held her hands above her head. His
knee drove between her thighs as he bit her rounded breast just
above the nipple, below the neckline, hard enough to leave a bruise
that could easily be hidden. He scraped at the back of her skirt,
pulled the hair at the nape of her neck. It was as though he had
ten hands, and she had none.

Breathing seemed impossible. Screaming
equally so. Her mind was so muddled she could barely see and the
sounds of the crowds receded until all she could hear was his heavy
breath increasing in weight and volume.

Finally, he stepped back, sucking in air just
as fast as she, but wearing a smile she had no way to emulate. “I
shall let you go for now,
mon trésor
, for this is not the
place for you to demonstrate your passion for me, but I will not
forget the taste of your sweet lips. I have secured tickets to tour
the museum at one in the afternoon the day after tomorrow. Perhaps
afterward, we may continue our…
tête-à-tête
.

“Uh,” she responded ineffectually, not a
question of poor manners, but rather a sense of unreality that left
her speechless. She couldn’t call out for help, in part because she
wasn’t at all sure she hadn’t caused Lord Malbourne’s reaction, out
of an inability to effectively converse with the male of the
species. She kept trying to think what she had done to give Lord
Malbourne the idea she would follow through on her innocent
flirtations. She wasn’t sure when she had crossed the line.

“I don’t know if I can… I mean… perhaps it
would be—”

“I trust you will keep our
rendez-vous
, and I will keep secret your desire for me, for
it will surely kill your husband to hear you have been unfaithful,
and in such a public way. I think you will not want your husband to
know I have had my mouth on your body, though were I asked, I would
have to admit it is true—I simply lost my head when presented with
your succulent flesh. Not the act of a loving wife to give yourself
to me,
ma petite
.”

She gave up trying to form a coherent thought
and ducked under his arm, dashing away, face mask trailing behind
her in the breeze, hardly hearing his triumphant laughter behind
her. But neither could she hear anything else.

When she emerged from the trees, panting from
trying to run in unforgiving whalebone—she refused to consider it
might be from the duke’s kisses—she ran right into another broad,
hard chest, and another pair of arms grasped her shoulders. Before
she could think of the words to excuse herself, the entire sky lit
up with bright light and colors, and she let loose the scream that
had been building since Lord Malbourne had kissed her.

The hands, however, only held her up and set
her apart from the attached body, dressed all in black from a
leather half-mask to polished Hessians. For a moment, she thought
it was Lord Malbourne, somehow changed back into his usual
black.

“Bella, sweeting, it is only the fireworks.”
Wellbridge’s voice emerged from behind his disguise.

When she stared, uncomprehending, he snapped
his fingers in front of her eyes and pulled his mask up, settling
it atop his head. “Lady Huntleigh, it is I, Nick. Wellbridge. Are
you all right? What’s wrong?”

She moaned, “Oh, God. Oh, dear God,” and
yanked herself away, her head turning left to right, trying to
figure out where she was and the direction to Charlotte and
Alexander’s supper box. Before she could evade him, Nick took hold
of her hand and firmly brought it to his arm.

“I’ll take you back to Ch—Lady Firthley. She
sent me to find you, and I’m glad I have.” Searching her face, he
frowned at her lips, which felt bruised and swollen. Touching them,
she found they were, and now she had managed to call his attention
to it. She knew the false hair must be askew, but now knew better
than to check until he was looking the other way.

“You must assure me you haven’t been hurt.”
He set his jaw. “No, I can see you have been hurt. You must assure
me you can make it back to your cousin before I seek out a
doctor.”

Heartily embarrassed, she turned her burning
face away, stumbling into step at his side.

“No. No, I am perfectly well, Your Grace. You
can let me go.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it
fast at his elbow, appearing entirely circumspect to the crowds
around them, but giving no quarter.

She tried to bring her breathing back under
control, but shuddered every time she recalled what she had done.
She reached up with her free hand to reattach her mask, so that no
one who hadn’t already would identify her, when she must look like
she’d just been swived behind the bushes.

He tried to keep his tone light, but as
usual, said the wrong thing. If they would make a go of things, she
really must work on that. Except now they would never make a go of
things.

“When Charlotte told me about your costume, I
must admit wishing I’d come attired as the Sultan of Brunei—” He
looked down at her dress. “Or the King of the Gypsies—but I would
never choose a concubine afraid for her life.”

“I’m not afraid for—
Concubine
? You are
insulting.” Her outrage was forced and insincere, a whine, not a
roar.

“Lady Huntleigh, I am as worldly as the next
man and have no reason to judge your knowledge of hareem girls, but
I am certain no woman runs from a lover as though Satan himself
were on her heels.” She started and tightened the grip on his arm,
but didn’t otherwise respond. “Will you tell me what happened, or
shall I have Prinny send his guards to investigate? It is his
party, after all.”

She paled even further, but hissed, “I am
quite well. I was only… lost. Release me this instant, you filthy
swine.”

“Ah, now there is the lovely Lady Huntleigh I
have come to esteem so,” he smiled. “If you will promise you
haven’t run afoul of a footpad and won’t dash away or have the
vapors and fall at my feet, I will let you loose, but it won’t stop
me asking questions.”

“Footpads at the king’s gala.” She managed to
bring her voice back to a semblance of normalcy and stop her legs
shaking. “What twaddle.”

“Not so, my dear. Vauxhall is filled with
miscreants, some rich, some poor.” He leaned closer and lowered his
voice. “Some might even say the king himself is one.”

“You are quite bold, insulting His Majesty at
his own party.” She tossed her false hair back and set it even
further askew. “I can only hope he hears you and sends you directly
to the gallows.”

He chuckled as he straightened the hairpiece
and the gold chains, “He would be the first to admit he is a
scoundrel. You are feeling quite well? You have your breath back?”
He ran the back of his index finger along her temple and down her
cheek, as though he would loosen the mask to kiss her. She gasped
and choked and wrenched her face away, almost losing herself to
tears.

“I am perfectly well! Let me loose, you
hoddypeak!”

She yanked herself away so fast she nearly
lost her balance, arms flailing to find purchase, yet remain
completely out his of reach. Feeling a stand of tree bark under her
hand, she yelped again, pulling her fingers away like she would
from a spider, bouncing from pillar to post like a drunken sailor.
Once solidly on her feet, both hands flew to her face to ward off
an attack.

When he spoke, without approaching, his voice
stayed low and firm, just like her uncle, Charlotte’s father, a
tone that would brook no nonsense, but had her best interest at
heart. “Lady Huntleigh, you are safe. I shall not harm you, but if
you cannot tell me what has happened, I will take you directly to
the king and then escort you to Russell Square so you may discuss
the matter with Lord Huntleigh.”

“No,” she gasped, her anger gone as quickly
as it had appeared. “No, do not, I beg. I was just… lost,” she
repeated. Judging from his look, no more convincing the second
time. “I wandered off the path and was turned around.”