One Night with an Earl Read online

  He raised his head from his bow and gazed at her for a long moment. She looked at him, her expression so open and innocent, it reminded him of when he’d danced with her during her Season so long ago. God, how he’d been smitten. And he was smitten again now.

  But she was no longer innocent. The man who should have sheltered her innocence had abused it instead. He tore his gaze away from her, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Her lost innocence didn’t decrease her attractiveness, but it did make him want to kill the man who’d done it to her. Good thing the bastard was already dead.

  “Punch?” he asked gruffly. “Perhaps we can retire back to the fresh air of the balcony and enjoy it there.”

  “Yes. That would be nice.”

  He held out his arm, and she took it, those delicate gloved fingers curling around his forearm with just the right amount of pressure to cause heat to flare in his body again.

  He led the way off the dance floor, heading toward a lady dressed as a harem girl sitting cross-legged on the floor and pointing at one of the half-dozen admirers surrounding her. “You!” she squealed as Drew and Beatrice approached. “I choose you for one, for you are the handsomest.” She pointed at another man as Drew and Beatrice took a wide berth around them. “And I choose you, for you are the most charming.” The two gentlemen, proud of their conquest, helped the lady up and led her off, presumably to find a more intimate location to continue their “conversation.”

  Before Drew and Beatrice reached the refreshment table, her friend accosted them. Drew had deduced her identity right away, though he had never met her before tonight. Jessica Briggs had a reputation for being a beautiful flirt, though it was widely acknowledged that she was devoted to her sea-captain husband.

  Drew was acquainted with most of her family, and he’d known they had supported Beatrice through her ordeal. The Duke of Wakefield, the man who’d done everyone a service by taking Fenwicke’s worthless life, was Jessica Briggs’s brother-in-law and Drew’s good friend. The duke had mentioned to Drew that Mrs. Briggs had taken it upon herself to befriend Beatrice, and she was the one who’d ultimately saved Beatrice from Fenwicke’s evil.

  There was no doubt this woman was Jessica Briggs.

  Mrs. Briggs beamed at them. “Well, how was the waltz?”

  Drew kept his focus on Mrs. Briggs, but he felt the heat of Beatrice’s gaze on him before she answered. “It was very nice.”

  A smile of pleasure pulled at his lips. “Excuse me, ladies. I’m off to fetch some punch. Would you like some, my queen?” he asked Mrs. Briggs.

  She inclined her head. “No, thank you. But my friend Persephone looks quite parched indeed.”

  “Of course. I’ll return shortly.”

  He left them to talk, which they clearly wished to do. But he didn’t intend to leave them for long. He negotiated his way through the crowd gathered around the table, ignoring a woman who asked if she knew him.

  Finally he snagged two glasses of punch and wound his way back to the ladies. Who hadn’t moved, much to his relief.

  He handed Beatrice the punch; then he and Beatrice both took a sip, gazing at each other over the tops of their glasses. The look she gave him made the blood pump through his body with renewed force. She was so damn lovely.

  Mrs. Briggs looked between them for a moment, then very cheerfully excused herself.

  He was glad she was gone. It wasn’t that he disliked Mrs. Briggs. But he preferred being alone with Beatrice.

  “Outside, then?” he asked her softly.

  She nodded and took his arm yet again.

  They made their way outside, and as before, the terrace was empty of human occupation. Drew couldn’t fathom why. It was so much more appealing to be out here than it was inside. Then again, he was alone with a beautiful woman, and that had a powerful appeal.

  They wandered to the railing they’d stood at before and spent several moments in silence, sipping from their glasses, Drew drinking in the presence of the woman beside him more than the punch. Every nerve in his body felt like it had come to life. Alert, aware, warmed by her proximity.

  Finally, he spoke. “You seem much more content now than when I first discovered you out here.”

  She gazed at him. Her clear dark eyes looked like obsidian in the meager light. “It’s because of you,” she said simply.

  That declaration made him feel damn good.

  The air seemed to crackle between them, every inch of his skin aching, straining toward her. He reached up to brush a droplet of punch from her lower lip.

  Her lip was plump, warm, and soft, the drop a cool contrast. He touched the drop with the pad of his thumb, then drew it slowly across her bottom lip. At the edge of her mouth, he hesitated, then continued, stroking the lower part of her face until his thumb brushed the bottom part of her mask. Her cheek felt like velvet. So different from his own rough skin.

  Even then he didn’t stop. His fingers moved along the bottom flaring edge of the mask to her ear. Fascinated, enthralled, he followed the line, moving up and around the shell of her ear.

  She shuddered, her whole body seeming to shimmer with its tiny convulsion. He felt it as if it were his own shudder, deep inside himself.

  This was Beatrice Reece, allowing him to touch her. He’d never thought this moment would come to pass. But here they were, and he had no intention of allowing her to slip from his grasp a second time.

  He took her punch glass and set it, along with his own, on a wide area of the railing.

  He slipped his arm around her body as he had in the waltz and pressed his palm gently against the small of her back, drawing her infinitesimally closer to him. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t press her body against his. A hairsbreadth separated them from top to bottom.

  His fingers moved back to the lower edge of the mask.

  “Take it off.”

  Even before he finished saying it, he knew it was a mistake.

  She stiffened under his arm and tried to draw away, but he firmed his hand on her back. She froze, blinking at him through her mask, those dark eyes so compelling to him.

  “I cannot,” she whispered.

  He wanted her to know that he wouldn’t shun her if she revealed her identity. She was hiding behind her mask, but the woman beneath was the one he wanted. She couldn’t know that, though. Clearly, she wanted to remain anonymous to him and to everyone at the masquerade. If he told her he knew who she was, he’d scare her off. So he wouldn’t share that information with her—not until she was ready to hear it.

  Cupping her jaw in his hand, he said, “I understand.”

  He tilted her head with a firm pressure, her soft, supple skin pressing into his palm. She looked up at him with such an open expression he felt like he could reach inside her and discover her secrets. And what he read there was that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  She turned her face a little, pressing her cheek harder against his hand, and the action was so erotic, his breath caught in his throat.

  He bent down and brushed his lips over hers.

  Well, it was meant to be a brush of lips. But the second his mouth touched hers, his entire body caught on fire. An almost unbearable burn of need. It was all he could do to restrain himself from tearing her clothes off and taking her up against the railing of the terrace.

  He wanted her. God, how he wanted her.

  He kissed her. Hard, bluntly, thoroughly. For the merest second, she froze, as if his touch had thrown her off guard. But then she capitulated with a little moan, wrapping her arms around his torso and pulling him even closer.

  Her kisses were sweet, open, and eager. They tasted like velvet and spice. She smelled of vanilla.

  His hand slid from her jaw to around the back of her neck. Tugging her closer so he could kiss her deeper.

  As an experiment, he touched his tongue to her lip. She gasped, and pressure built inside him as his cock tightened and grew, pushing against the falls of his trousers as if demanding to be s
et free. He swallowed her gasp, swiping his tongue inside her mouth. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his tongue with her own.

  He moved his hand upward over her neck, his fingers skimming the bottom of her hairline. Her hair was in a horsetail, but even pulled taut, it was soft and silky. He’d always admired her hair, had fantasized what it would be like to bury his hands into those dark silken strands. He fisted his fingers around the ribbon that held her hair back. It was a velvet ribbon, but it felt rough in contrast to the silky smoothness of her hair.

  He didn’t untie the ribbon, didn’t pull it off. Just kept his hand there, wrapped around her hair, as he continued tasting her. His other hand played with the small of her back, dipping just a bit lower to feel the plump flare of her buttocks.

  Nothing, nothing was like kissing Beatrice Reece. He wanted to grind his body against her. Get some relief from this unbearable pressure, this uncompromising need.

  He drew back from her a scant inch. “Be—” Hell. He caught himself just in time. “Persephone,” he breathed.

  She pulled him to her again and kissed him harder, her hands fisting his tight-fitting coat as she moaned into his mouth, slanting her lips this way and that as if she couldn’t get enough.

  He understood the feeling far too damn well. The masks were in the way. They were both wearing far too many clothes. There was no soft surface to lay her upon. The air out here, while fresh, would be about ten degrees too cool for her comfort while he did wicked things to her naked body.

  He kissed her, tasted her, used his tongue, took tiny sips of her lips. They moved in concert, anticipating each other’s movements as if they’d been kissing their entire lives. There was none of that bothersome nose-bumping, no clashing masks, no awkward knocking of teeth together. Their kisses aligned, meshed in a way that heated his already burning blood and hardened him to the point of pain.

  “I can’t…” she whispered against his lips, but she didn’t try to pull away.

  “Can’t what, love?” he murmured between kisses.

  “Can’t…call you Mr. Bull anymore. It’s…just…you’re not—” She whimpered as he nipped her lower lip. But he closed his eyes. He couldn’t give her his real name because while she might not remember his desire for her years ago, she would know who he was, and that knowledge might scare her. Knowing it was him would make this all too real, all too connected to her real life.

  She desired the fantasy of complete anonymity, so that was what he’d give her.

  “Just call me John, then.”

  “That”—her breath whispered over his lips—“would be very forward of me.”

  “I want you to be forward, Persephone.”

  “Do you?” Her lips hovered over his for a moment; then she whispered, “Very well. John.” And her arms tightened around him again, and her lips pressed against his with renewed purpose.

  Her eager capitulation stunned him, but only for a moment. Even as his mind whirled, his body knew exactly what to do. And that was to take control of the kiss, deepen it. To sear her with the heat of his lips, to make her never forget…

  “Ahem.”

  Beatrice jerked away from him, and he clawed through a haze of lust to scowl in the direction of the interruption. It was that deuced sheep-woman again.

  No…it was Madame Lussier. She gazed at them through her mask as if they were the most entertaining scientific specimens she’d ever had the pleasure of viewing.

  Beside him, Beatrice made a low sound of distress. Before he could think about how Madame Lussier would react to such an action, he took Beatrice’s hand and squeezed reassuringly.

  The older woman’s gaze flicked down to their joined hands. Then she looked at Drew, a smile spreading her lips wide. “Well, well, well. Do I know you?”

  Beatrice took a shaky breath.

  Drew opened his mouth to answer, but Madame Lussier raised her hand. “Non. Do not tell me. It is clear that the two of you do not wish to be known.” She paused significantly. “Except by each other.”

  Beatrice’s fingers tightened over his.

  “Now. I am a creature who thrives upon the scandalous, my doves,” Madame Lussier cooed, “yet I am not one to spread rumors. However, if the two of you continue as you were…” She made a twirling motion with her hand. “Then there will be a scandal. Quite a vigorous one, at that.”

  Damn. She was right. Drew ground his teeth and glanced over her shoulder at the glass ballroom door. It was flanked on both sides by rows of tall windows. People passed by in a constant stream, some of them glancing out onto the terrace.

  Hell. He usually took his surroundings into account before taking actions that might be considered rumor-worthy. But he’d been so caught up in Beatrice, so focused on her, he’d forgotten where they were.

  They’d be lucky if they hadn’t already been discovered. He was quite certain many of the attendees of the masquerade knew his identity—he hadn’t done much to hide it, after all—but it seemed no one had identified Beatrice. Thank God.

  Madame Lussier wasn’t finished. She leaned in and said conspiratorially, “You two lovebirds require privacy. I’ve many empty rooms upstairs, and I would be happy to have one of my servants escort you to one.”

  Beside him, Beatrice gasped.

  “Oh, I assure you, my servants are discreet!” Madame Lussier exclaimed.

  “I don’t think that’s why she’s scandalized, madame,” Drew said dryly. Because while he believed she’d been just as caught up as he had, being with a man who was not her husband was a completely new experience for her.

  She had been caught up, too—he had enough evidence of that. The way she’d kissed him. The way her hands had moved over him. The way she’d thrust her body against his erection. She’d been as drunk with lust as he had.

  “Ah…” She narrowed her eyes at Beatrice through her mask. “Why is it that you appear so shocked, then, my Grecian lady?”

  “Um…” Beatrice cast him a helpless look, and he gave a low laugh. Her hand was clamped around his as if she were on a sinking ship and he was her lifeline.

  “Perhaps because she would never have considered retiring to an empty room alone with a man,” Drew supplied.

  Now Madame Lussier looked scandalized. “Why on earth not?”

  “I believe she might be too innocent to consider such scandalous behavior.” Maybe too innocent to consider such a thing, but definitely not too innocent to want him.

  “Indeed?” Madame Lussier turned to Beatrice. “Is that true, my dear?”

  Beatrice blew out a shaky breath. “I…ah…well—”

  “There is no sense in your actions at all,” Madame Lussier interrupted. “You nearly engage in sexual congress in front of six windows and a glass door, and yet the thought of seeking privacy shocks you? That is completely illogical. You know, my dear, it is perfectly acceptable to be carried away once in a while, especially by such a specimen of manhood.” Madame Lussier waved at him dismissively. Then she leaned forward, looking stern even through the ridiculousness of her mask. “But I must ask you, why would you refuse to go up to one of my rooms? You are clearly attracted to this man. As he is to you. You are both consenting adults. Why not indulge in your baser desires for one short night?”

  She looked at Beatrice, awaiting a response. Beatrice just stared at her, her lips open in shock. She had no idea how to respond, and Drew couldn’t blame her. Beatrice was a gently bred young woman. She’d been married to a man who’d kept her as an ill-treated prisoner for several years. Then she’d lived in relative seclusion for the past two years, watched over by her overbearing parents.

  She certainly didn’t have much experience with the underbelly of English society. She wouldn’t have any familiarity with the flippancy with which people of their class generally regarded sexual relations outside marriage.

  Of course she was at a loss.

  It still didn’t mean she didn’t want him. Even through her embarrassment, he sensed her lingering arou
sal as she stood beside him.

  “I don’t believe a private room will be necessary,” Drew told Madame Lussier. He turned to Beatrice. “Perhaps a walk along the more well-lit and populated paths of the park would be preferable?”

  She looked at him, and a silent communication passed between them.

  I can kiss you as much as I want in the relative privacy of the park, he told her with his eyes.

  Yes. I want that. Very much.

  “That would be very nice,” she murmured.

  Madame Lussier snorted. “Very well. If you wish to do it among trees and leaves, then who am I to stop you?”

  Drew gave her a quelling look.

  “Oh, but I cannot leave,” Beatrice exclaimed. “Jess—my friend—will be looking for me.”

  “Are you speaking of that lovely blond Egyptian queen?” Madame Lussier asked.

  “Yes. We came together, and—”

  “Don’t worry about her. I’ll let her know where you’ve gone.”

  “Are you certain?” Beatrice asked doubtfully.

  “Of course. I shall allay all her fears. Because”—she leaned forward and whispered in Beatrice’s ear, but it was in a loud whisper that Drew could hear very well—“the man you are standing beside is a gentleman of the highest order. You are safe with him, I promise you. Enjoy yourself, and do not worry about your pretty friend. I’ll assure her of your safety and happiness, never fear.”

  Beatrice nodded, and Drew felt a bit of the tension release from her fingers.

  “Now, go along, my doves. Have a wonderful evening. I know I shall!”

  And with that, she spun around in a confection of white and swept back into the ballroom.

  “Well, then.” Drew looked down at Beatrice. His voice was quiet but edged with roughness as he asked, “Would you care to go for a walk in the park with me, Lady Persephone?”

  She gazed at him for a long moment, then gave him a slow nod. “Yes. I would like that very much.”

  Chapter Five

  Hyde Park consists of three hundred ninety-four acres,” John told her. “Henry the Eighth used it as a deer park, and it was finally opened to the public by King Charles in 1637. The Serpentine wasn’t constructed until a hundred years later.”