One Night with an Earl Page 5

  Beatrice drank it all in, fascinated by how he could remember such details. He’d been relaying facts about the park and London in general for the past ten minutes.

  He glanced down at her. “You’re very quiet.”

  “I just love learning about all these things. I haven’t spent much time in London over the past several years. I never—” She broke off, because she didn’t want to think about the past. She wanted to live in the here and now, with the warm body of this man at her side, explaining things to her and, evidently, simply enjoying being with her.

  “I…” He turned away with a slight grimace as he began to walk again, tightening his arm over hers and tugging her along with him.

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  His expression turned wry. “I think I almost told you my identity just now. But it isn’t midnight…yet.”

  “Midnight?” she asked.

  “It is Madame Lussier’s rule. All her guests must reveal their identities at midnight.”

  She glanced back in the direction of Madame Lussier’s house, her mouth going dry. “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  His hand squeezed the one she had resting on his arm, reassuring her. “You won’t need to.”

  It was cool out here in the park, but her linen cloak did an adequate job of keeping out the chill. She slipped her arm out of his and wrapped the cloak tighter around her, looking up at his glittering eyes. The night darkened them so much they appeared almost black.

  “How do you know?”

  He stopped abruptly and turned to her, his brows knitted together over his mask. “I’m not going to allow Madam Lussier or anyone to coerce you into doing something you don’t wish to. If you wish to remain anonymous, then you will.”

  The possessive, protective way he said that made her shudder with desire.

  “That is…very kind,” she managed.

  “It’s not kindness.” John was silent for a moment as he stared at her, his eyes full of heat and promise; then he said in a low voice, “It’s taking all my control not to stop here, in the middle of Hyde Park, and kiss you senseless.”

  Beatrice felt breathless. He spoke of her becoming senseless, but it seemed to have already happened, the way her wits had scattered to the four winds. She did her best to grasp on to a few of those wits and hold them close.

  They were walking in a path that skirted along the edge of Hyde Park, along Park Lane. The gas lamps here were spaced far apart, and the areas between the lights were dark in the moonless night.

  “I am only Persephone on the outside,” she said in an attempt to be sensible. “What is underneath may not be so appealing to you.”

  He made a low scoffing noise. “I’ve no doubt that whatever is beneath the mask is even more appealing than Persephone.”

  “Come now, sir,” she teased. “More appealing than a Greek goddess? That is unreasonable.”

  “Not at all. I’ve never been particularly attracted to goddesses. I much prefer women. Women who…” He stopped, frowning.

  “Women who what?” she asked.

  He shook his head slightly. “It’s simply that I have very particular criteria in the women I admire. And you meet them. And the way you meet them—it has nothing to do with Persephone.”

  “What, then?”

  A smile played at the edges of his lips. “You require examples?”

  “I do,” she said quietly. She was feeling very brash, but she was no longer certain it had much to do with the mask she wore. Perhaps it had more to do with the man standing beside her.

  “Very well, then. It has to do with the way you hold yourself. There’s an innocence to it that I find very appealing.”

  She made a low noise of disbelief. “That is the second time you’ve referred to my innocence. I must tell you, I’m no innocent.”

  “I am not speaking of innocence in the way you’re probably thinking. It’s a quietness in your bearing. A gentleness that is seldom seen among females of the ton. I felt it as soon as…as soon as I found you on the terrace.”

  “What makes you think I am part of the ton?”

  He waved that away. “Of course you are.”

  How could he possibly know…?

  He continued. “Your appeal has to do with the tone and cadence of your voice. It is not shrill and high, but soft and comfortable. It wraps around me, sensitizes my skin, makes me feel alive.”

  “My voice does that to you?” she whispered, almost too afraid to speak aloud.

  “It does,” he said. “But there’s more to it than tone and cadence. I feel myself bewitched by everything you have to say. You are fascinating, intriguing, captivating.”

  She couldn’t hold his gaze. “I am not.” She felt oddly as if he were speaking of someone else, like she couldn’t possibly hear anyone using such words in describing her.

  He stopped again, reaching up to cup her cheeks beneath the mask in both his hands. “You are, my lady. You are.”

  She would have shaken her head in denial, but he held her cheeks firmly in place. He rubbed his thumb over one cheek.

  “And your skin. It is so soft. Your lips are soft, too. Sweet and plump. You have the perfect woman’s body, with curves in all the right places. You are feminine and lovely.” His voice had grown husky. “And I’m going to kiss you right now.”

  As she sucked in a breath, his lips pressed against hers. His hands slid downward, over the sides of her neck, then her shoulders and down the sides of her body as she slipped her arms around him.

  She could feel him relishing her curves, from the roundness of her breasts to the dip in her waist and the flare of her hips.

  “So lovely,” he murmured.

  Something burned inside her. Lust, need…it was a ball of heat deep in her core that spread out to her limbs and weakened her knees. He pulled her flush against him, tight enough that she could feel his arousal press through his trousers and against her belly. It was all she could do not to rub her body against it. To reach down and take the proof of his attraction into her hands.

  Instead, she whimpered and kissed him harder. His hands rounded her hips and slid to the small of her back, his fingers moving over the curve of her behind, pulling her even tighter against him.

  Without letting her go, he pulled his lips away from hers, his breathing heavy. “God, woman. You’re driving me crazy.”

  She opened her eyes, resisting the urge to blindly chase after his lips with her own. “You’re driving me crazy, too.” Her voice was a wisp of breath.

  He drew back, looking down at her with glittering eyes. “Come. Let’s resume our walk.”

  “And then what?” she asked before she could think of his possible response.

  “Whatever you like,” he said quietly. He took her hand, and they began to walk again.

  “I want…more,” she admitted. “But that is unfair…and impossible, considering we are both masked and neither of us knows the other’s identity. This night cannot last forever.”

  “Very true,” he said. Then he fell silent, and she wondered what he was truly thinking. Because her thoughts were treading a line of stupidity. Thoughts that maybe he wouldn’t care who she was, that something may come of these feelings they had for each other. That this might continue beyond tonight.

  But how could any man feel attraction to the real her, Beatrice Reece, Lady Fenwicke? She was the woman society shunned. The woman who people lavished sympathy upon and then, behind her back, speculated on what horrible things she must have done to provoke such “punishments” from her husband. Or they waved it off as a woman’s exaggerations, a woman in a fit of pique because her husband hadn’t behaved how she wanted him to, a woman suffering from hysteria…

  They were between gas lamps, and the dirt path was dark when she stepped squarely onto a submerged rock in a muddy puddle, immediately soaking her beautiful silk slipper. For a split second, her ankle wobbled. Then it gave way, and she pitched forward.

  As she flailed about,
trying to regain her balance, two firm hands clamped about her waist, steadying her. “Here now. I’ve got you,” John said quietly. As if she were a tiny slip of a woman, he lifted her and set her down gently upon the dry area of the path. But when her weight settled on her right foot, pain shot through her ankle, and she gasped in pain. He steadied her again, frowning.

  “Did you twist your ankle?”

  “I think so.” She held her breath, every muscle tensed, ready for the reprimand. Fenwicke had grown so angry whenever she was clumsy…

  “Damn it,” John muttered.

  Beatrice closed her eyes, the fear a palpable taste in her mouth.

  But then a firm hand slipped beneath her knees, and she was hoisted into John’s arms. She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her, concern and distress obvious in his expression. “Relax,” he said softly. “Put your arms around my neck.”

  She stared at him for a long, suspended moment as the fact that he wasn’t actually angry with her began to seep into her consciousness. But still, she had to make sure.

  “You’re not angry?” she whispered.

  He scowled. “I am very angry. I am furious with myself for not realizing you were walking into danger. I should have seen the puddle and directed you around it.”

  “But”—she frowned—“you’re not angry with me?”

  He pulled her tighter against him. “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?” She couldn’t quite believe it.

  He gave her an odd, indecipherable look. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and she slipped her arms around his neck.

  “There is nothing to thank me for. I am responsible for your injury.”

  “No, you aren’t. How could you know I would walk into a puddle?”

  He didn’t answer, but his lips pressed into a flat line. He glanced around, as if taking in their exact location for the first time. “We are over a mile away from Madame Lussier’s,” he told her, “but my house is approximately a quarter of a mile away. I will take you there; then my man will arrange transportation back to the ball.”

  “I can walk back to the ball,” she said. “It’s not that bad, I assure you.”

  “It is that bad,” he corrected. “You can barely stand. I’ll carry you to my house.”

  And with that, he began to take long strides away from the park. Beatrice buried her face in his shoulder. He smelled so good, like soap and the clean lawn of his shirt.

  He’d mistaken her fear for pain. But how could she correct him? Oh, my ankle is not so bad, really. I was just afraid for a moment that you might beat me like my former husband would have.

  She couldn’t say that. She couldn’t.

  Instead she wrapped her arms around him as he walked with strong, determined steps away from Hyde Park and in the general direction of Grosvenor Square. Five minutes later, he ascended the steps of a very fine white stone town house.

  He stopped at the top of the steps. “I must set you down for a moment. Balance on your good foot and use my shoulder to support yourself.”

  She smiled at his tone…it was rather domineering but at the same time caring. He released her, and her body slid down his—taking in all that masculine hardness—before she came to her feet. She gazed up at him through her mask, still holding on to him as he held her, his hands firm around her waist.

  “Balance on your good foot.” The command was soft and gruff. He slid his hands around her body as if he couldn’t get enough of touching her before he let her go.

  She held on to his shoulder for support with one hand as he produced a key and unlocked the door to his house.

  “My man is asleep, and I only employ him, a cook, and a maid while I’m in town,” he explained. He pushed the door open and swung her up into his arms again. He entered, and she looked around the dimness in curiosity, though she could see little more than basic shapes. Everything she saw, though, appeared clean and in perfect order.

  He mounted a set of stairs, then entered a room at the front of the house—clearly a salon or drawing room, given the furnishings. He set her gently on a silver-and-black silk-upholstered sofa, then went to stoke the fire. In a few minutes, he had it going and went around the room to light a few lamps.

  The room was masculine, with dark furnishings that were elegant but free of any frippery: two sofas, an armchair, a table, a sidebar, and a card table. He saw her studying the furniture. “I arranged the furniture in exact specifications so that each seated person could receive the full benefit from the heat of the fire.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” she murmured, glancing at the walls. Instead of the portraits she would usually find in such a room, there was a single row of framed drawings of plants and trees, some in color, some black-and-white pencil drawings of plants with parts labeled.

  “You must like plants,” she observed.

  Finished lighting the last lamp, he straightened to his full height. He was an imposing man, tall and strong, and the mask lent an air of mystery. She was in this mystery man’s house now, with no idea who he was.

  The thought gave her a not-unpleasant chill.

  She wasn’t afraid. Madame Lussier had promised he was a gentleman, but there was more to it than that. Even though she’d known him for only a few hours, she felt like she knew him. There was something about him that was honest, and real, even though he wore a mask. Or maybe, like her, it was because he wore a mask.

  It was refreshing to feel this way with someone after so little time spent together. There were very few people in her sphere she could say she knew completely, even after being acquainted with them for years.

  “I do like plants,” he agreed, following her gaze around the room. “Immensely. The classification of African and South American flora is a passion of mine.”

  “Oh my,” she said, a smile pulling at her lips. “And here I believed you to be an indolent gentlemen like most of the male members of the ton.”

  “What makes you think I am part of the ton?” he asked, throwing her earlier question back at her.

  She waved her hand as he had earlier, allowing a light, teasing tone to enter her voice. “Of course you are.”

  He chuckled, and she flushed with pleasure. It wasn’t often that she engaged in teasing flirtation. In fact, she’d never done so. Even when she’d gone through her London Season, she’d been too shy to engage with men in such a fashion.

  “I might be a member of the ton,” he said, serious now, “but I dislike indolence. So I keep myself occupied with something that is meaningful to me.”

  She nodded, and he clasped his hands behind his back, gazing down at her through his mask with those dark blue eyes that had begun to sparkle as he’d lit the lamps.

  She reached up and fingered her own mask, the metal edge cool and sleek under her fingertips.

  “What do you find fascinating, my lady?” he asked quietly. He knelt down and slipped her muddy slipper off her foot before setting it aside.

  “You,” she answered honestly.

  He smiled at that. It was an arrogant, supremely masculine smile. “Good. But what else?”

  She looked away from him. But some part of her didn’t want to lie to him or evade his questions. “I have always been fascinated by food,” she admitted quietly.

  “Food? Do you mean its preparation or its consumption?” He chafed the cold, damp skin of her foot between his hands to warm it.

  “Its preparation,” she clarified. “As in, how to combine ingredients in a way that makes them most pleasing to a person’s palate.”

  He looked intrigued. He bent down to kiss the top of her foot, his lips warm and soft. No one had ever kissed her there before, and it was…erotic. It made her pulse flutter and her cheeks burn with a flush.

  He sat on the sofa beside her and stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “So…you are a cook?”

  “Not in a professional capacity,” she said. “But I enjoy going into the
kitchen and collaborating with our cook.”

  “What kinds of foods do you most like to prepare?”

  “I enjoy all types of dishes. But my favorite? Baked sweets,” she admitted. “Biscuits, fruit pies, tarts, pastries, cakes…”

  She looked away, eyes downcast, afraid of his reaction. No one of her class, except Jessica and her family, had ever accepted her fascination with cooking. The world in general believed that cooking was far below Beatrice’s station. She was lucky Cook allowed her into the kitchen at all.

  “Look at me,” he commanded softly. Pressing one finger against her cheek, he turned her head to face him. “I’d like to taste one of your creations,” he said. The backs of his fingers stroked her cheeks. “A lemon pudding, perhaps.”

  He trailed the finger from her cheek, down the front of her neck, and over her breast, gently swiping over her nipple. Even through the fabric of her clothes, the sensation was so strong she gasped aloud.

  “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “I could lay you naked on our bed and eat the pudding off your skin.”

  She shuddered.

  “I’d lick off every bit of the sweetness, but that wouldn’t work, would it? Because once the pudding was gone, your skin would be even sweeter.”

  Her eyes fluttered shut. He’d just given her the most erotic image of her life. Herself, lying naked across a bed while he licked lemon pudding from her skin.

  His lips curved. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to lick a sweet confection from your body.”

  She gave a ghost of a nod, and his fingers swiped over her nipple again. She wrapped her fingers around the wrist of the hand that was touching her. “Wait. I…I want…”

  “What do you want? Do you want me to take you back to the masquerade? Or…” He let the question hang, but she knew what he had been going to say.

  Or do you want to stay?

  And here it was. This was the moment of truth. Her universe balanced on a single point, and she had the power to choose. For once in her life, she was the master of her own destiny. This man wanted her—she could see it in the deep glint of his eyes, in the tightness of his jaw, in his posture, bristling with maleness. But he wouldn’t force himself on her. He was a gentleman, and if she wanted him to, he’d take her back to Jessica immediately.