Just One of Those flings
Candice Hern
Chapter 1
London, spring 1813
He could not keep his eyes off her. Gabriel Loughton, Marquess of Thayne, had come to the Wallingford masquerade ball for the express purpose of surveying this Season's crop of beauties, but his eyes kept straying to the tall, elegant woman dressed as Artemis, the huntress. She was no young girl in her first Season. In fact, by the way she closely watched the movements of a pretty blond shepherdess being led through a country dance with a plumed cavalier, Thayne would not be surprised to learn that his Artemis was the girl's chaperone. Or even, God forbid, her mother.
He did not, however, look like anyone's mother. The Grecian tunic she wore did little to disguise the shapely form beneath. Even the smallest movement sent the silky yellow drapery slithering and clinging in beguiling ways. Her arms were deliriously bare, save for a gold bracelet in the shape of a snake coiled high on one upper arm. Thayne had always found a woman's arms to be one of the most sensual parts of her body, and cursed British fashion or propriety or whatever it was that compelled most women to cover those intriguing assets with long sleeves or long gloves. Even at a masquerade, when a hint of boldness, or a hint of flesh, was generally forgiven, there were few bare arms to be seen. Whether milkmaid or queen, in Vandyke dress or Turkish garb, almost all the women kept their arms covered. Bosoms, however, were much on display, to Thayne's delight, and the occasional bare shoulder caught his eye. But very few arms were uncovered, and only one pair was of any interest.
His gaze feasted on those pale, slender limbs that moved so gracefully in gesture as she spoke. He wanted to touch them, to graze that white skin with his fingers, softly, very softly, and watch it prickle into gooseflesh.
Perhaps it was that very pale coloring that drew his attention. Her hair—or perhaps it was a wig; he could not be sure—was dusted with yellow powder flecked with gold that caught the candlelight. Her true hair might be dark, for all he knew, but he doubted it. Her skin had the translucence most often coupled with fair hair. And it was so very English. After eight years in India, where he'd been surrounded by dark, exotic beauties, Artemis's coloring was a treat to the eyes.
And yet, the room was filled with fair English roses with blue eyes and creamy complexions. There was something more that drew him to Artemis. The elegant coiffure intrigued him, to be sure. It was pulled up and back with gold combs, and crimped in waves reminiscent of the antique statuary his father collected to fill his gardens. There were many powdered heads among the guests, but all were dusted in the usual white. Artemis with her yellow powder would have been unique enough, but the gold flecks made her even more so. She was a woman of style and with the confidence of individuality that set her apart from the rest. One long curl fell over her shoulder and moved in a way that suggested it was her own hair and no wig. What he wouldn't give to see the rest of it hanging loose and then to bury his hands in it.
Damnation. His first night back in London and he was behaving like a randy schoolboy. With an effort, Thayne tore his gaze away from the fair huntress. He had no business ogling a woman who was certainly someone's wife, probably someone's mother. Not tonight. He hadn't come to the masquerade to find a mistress. As much as it pained him to admit it, he'd come here to find a bride. Or, more accurately, to see what was in store for him when his mother began, as early as tomorrow, trotting out for his inspection every eligible young girl with the requisite impeccable breeding and good looks. The duchess would, of course, have her favorites and she would try to push him toward one of them. But Thayne would not be pushed. He would make his own choice. Not that he had any strict requirements. So long as she was reasonably pretty and wasn't entirely empty-headed, he would be satisfied. He knew his duty. He just wanted to have a quick look around for himself before the matrimonial race began. Before anyone realized he'd returned.
Just as he had expected, a masquerade was the perfect venue to survey the field, which was precisely why he'd cajoled his sister Martha, Lady Bilston, into letting him use her invitation. Behind the security of their masks, not to mention elaborate wigs and costumes, the young ladies of the ton behaved with a little less restraint, less formality, less anxiety. Chaperones did not scrutinize their movements quite so closely. Thayne fully expected that he would have to choose a bride from among a group of girls so well protected by the strictures of Society that he would never really know her at all. At least tonight, when no one recognized him, he hoped to catch a glimpse of the real women behind some of those elegant masks.
He watched a pretty young brunette dressed in the long-sleeved gown and tall headdress of a fourteenth-century noblewoman, as she flirted with her dance partner. Her eyes sparkled coquettishly behind her mask and she ran a playful finger along his sleeve. She looked perfectly charming, but Thayne would be willing to wager she would never have behaved in such an alluring manner if it had been a normal ball, where her chaperone would be less forgiving. He would make a point of discovering who she was.
He continued to appraise potential brides from his position in a far corner, where he leaned negligently against a pillar. Several other pretty young women were worth a second look: a fair-haired milkmaid with an engaging smile, a Spanish infanta with masses of dark ringlets gathered on either side of her head like the ears of a spaniel, a girl with a magnificent bosom in a low-necked court dress from the time of Charles II.
Thayne would choose one or two to dance with, to discover if they were possessed of good conversation as well as beauty. Would one of them be worth a formal courtship, and potentially the role of his marchioness?
No matter where he looked, though, his gaze always came back to her. To the beautiful huntress with the tiny quiver filled with miniature golden arrows slung over her shoulder. Her body swayed slightly in time to the music, with the sensual grace worthy of a skilled ganika, one of the prized professional courtesans at the courts of India. But hers was not a studied grace. It appeared to come naturally, which made it all the more alluring.
She smiled as she spoke to the woman beside her, who was dressed in elaborate Elizabethan finery, with a bright red wig of tight curls and an enormous ruff around her neck. The stiff collar and heavy costume, which made it difficult for the woman to move more than her head and hands, was in sharp contrast with the natural drape of her companion's silky tunic. He was almost certain "Queen Elizabeth" was their hostess, Lady Wallingford, but he could not be positive since he'd arrived late in order to avoid formal introductions.
Who was Artemis, then? A friend? A Wallingford relation? Had he met her before, when he was on the town briefly in his youth? She was certainly someone of rank; else she would not be at such an exclusive gathering, nor would she be rubbing shoulders with their hostess.
He watched those fair shoulders rise and fall in a graceful shrug. Yes, it was definitely more than her coloring and unique style that drew his interest. The way she subtly, perhaps unconsciously, flaunted the fine-looking form beneath the Grecian tunic, the way she held her head at a slight angle, the way she smiled. And something more, something indefinable, an aura of sensuality that he could sense shimmering off her, even at a distance.
Her gaze swept the room and finally collided with his own. Elegant arched brows lifted above the gold mask as she looked at him, and one corner of her mouth quirked upward, as though she was pleased, or perhaps amused, by his scrutiny. Before he could return her smile, she moved away. It had been only an instant, but that winsome gaze had sent a shot of pure molten heat through his veins. Lord, she was magnificent!
Thayne smiled as a plan began to take shape in his mind.
He had come to the masquerade to ease his way back into Society without anyone knowing who he was, though he'd been away so long he doubted anyone would recognize him even without the mask and costume. He most particularly did not want potential bridal candidates to learn his identity just yet, and begin fawning and preening before the Marquess of Thayne. As he watched Artemis, though, he wondered if it might not be just as well to woo a mistress while in disguise, to encourage capitulation without laying his rank and fortune at her feet.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. It was time to do more than look.
Beatrice Campion, the Countess of Somerfield, adjusted the gilt girdle around her waist and fluffed the blouson that fell over it. She felt positively naked in this dratted costume. She didn't know what had possessed her to wear something so revealing—even her toes were bare in the gold sandals that laced up her feet—but then that was the fun of a masquerade, was it not? To be a little bold, a little shocking. Her niece, Emily, had certainly been shocked, but only because she feared Beatrice would draw attention away from herself. But it had taken little more than a moment before Emily realized that no one would take note of an elderly, widowed chaperone, no matter how provocatively dressed.
"After all," she had said, "you will be gathered along the wall with the other chaperones and dowagers, and no one is likely to take note of you. Indeed, I cannot imagine why you bothered to wear a costume at all when a simple domino would have sufficed."
"My dressmaker insisted it was just the thing," Beatrice had said in her defense, "that classical garb was exceedingly fashionable."
"And it would be," Emily said, "on someone not so . . ."
She appeared to have literally bitten her tongue. Beatrice laughed and then finished the thought. "So old?"
Emily shook her head, cheeks flushing prettily, and then changed the subject to the advantages of her own frothy costume and whether there might be too much lace at the neck.
Beatrice did not care what her niece thought. She was the mother of two daughters, but did not feel at all matronly or old tonight. Not in such a costume. In fact, even at the advanced age of thirty-five, something about the way the tiny pleats of yellow silk felt against her body made her feel quite . . . womanly. Sensual, even. Especially when a certain gentleman kept staring at her.
She wondered who he was. There was no clue to his identity beneath the exotic costume, which she presumed to be Indian. Did she know him? Is that why she so often found him staring at her? Even when her back was turned, she could feel his gaze on her, like a naked caress that sent a tingling through the fine hairs at the back of her neck.
What sort of man could make a woman's body react so, simply by looking at her? And what sort of brazen woman felt the urge to display that body to him with subtle movements she knew made the dress cling more closely?
Beatrice shook her head to clear it. This awareness of her body and how a man might perceive it was something entirely new. She had become acutely conscious in recent weeks of how men looked at her, and even more aware of her own reaction to them. She had been a widow for three years and missed the physical intimacy she'd shared with her husband. Though she had no wish to marry again, she had lately begun to feel a longing for that intimacy. And when a man looked at her in a way that left no question as to what he was thinking, Beatrice did not feel shock or outrage, as a respectable widow should. In fact, shameful as it was to admit, she found she rather liked it.
She blamed it on her friends, with all their frank talk of late about lovers and lovemaking. They called themselves the Merry Widows in private, though in public they maintained very proper respectability. When Penelope, Lady Gosforth, had confessed to taking a lover, she somehow managed to convince the rest of them to do the same. Or at least to make an effort to do so. None of them, so far, had actually succeeded. Except, perhaps, for Marianne Nesbitt, who was at that moment attending a house party at the estate of Lord Julian Sherwood, where she was likely to take him to her bed. That had certainly been her plan. The rest of the Merry Widows had also joined the party. Beatrice had to refuse her own invitation because of tonight's masquerade, which Emily had been determined to attend. Besides, the Wallingfords were the girl's aunt and uncle. It would have been bad form to decline.
Beatrice was rather glad she had come, after all, and that her dressmaker had convinced her to wear the Greek chiton. She had not deliberately worn the clingy silk dress in order to capture a man's attention—or had she?—but it had certainly done the job. She wondered if the unknown gentleman was going to ogle her from afar all night, or if he would ever actually speak to her, or even ask her to dance.
She watched a couple leave the room arm in arm— for a private tryst?—and thought again of her friends. Marianne would very likely return from the party full of the details of her own romantic encounter. That had been part of their Merry Widows' agreement, to be candid among themselves about their sexual activities. Penelope, who had wasted no time in finding a new lover in town, had certainly been candid. As Beatrice felt the eyes of the intriguing stranger on her again, all that frank speech came back to mind.
"He's coming!"
Beatrice pretended nonchalance at Lady Wallingford’s urgent whisper, though her stomach muscles twitched in anticipation. "Who?" she asked in a disinterested tone
Lady Wallingford uttered a mocking little snort. "You know who. That striking-looking man dressed as a maharaja, the one who's been staring at you all night. The one you've been pretending not to notice. But I've seen your glance stray in his direction more than once."
Beatrice glared at her friend as if to deny that she'd done any such thing, but was undone by the knowing twinkle in the eyes behind the jeweled Elizabethan mask. She returned a sheepish grin and asked, "Who is he, Mary? Do you know?"
"I have no idea. We did not have a receiving line, as you know, so that everyone could keep their identities secret, if they desired. But he had to have an invitation to get past our majordomo. So I must have invited him."
"Unless he used someone else's invitation."
"He could have done that, I suppose," Mary said. "I certainly do not recognize him. But with the mask and the turban, he could be Wallingford, for all I know."
"I doubt your husband would look at me the way this maharaja has done."
"If he does," Mary said, "he'd better not let me catch him doing it."
Beatrice looked at her friend and they each burst into laughter at the thought of the portly, reserved Wallingford flirting with another woman.
"Dance with me."
Beatrice gave a start at the deep voice, then turned to find the unknown maharaja standing before her with a hand outstretched. He was even more intriguing up close. Mary was right about the mask and turban being an effective disguise. There were only a few hints of his true identity: dark eyes behind the mask, a well-shaped mouth below, a firm jaw, and a very slight cleft in the chin. There was also a bit of darkish hair in front of his ears, left uncovered by the elaborate turban. He was above average in height, though not overly tall, and had a powerful build set off by broad shoulders. Beatrice had the impression that he was about her own age. And extremely virile. Every inch of her skin, even to the very roots of her hair, tingled to be so close to him.
Who was he?
"Dance with me," he repeated, in that rich, deep voice, pitched low and mellow.
It was not a request. It was a demand. Or more like a fait accompli, as though he'd known she wanted to dance with him, as if she'd somehow willed him to her side.
Beatrice wanted nothing more than to take that proffered hand, but her gaze was inevitably drawn to the dance floor, where Emily danced with young Lord Ealing. She was charged with chaperoning her niece while the girl's mother, Beatrice's sister, Ophelia, was indisposed with a broken leg. At an event such as this, where the rules of propriety were loosened a bit, one really had to keep an eye on the headstrong girl. Beatrice wasn't here for her own enjoyment.
But those smoldering dark eyes beneath the mask beckoned.
"Go ahead," Mary whispered, giving her a discreet nudge.
Beatrice looked again at the tempting hand, then across the room to Emily. "You don't mind?" she asked Mary, though she continued to watch her niece, whose dazzling smile held her young partner in thrall.
"Of course not." She nodded toward the dance floor as though to reassure Beatrice that she would keep an eye on Emily.
Beatrice could trust her to do so. Mary was the girl's aunt, too, after all. Her brother was Sir Albert Thirkill, Emily's father. But as Mary was a mere viscountess, Ophelia, always with an eye to the best advantage, had chosen her higher-ranking sister to act as Emily's chaperone.
"Go on and dance." Mary gave her another little nudge toward the maharaja. "Enjoy yourself."
"Thank you, Mary." Beatrice took a deep breath, and placed her hand in the maharaja's.
Since neither of them was wearing gloves—another one could risk at a masquerade, for the sake of the costume—the shock of skin against skin was momentarily disconcerting. He softly caressed her fingers in a manner that caused her breath to catch. Hearing that tiny gasp, he smiled, then brought her fingers to his lips. Instead of a chaste salute, however, he flicked the tip of his tongue over her knuckles, very discreetly, so that not even Mary would realize what he'd done. Unless she noted the sudden stiffening of Beatrice's spine and the involuntary shiver that danced along her shoulder blades.
Before she could entirely compose herself, the maharaja placed her still-tingling fingers on his arm and led her toward the dance floor.
Beatrice mentally ticked off all the dark-haired dark-eyed gentleman of her acquaintance, but could reconcile none of them with the man at her side. "Do I know you, sir?"
"I doubt it."
Though she, too, was masked, and her red hair powdered yellow, Beatrice was quite certain her costume was no disguise. Most of her friends had recognized her. "Do you know me?"
"You are Artemis, the huntress. A most beautiful huntress."
"Thank you, sir. But do you not recall what vengeance Artemis has been known to wreak against men who stare at her?"
He smiled. "Ah, yes. The unfortunate Actaeon. But you were not bathing in private, so you must forgive me. I was overcome by your beauty."
"You are not afraid, then? I do have a weapon, you know." She grinned and gestured at the quiver and bow on her shoulder.
"As do I." He indicated a large, jeweled dagger in his belt. "But mine is quite real, I assure you, whereas yours is merely decorative, I think."
"Then perhaps I am the one who should be afraid."
He turned to look at her, an intense expression in those dark eyes. "Perhaps."
Lord, who was this man?
"We have not met before?" she asked again.
"Unlikely."
It was an unspoken rule at masquerades that one was not required to reveal oneself until the unmasking at midnight, and he obviously was not going to be forthcoming with his identity. Beatrice did not press him, despite her curiosity.
As they approached the line of dancers, she caught a glimpse of Emily in the next line, smiling at Lord Ealing. Just at that moment, her niece reached up and flicked the large, curling plume on the young man's broad-brimmed cavalier's hat. Oh, dear. Beatrice hoped the girl was not getting overly flirtatious. Though she was supremely confident and self-possessed, Emily was still very young, not quite eighteen, and was really quite innocent.
She turned to find the maharaja watching her. "Let us dance," he said.
Heavens, even his voice could send shivers skittering down her spine. And make her forget all about her duties as a chaperone.
He took his place opposite her and let his gaze slide over her as they waited for the music to begin. She felt more naked than ever beneath that warm gaze as he studied the pleated silk that fell sensuously along her hips and thighs. She stood up taller under his scrutiny, stretching her spine and thrusting her breasts forward.
What was wrong with her? She'd never behaved in such a wanton manner in her life. When his eyes returned to hers, she was so enveloped in that warm, dark gaze that they might have been alone rather than in a crowded ballroom. She hadn't been so affected by a man's presence since Somerfield passed away. Her husband had sometimes had that same look in his eye. A look of raw desire. A look that made her feel alive and womanly and . . . sexual.
The music started and brought Beatrice back to earth. She loved to dance and tried to concentrate on the figures being set by the lead couple. But she was so thoroughly distracted by the exotic stranger that she tripped once or twice. His hand steadied her each time, distracting her even more.
When the dance called for their bare hands to join, it was nearly electric. Skin against skin, sending unspoken messages. Beatrice felt awash in pure, unfettered desire, the air around her heavy with it, so that every move was tinged with sensual promise. She had almost forgotten how potent such feelings could be, but at least she'd always had Somerfield there to take care of matters. Now . . . there was nothing to be done about this stranger and the way he made her feel.
When they weren't touching, Beatrice took pleasure simply in watching him. He moved with a powerful grace, like a large tiger she'd once seen at Polito's Menagerie, arrogant, full of masculine confidence. There were two or three other men in attendance who were dressed in Indian garb, but his costume was unlike any garment she'd ever seen, consisting of a long, skirted coat richly and elaborately embroidered with gold, worn over trousers that fell in loose folds around his feet, which were shod in slippers that curled up at the toe. There were jewels around his neck and on his turban. A long, colorful sash stitched with gold thread was tied around his waist, and the rather sinister-looking dagger was tucked inside it. Despite the skirt and the jewels, the total effect was surprisingly masculine. Perhaps it was the dagger. Or perhaps it was the man himself...
SilverWitch