Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings Read online

  "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.

  Beatrice thought once again about her friends, the Merry Widows. She had told them she had no
time for lovers this year, not with Emily's Season to oversee, and her own two young daughters underfoot. But this man, this stranger, made her feel that she could make time.

  When, at long last, the dance came to an end, the maharaja took her by the hand and led her from the dance floor. Beatrice lifted her brows in question, for there was one more dance left in the set.

  "Come, Artemis," he said. "Neither of us is interested in dancing. At least, not this sort of public dancing."

  His words sent a rush of heat through her veins, for she did not misunderstand their meaning. Her throat went hot and dry, so that she feared she could not speak.

  He asked for no words, however, but simply led her out of the ballroom—which was in fact the long gallery converted for dancing—and through the doors that opened onto a terrace. He drew her outside. There were a dozen or so people standing about the terrace, ladies fanning themselves, couples in quiet conversation. The maharaja took quick note of it all, then captured her hand again and conducted her down the curving stone staircase that led to the formal garden below.

  Chinese paper lanterns had been placed throughout the garden, and several couples could be seen strolling along the gravel paths. The maharaja guided her down a pathway, then doubled back and down another, and then another, apparently seeking privacy. Finally, he turned away from the formal pathways and plantings, and pulled her around to the side of the house.

  It was quiet, save for the soft strains of the music inside, and thoroughly deserted. And very dark. The moon was hidden behind a thick bank of clouds and a stand of plane trees, and there were no lanterns nearby. The darkness was almost stygian.

  The exotic stranger positioned himself with his back against the wall, then pulled Beatrice against him with a single rough jerk, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist. With his other hand, he stroked her arm. The brush of his knuckles against the bare flesh etched a path of desire in its wake. All her awareness followed his touch, every sensation enhanced by the darkness and the mystery of the man. She could not see his face, even the parts left uncovered by the mask. But she felt his firm body pressed to hers, and the unique scent of him, a masculine musk tinged with something else— sandalwood?—sprang sharp in her nostrils. She did not need to see him to be thoroughly aware of every part of him.

  "I want you, Artemis."

  "I know." Her voice came out raspy, breathless.

  "And you want me."

  "Yes." There was no denying it.

  "Then let us have each other." He smiled, then lowered his head, and kissed her.

  Chapter 2

  His kiss was surprisingly lush and unhurried. After only a moment, he pulled back and loosened his hold on her.

  "I think we should perhaps lay down our weapons, don't you?" He reached for the quiver and bow on her shoulder and slid them down her arm. He then removed the vicious-looking dagger from his belt, and dropped all of it to the ground near their feet.

  He put his arms around her again and said, "Now we are ready for complete surrender."

  He kissed her slowly—exploring, tasting, tantalizing in delicate assaults to her senses. He kissed her upper lip, the corners of her mouth, and finally took her lower lip between his and sucked gently. Beatrice grew giddy with sensation as she leaned back in his arms and savored every touch of his lips and tongue.

  The pleasure was deep and all-encompassing, and yet there was beneath it a counterpoint of apprehension, of doubt. A niggling little voice inside her whispered that a proper, respectable woman would be outraged, that a proper, respectable woman would never allow a perfect stranger to steer her into the darkest spot on the grounds and kiss her into oblivion.

  Beatrice told the little voice to be quiet.

  The maharaja continued his slow and intriguing exploration of her mouth, and finally parted her lips with a gentle nudging from his own, and all at once the kiss became more urgent and deep. He became relentless in the ravishment of her mouth. He had said he wanted her and she felt it now, felt his desire like a palpable thing. His heat poured into her and through her until her own blood caught fire. She lifted and arched against him, kissing him back with a passion long buried, but never quite dead. She answered the bold thrusts of his tongue eagerly.

  Without warning, he spun her in his arms and reversed their positions, pinning her to the wall, his hips pressed tight against hers, his erection obvious and hard against her belly. He kissed her again, drawing her tongue deeper into his mouth and caressing it with his own. Flushes of warmth continued to run through her veins, waves and waves of it, from her bare toes to her scalp, pooling finally in heat and dampness between her thighs, throbbing flesh that had not been so aroused in over three years.

  His hands slid over the silk of her tunic, tracing the curve of her shoulder, spine, and hips, drawing her closer. Beatrice boldly explored him with equally inquisitive hands and fingers. It was still too dark to see him properly, but she needed no moonlight to discover the shapes and planes of his face and body. As her fingers traced the cleft in his chin, his strong jaw, and up the straight ridge of his nose, she realized he'd removed his mask. With a start, she became aware that her own mask was gone, as well, hanging down past her throat from its gold laces. Had she removed it? Had he? She could not recall.

  Did it matter? It was too dark to see in any case, but why did it give her a twinge of apprehension that they might actually see each other?

  Anxiety dissolved when his mouth found hers again and plundered its depths, ripping her senses from her. When she thought she might go mad, his lips trailed lower, along her jaw, beneath her chin, and down the length of her throat.

  "Your dress is quite . . . unusual. Not at all English."

  She felt the breath of his words against her ear as he flicked his tongue on the sensitive skin along its outer edge. "It is supposed to be Greek," she said, somehow managing the words, though her brain seemed to have lost its mooring and sloshed drunkenly in her head.

  "The ancients had a much better notion of dress than we do, did they not?" he whispered. "Whereas we modern English are not always comfortable in our bodies and go to great lengths to hide and bind them, Greek and Roman dress allowed freedom of movement. It did not confine the body, but allowed natural expression. You should always wear such a tunic, Artemis, which is so very un-English in its freedom."

  He ran a finger under the shoulder where the yellow silk was gathered in pleats, and coaxed it over her arm. His warm hand stroked the exposed shoulder and traveled down over her chest. He reached inside the silk for her breast, and gave a soft groan when his hand met only whalebone and stiffening.

  "Not so free and natural, after all," he said. "Very properly confined. Very British."

  Though he could not know it, Beatrice's nipples had grown puckered and taut beneath the stays. How she wished she were not so tightly laced. She wanted to feel his hands on her breasts.

  His hand gave up the quest and returned to stroke her arm, tracing the outline of her serpent bracelet. It was almost as good. Almost.

  "And what of Indian dress?" she said, nodding toward his own elaborate costume. "It looks as confining as any English gentleman's."

  "On the contrary," he said. "Eastern dress is quite unrestrained."

  And suddenly she felt a length of soft fabric tickle her face. She laughed as more and more fell about her. "What is it?"

  "My turban. You see how easily it is unbound?"

  "I cannot see it, but I feel it." Boldly, she reached up and found the turban was entirely gone, and her hands met soft, thick hair instead. "Oh." She threaded her fingers through it and he gave a gruff moan of pleasure.

  He captured her hands and pulled them above her head. With the fabric of the turban, he tied them loosely and held them there while he kissed the undersides of her upper arms and the bend of her elbows. Ticklish, she giggled and fidgeted against the sweet torture of his tongue. With one twist of the fabric, her hands were free again and she wrapped them around his neck
.

  "And not only the turban," he said, "is easily removed."

  She felt him reach inside the skirted coat, and with a flick of the wrist, his trousers fell loose and, with a soft whoosh, pooled at his feet. One more quick adjustment, and the weight against her belly was real and hot and thoroughly unconfined. He was naked below the waist.

  If there was ever a time to call matters to a halt, it was now. Reason told her to retreat, to show some restraint before it was too late, but she did not. God help her, she did not want to. She wanted this. She wanted him.

  He began to kiss her shoulder and neck, and her head fell back against the wall to allow him access. Her bones had turned to liquid. If she had not been pressed tight between the wall and his firm body, she would have collapsed. She was vaguely aware of the rustle of silk as he pushed up her chiton and slid his hand up her bare leg. Cool night air touched the skin of her calves, then her thighs, as he raised the hem all the way to her waist. The warmth of that bold hand against cool skin, the touch of his bare thigh against hers, and finally the velvety weight of his erection against her belly caused her to cry out. He muffled her cry with his mouth, taking her in a deep kiss.