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  “Five minutes, Jenny. It’s all I’m asking for.”

  Nodding, she took another look around before slipping out the side door. She was so very much aware of his nearness, but then she was always aware of him.

  Instead of leading her on to the path that wound through the garden, he gently took her arm and urged her toward the side of the house, into the shadows, where the gas lamps couldn’t touch them. She’d not been aware of him removing his mask, but quite suddenly she found herself wrapped in his arms, his mouth taunting and teasing hers with the memories of all the secretive liaisons they’d managed to arrange throughout the Season. He tasted heavenly, just as she remembered, and the warmth sluiced through her. He could deliver passion in ways that left her innocence intact, yet left her yearning for a few more moments with him.

  He must have dropped his mask and removed his gloves, because his bare fingers were grazing her cheek, his thumb circling beside one corner of her mouth, while his other arm continued to hold her close. Drawing back, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Ah, but I’ve missed you. Run away with me.”

  He trailed his hot mouth along her jaw, down her throat, stealing her ability to think, forcing her to concentrate on her words when she wanted nothing more than to let herself drown in the incredible sensations he was creating. “You are twice the fool if you think running away with you is even an option. You are the most impoverished lord in all of London, and my parents wouldn’t sanction our union with funds.”

  “I don’t care about the money.”

  “Well, you should,” she said more forcefully than she’d intended. “I’ll not end my life as a pauper.”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  She chuckled low. “You are a fool if you believe that. You’ve not managed to turn your circumstances around and I haven’t Kate’s head for numbers. Once the passion cooled we’d be miserable.”

  “It’ll never cool. You have no idea how desperately I want you.”

  And he had no idea how desperately she wanted him. It was tempting, so tempting to go somewhere completely private where intimacies could be shared with no danger of discovery.

  “We shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be doing this.” She pushed on his shoulders, easing him away from her. “I must return to the ball.”

  “I want you, Jenny, and I’ll do anything, anything at all to have you.”

  His voice contained more determination than desperation. It excited, thrilled, and terrified her all at once. “So you’ve proven.”

  “Betraying my sister and Hawkhurst was nothing compared to the lengths I’ll go to in order to have you.”

  “Your actions hurt me as much as it hurt them. Yes, your kiss can make me forget a good many things, but it eventually ends and when it does the memories return. I’m sorry, Alex, but I’ll never marry you.”

  The pain of those words spoken aloud caught her off guard. She nearly stumbled as she hurried away from him, leaving him in the shadows, along with her dreams.

  “I can’t believe you wore a costume.”

  Michael gave a hard glare to Hawkhurst before turning his attention back to the dance floor. It didn’t help matters that his friend was dressed in formal evening attire.

  “At least we didn’t have to wear masks to this thing,” Michael said.

  “Didn’t have to wear a costume either.”

  “It is a costume ball. By its very nature it requires a costume.”

  “You’ve never before followed the dictates of a gilded invitation.”

  “I’ve never before been married.”

  “You’ll do anything she asks of you.”

  Michael ground his teeth together. “Sadly, that’s the truth of my circumstances. I’m beginning to think Louisa’s brother did you a favor by ensuring that all of London knew you’d compromised his sister. If Jenny is half as stubborn at Kate—”

  “Not making much progress at earning her affections?”

  “I’d not thought so”—he considered the way Kate had watched him as they’d danced—“but I may have made great strides this evening.”

  If he’d known chain mail would have done the trick, he’d have donned it on his wedding night.

  “I can’t believe your patience with her.”

  “I have to admit—” He shook his head. No, he wasn’t going to admit, not even to a trusted friend, that he found himself actually wanting to please Kate. For all his grumbling and disappointment that she had requirements that must be met, he always felt a certain sense of accomplishment whenever he caused her to smile. And when he made her laugh…he thought there was no sweeter sound in all the world than her laughter.

  “You have to admit…?” Hawkhurst prodded.

  “I have to admit as much as I enjoy chatting with you, I’ve promised my wife another dance. So if you will excuse me, duty awaits.”

  “I think Louisa would warn you that as long as you view dancing with your wife a duty, she’ll not come to love you.”

  “I suppose you don’t see dancing with your wife as a duty?”

  Hawkhurst, damn him, smiled broadly. “Any moment spent with her is a pleasure.”

  “You’ve effectively served to ruin my good humor.”

  “My apologies. I was actually hoping to offer you a bit of advice. Make her believe you’d rather have her in your arms than anyone else. To do that, you can’t think of it as a duty.”

  Michael nodded. Being with Kate was pleasurable. He was foolish to view dancing with her as a duty. “Your advice is well heeded. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course.”

  He strode away from his friend, surprised to find he envied Hawkhurst. He’d married a woman with no funds, and yet he seemed absolutely content and madly in love. Michael had no plans ever to be madly in love. His wife was leading him around enough as it was. To love her as well would give her far too much power over him. She had enough as it was. Although, in truth, being at her mercy was not nearly as unpleasant as he’d expected it to be.

  He spotted Kate standing near a set of doors leading on to the garden, talking with a man. But that wasn’t what gave him pause.

  It was the open, unmasked expression on her face: adoration, yearning…desire.

  A possessiveness he didn’t understand, a jealousy he’d never before experienced roared through him, almost painfully. He wanted to deny what he was witnessing, wanted to deny the desperation with which he longed to have her look at him in the same manner.

  Wanted to reject the realization that no matter what he did, he would never receive such devotion from her.

  Taking a deep breath, he strode toward the couple, recognizing the man as he neared: Wesley Wiggins, third son to Viscount Wiggins. A man who’d nabbed an American heiress of his own. He posed no threat to Michael, and yet, Michael couldn’t help but feel that he did.

  He arrived with a loudness to his heels that caused the couple to turn toward him, with Wiggins blushing almost as profusely as Kate.

  “My lord,” Kate said, her smile uneasy, “allow me the honor of—”

  “Mr. Wiggins and I are acquainted.” It pleased him immensely to reinforce with his address Wiggins’s lack of a title.

  “Oh, yes, of course. I suppose you move in the same circle, being part of the Set and all that.”

  “Where is your lovely wife?” Michael asked.

  If at all possible, Wiggins’s blush deepened. “She’s not feeling well this evening. I escorted her sisters.”

  “I would have thought you’d have stayed by her side.”

  “There was little I could do to ease her discomfort.”

  Yet, Michael could imagine the disfavor he’d receive from his own wife if he left her while she wasn’t feeling well. Perhaps it was the reason he took some comfort in pointing out Wiggins’s failure. Although to his chagrin, Kate seemed unfazed by it.

  “I was hoping to have the honor of dancing with your wife,” Wiggins said into the silence that had suddenly surrounded the
m.

  This dance was his, damn it. And yet, he could see in Kate’s eyes…what? Hesitation? Uncertainty? Anticipation?

  Michael wasn’t certain exactly what Wiggins meant to Kate, but he sensed the man was a threat. A threat in some manner, to either Kate or Michael or perhaps their future.

  He wasn’t one to take threats lightly.

  “Regrettably for you, I have anticipated this dance with my wife far too much to give it up now.”

  He extended his arm toward Kate, who looked startled. Did she truly believe he would give her to another man so easily?

  She smiled at Wiggins. “It was a pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, my lady.”

  “Do give your wife our best,” Michael said, offering a subtle reminder that the man was well and truly spoken for.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Michael escorted Kate only a few steps when he glanced at her and realized she was no longer blushing, rather she was quite pale. “Would you rather go home?” he asked.

  He took comfort in the gratitude reflected in her eyes.

  “Yes, actually, if you don’t mind.”

  “I assure you I’m quite ready to dispense with my costume.”

  It didn’t take long to have a footman locate their driver and have their coach brought round to the front. Michael helped his wife clamber inside, before joining her, taking his usual place opposite her. As they journeyed through the dimly lit streets, she seemed particularly enamored with the glow of the passing streetlamps. He couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts traveled through her mind.

  When he could stand the suspense no longer, he asked, “What exactly is Wesley Wiggins to you?”

  “He is nothing to me.”

  His wife wasn’t one to lie, but Michael sensed she was lying now. He had seen the heat and longing in her eyes as she’d gazed at Wiggins. And something else. Something that ran much more deeply. A flame that had once burned brilliantly and was in danger of flaring back to life. No, she wasn’t lying. He’d done a rather poor job of phrasing the question.

  “What was he to you?”

  She turned her attention away from the street and met his gaze in the shadowy confines of the coach.

  “My husband.”

  Chapter 14

  Kate had expected her present husband to rant, rave, and interrogate her. Instead, following her announcement, he’d withdrawn into complete cold and calculating silence. Not a single word spoken for the remainder of the journey to their residence. Not a syllable uttered as he’d assisted her from the coach upon their arrival. She’d found his total retreat terrifying, as though he were contracting everything into a tight ball—a ball that sooner or later would have no choice except to explode.

  She dearly hoped she wouldn’t be in his proximity when that happened.

  Now she was in her bedchamber, standing before the window, gazing out on the night, barely noticing the darkness, numbed by her encounters with both Wesley and Falconridge. Chloe had helped her change out of her costume into a rather unflattering cotton nightgown. Kate couldn’t believe how much she’d anticipated the ball. And how devastated she’d been by Wesley’s presence. Everything about him was so familiar, so endearing. Seeing him had effectively ruined her good humor and any plans she’d had regarding inviting Falconridge into her bed.

  Surely, Jenny hadn’t known he’d attend the ball. Otherwise, she’d have warned Kate. Had she even known he’d returned to London? Wesley wasn’t important enough to garner much notice. He’d never inherit the title. Not as the third son. Gossipmongers paid him scant attention.

  Selfishly, Kate took a bit of pleasure in the fact he’d appeared a little gaunt, not incredibly joy-filled. Was marriage to Melanie Jeffers not all he’d hoped it would be? And why had he married the little twit anyway? Because her parents hadn’t threatened to cut her off?

  She soundly cursed him for marrying another.

  She heard the door that led to her husband’s bedchamber click open. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wasn’t in the mood for his silly color-guessing game. She turned to tell him so and the words died on her tongue. From the harsh and determined look on his face, he wasn’t here for any silly games.

  He’d changed out of his chain mail into his silk dressing gown, but it was the fury in his eyes that sent the cold chill racing down her spine. His jaw was clenched so tightly she doubted he’d be able to speak, and as long as his hands remained fisted at his side, she wouldn’t find them wrapped around her neck.

  She wanted to turn away, but better to face the devil, and at that precise moment she realized she’d greatly underestimated her husband’s patience. Clearly, he’d reached the end of it.

  “How is it that you were married to Wesley Wiggins?” he ground out.

  She swallowed hard. Where to begin? Did she even want to begin? And truly, was it any of his concern?

  As though aware of all the random thoughts flittering through her mind, he pounded his fist against the bedpost. She flinched at the thwump, surprised it didn’t rend the post in two.

  “Answer me, damn you!”

  She angled her chin. “I don’t owe—”

  “You don’t want to play that game with me tonight, madam. I bargained my title for your hand in marriage, and now I’m discovering I’ve acquired a scandalous divorced—”

  “I’m not divorced,” she assured him quickly, latching on to the least damaging of her transgressions. She couldn’t argue with the scandalous portion of his assessment. What she’d done had given her mother a case of the vapors.

  “But you were married.”

  She nodded. “At seventeen. My father had the marriage annulled. When you have an abundance of money you can accomplish anything, and as you are well aware we are obscenely wealthy.” She laughed bitterly. “It didn’t help matters that I was underage.”

  “Did Wiggins exercise his husbandly rights?”

  She couldn’t hold his heated gaze. She looked down at his feet, his large bare feet. They were almost as frightening as his balled hands. His ankles were visible, his hair-covered calves. Did he wear anything at all beneath that dressing gown?

  “Shall I interpret your silence as a yes?” he asked, with less venom, as though the words astonished him when he spoke them.

  Nodding, she lifted her gaze back to his.

  “Then you’re not innocent as I presumed nor in need of a gentle introduction into the ways of men.”

  Did he truly expect her to respond in some manner to that assessment? And what did her lack of innocence have to do with anything? The fact that she did know the ways of men was the very reason she held him at bay.

  “If you know the pleasures that can be shared between a man and woman, then why deny me?” He studied her intently for only a heartbeat, but it seemed enough for him to slip past her defenses and peer into realm of her heart. “Because you love him…still?”

  She dared not risk angering him further by answering.

  But apparently, he required no acknowledgment. He simply released a long deep sigh. “I saw the way you looked at him tonight, and I cannot compete with that, and so I’ll not even bother to try. But neither will I be denied any longer. Close your eyes and pretend it is he who holds you. Scream out his name in ecstasy, I care not. But I will no longer be denied.”

  She felt the tears burning. “If you do this, I will never love you.”

  A deep and profound sadness touched his eyes. “You’ll never love me anyway.”

  He stepped nearer, and with gentleness she’d not expected from him, he cupped her cheek and gathered the tears rolling along her cheek with his thumb.

  “Please—” she rasped.

  He touched his thumb to her lips, silencing her. “You told me tonight that sometimes pretense was enough. Pretend. Pretend it is he who holds you”—he lifted her into his strong arms—“pretend it is he who touches you.” He carried her to the bed and laid her down. “Pretend, sweetheart, simply pret
end.”

  Looking up at him, she felt her heart pounding in her chest, her throat tightening as she held a deluge of tears at bay. He asked the impossible of her.

  “In the dark, all women appear the same,” he said quietly. “I suspect the same holds true for men.”

  And with that, he turned off the gaslight, plunging them into darkness.

  She heard the rasp of silk falling across skin. She felt the bed dip beneath his weight. How would she bear his touch? How would she bear his lifting the hem—

  Only it wasn’t her hem that had caught his attention. He’d unerringly placed his hands at her throat, his fingers lightly grazing her skin before they traveled lower and went to work unbuttoning her gown.

  Did he not realize a woman’s nightgown didn’t have to be removed—

  She felt the first brush of his lips against her neck, and all thought of advising him drifted away like fog before the morning sun. His tongue, hot, moist, trailed along her collarbone, dipping into the hollow at the base of her throat, distracting her from the task his fingers were busily seeking to accomplish.

  His deep groan echoed low between them, just before his mouth left her, and she became aware of him parting the opening of her gown, exposing her skin to the air and the darkness. Feeling vulnerable, she couldn’t stop the quiver that passed through her. She squeezed her eyes closed, even though the night shielded her from his gaze.

  She wanted to beg him one more time for mercy, wanted to turn away from him, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to cower. She would do as he’d ordered. She’d pretend he was Wesley.

  Only Wesley had never folded her gown off her shoulders. He’d never slid the material down her arms, down her sides. He’d never gathered it around her waist, only to move it down farther. He’d never glided it over her thighs. He’d never pulled it free of her feet.

  He’d never then cupped her ankles with palms so warm that she thought they’d melt chocolate. He’d never taken his hands on a leisurely journey along her flesh as though he were an explorer who’d discovered a hidden treasure and was measuring its worth.

  And where his hands led, his mouth followed.