Candice Hern (3 page)

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 length 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.

What remained of her reason, her dignity, her sanity, evaporated in that moment. Yielding to her body's urgent demands, she brazenly pressed herself against him, adjusting her weight to take him inside her. She was wet and throbbing and ready for him. Impatient. Eager.

"Steady," he said. "Like this."

He reached down and grasped her behind one knee, lifting her leg and guiding it around his waist. Her sex was now boldly open to him, but he did not invade it yet. Instead, he teased it and fondled it, first with deft fingers and then with the head of his penis, until she was slick and aching and mad with wanting him. She let out a plaintive cry, and he moved his hand behind her and lifted her buttocks. And with a single swift stroke, he was suddenly deep inside her.

Desire tore away reason, dragging her down beneath shame, beneath propriety, beneath intellect. She squirmed against the wall and wrapped her leg more tightly around him. He set up a slow rhythm, pulling almost completely out of her before pushing all the way in again, and she arched up into the ecstasy he gave her.

Involuntary coos of pleasure escaped her with each breath, little moans of pure bliss that matched the cadence of his thrusts.

She felt his mouth smile against hers. Then he said something, a word she did not understand or could not quite hear over the rasp and pace of her own breathing. "What?" she asked between breaths, not really caring if he answered.

"
Jataveshtitaka
," he said, and increased the tempo of their rhythm. "The twining of a creeper."

She had no idea what he was talking about, but it did not matter. She lifted to meet every thrust and the faster the rhythm, the harder her spine was slammed against the wall. Apparently realizing she was being bruised, he reached both hands behind her and cupped her buttocks, holding her away from the wall.

The faster he moved, the more tension built inside her until she thought she would break into pieces. She would die of pleasure, surely she would die. And yet it drove her, this impending demise, for she knew where it led and, dear God, she wanted it. All thought, all awareness, was cast aside in an effort to end this unbearable ache. Her inner muscles gripped him tightly and he let out a moan. She pushed up against him, harder and harder, in search of completion.

And it came. In an explosion of sensation so powerful her entire body shook with it. Beatrice threw her head back and was about to scream when his mouth covered hers and muffled the sound. A few seconds later his frenzied thrusts came to a halt and he pulled out of her. She felt hot liquid dribble down her thigh.

Dazed and disoriented, she fell limp against the wall, her sex still pulsing. One tiny, lucid corner of her brain was grateful that at least one of them had the sense to consider the consequences of what they did. She had been too far gone to think so rationally.

"Dear God," he said, his breath coming in pants and puffs as he leaned over her, arms bracketed against the wall. "Or should I say
dear goddess
? My sweet Artemis, you have killed me after all."

He kissed her softly, then stepped away. Beatrice closed her eyes and tried to make sense of what had just happened, what she'd allowed to happen.

She began to tremble a little in the aftermath. Or was it the cool night air? Or the sudden realization that she'd lost all sense of decency and been sexually intimate with a perfect stranger? Though her body still thrummed with the aftereffects of sexual release, her mind found clarity at last and understood the outrageousness of her behavior.

How could she have done such a thing?

How had she let it go so far? She knew when they went outside that she would be soundly kissed by the dark stranger, but had she expected ... this? No, she had not. Had she? Heavens, she was so confused. She had enjoyed his obvious interest, wanted him to kiss her. But had she truly imagined it would lead to anonymous coupling up against a wall, for God's sake?

One thing was certain. She knew when a line had been crossed and the ultimate intimacy was about to occur. She could have stopped it; she could have said she did not want it. But she had not done so. Because she
had
wanted it. There was no denying she had wanted it. But to have given in to her desire, to have shown no self-restraint whatsoever, to have allowed a strange man access to her body, suddenly made her feel off balance, stupefied and stupid.

She did not know whether she was overwrought with outrage, or outrageously thrilled. Should she feel shamefully disgusted, or deliciously wicked?

Yes, she had been intrigued by his interest, and attracted to him. And the masks, the music, the revealing costume, had all made her feel quite daring. The anonymity of the encounter, the sheer boldness of it, had excited her even more and had given her an odd sort of courage.

Courage to behave like a wanton. To allow herself to be seduced in a garden outside a ballroom with hundreds of people inside. People who knew her, respected her, even admired her for her work with the Benevolent Widows Fund. People who would be beyond astonished to know what she'd just done.

If Beatrice had ever imagined herself taking a lover, and such thoughts had indeed teased her of late, she'd assumed it would be a discreet affair that took place in the privacy of a bedroom. But this ... this rough, unbridled passion in the dark, against a wall, with people wandering about who might come upon them, with Emily just inside ... this was not something she could ever have imagined. It seemed so sordid, so dirty.

So exciting.

Deep in her heart, she knew it was wrong. She ought not to have let it happen. The best thing to do would be to walk away. Now, while the entire business was still anonymous. Suddenly, it seemed imperative to protect her identity. She did not want this man to know who it was who'd given her body so willingly, and she did not want to know who he was, either. That would make it easier for her to accept the situation as a moment of madness, an anomaly that was thoroughly out of character. Surely this man would believe her to be a woman of loose morals, a woman who thought nothing of making love in the dark with a stranger. Like a prostitute in Covent Garden. She did not want it known that Lady Somerfield was such a woman.

Because she was not. She had never done anything disgraceful or improper in her entire life. She had never been with a man other than Somerfield.

All of these thoughts flew through her mind in an instant, jumbled and confused, before she could even stir herself from the wall. She was ready to move away when she felt his hand lift her skirt again and she jumped back with a shriek. No! She would not allow him to importune her again. She would not allow the moment of madness to stretch into two moments, or more.

But he did not press against her again to initiate further intimacies. Instead he used a piece of silky fabric to wipe her legs. "Let me help you, Artemis."

But she squirmed against his touch. The thought of his seed spilling down her legs, a sticky reminder of what she'd done, only made her feel more acutely aware of the coarseness of the encounter. She tried to get away, but the stranger rose again and pinned her to the wall. "Don't run away, my huntress." He kissed her again and she pulled back, fighting her body's treasonous attraction to him in an attempt to end the situation.

"Let me go," she said, trying to sound steady and controlled but fearing she sounded quite the opposite.

His hands immediately released her, and in that moment she knew he would have done so at any time if she'd only asked. He would not have forced her. He
had not
forced her. She could not use that as an excuse.

"Don't leave yet," he said. "I don't even know your name."

And Beatrice intended to keep it that way. She wanted to flee back inside the ballroom, collect Emily, and make a quick exit. She was determined that he should not know her identity. "I have to go." She straightened her skirts and pulled up the shoulder of the chiton. Her hands went to her hair, securing the combs that had come loose and tucking a few wayward locks into place. She remembered his hands in her hair and hoped to heaven it did not look as messy as she imagined. When she went back inside, would everyone who saw her know precisely what she'd been doing?

Beatrice frantically brushed her shoulders and the front of her dress, hoping she was not covered in hair powder. At least it was yellow and would not show too badly against the yellow silk. The gold flecks were a different matter. Why had she thought to add that little embellishment to her coiffure? She brushed and brushed her hands over the dress and plucked at the pleats to dislodge any powder and gold flecks that had been shaken loose.

"You will not tell me your name?"

She stopped brushing but did not look up. "No."

"You wound me, Artemis. How can you give me your body so sweetly but not gift me with your name?"

"I'm sorry. I cannot. I must go."

He stood before her, blocking her exit, and she pushed him away so she could pass. He took a step backward. And in that moment, a shaft of moonlight broke through the trees and illuminated the wall beside her. She blinked against the sudden light.