The Trouble With Moonlight (39 page)

“Are you quite all right in there?” a lady dressed entirely in white feathers, purportedly a swan, asked.

William nodded, finding that method of communication less painful than speaking. His vision, slightly obscured by the sheer mesh cloth covering the huge frog eyes, allowed him to observe Percy’s progress with the lady peacock from a distance. The girl possessed no semblance of grace or elegance and her irritating feathers flitted and fretted as much as those bloody bees who kept thinking his bulbous green head was some kind of exotic flower. Still Percy seemed captivated by the chit, which offered some hope that she might eventually prove suitable as a duchess.

He glanced about the room as much as the mask allowed. The things he could do with the money spent on this room alone. The gold and the glitter, the artistry on the ceilings and in the statues tucked into the corners of the room, and all of it was new. According to Percival, this was not the result of centuries of inheritance, one generation building upon the foundations laid by another. This was all newly purchased and placed, and this “cottage” was only one of the family’s many newly purchased manors. Why the money spent on this residence alone would save Bedford Manor and all of its tenants.

Another breeze stirred the draperies near the open door to the gardens. The temptation to blend into the cool night and remove the tormenting frog mask proved too great. Enjoying a bit of his anonymity, William managed to walk around the edges of the ballroom without once encountering an ambitious young lady or a hovering matron. The novelty pleased him, though the thought of removing the head pleased him more.

The crowd inside had spilled out to the terrace, making it difficult to move without stepping on a lady’s skirts, or stumbling about in a most undignified manner. He was afraid his murmured apologies never escaped the confines of the mask. The light from the ballroom reached a bit beyond the terrace. He thought he spied a path that led away from the crowds and eagerly sought it out. As he walked farther along the path, the music provided by the ballroom orchestra was replaced with the faint, soothing sound of ocean waves meeting stone. Such a clean, refreshing sound. William reached up and removed the mask, letting the late summer breezes rejuvenate him as well. The moon shimmered on the undulating swells, making him feel small and insignificant: a simple man, not a duke with the weight of a dynasty on his shoulders.

“It’s beautiful out here, is it not?” A woman’s voice asked in the darkness.

At first, William didn’t respond, believing the woman’s question must be directed to a gentleman who might have accompanied her. He could well imagine a man’s motives on bringing a lady to such a secluded spot. A smile teased his lips and he stole a glance in the direction of the amorous couple.

However, there was no couple. Just a goddess wrapped in bed linens. His breath caught. Moonlight shimmered on the copper crown on her head, giving the illusion of a halo. The drape of the cloth hid the body beneath, but the comely shape of her face and shoulders suggested a body of equally pleasing proportions. The ocean breeze tugged at the folds of cloth, and he found himself wishing for a bit of a gale.

She stepped closer accompanied by the fresh scent of gardenias. He longed to touch her, to feel if she were real or just a figment of his imagination.

“It’s so peaceful away from the crowds, away from prying eyes.”

This time he knew she spoke to him and to him alone, yet he was afraid he would sound like a bumbling idiot if he chanced to open his mouth. Her eyes skimmed his face and briefly settled on his lips as if she recognized his difficulty. She lowered her gaze to the hideous frog head and broke into a laugh.

“I saw you earlier. You arrived about the same time as the duke, did you not?”

He nodded. Where had she come from? He couldn’t recall hearing footsteps behind him, and he certainly didn’t see her before she announced her presence. Such an appealing woman shouldn’t be alone out here, in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to disturb you.” He glanced about, looking for a matron or a chaperone hidden in the shadows. “In fact, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “You’ve an accent. You’re British. I suppose it wasn’t just coincidence that you arrived with the duke. Are you a close friend?”

“Well, yes, actually.” He silenced the soft chuckle that rose to his lips, but couldn’t suppress the resulting smile. Little did she know just how well he knew the duke.

She moved closer. In spite of the ocean breeze and the lack of the stifling frog mask, beneath his shirt a bead of sweat ran between his shoulder blades. The nymph came closer. A mere inch separated his knuckle from the hardened nub pressing through the silk of her costume. His groin tightened.

“What’s he like?” she asked, her voice innocent yet seductive.

“The duke?” He forced the words through his constricted throat, resulting in the strangled utterance of an adolescent boy. Control yourself, he silently commanded. Just because such posturing on her part would be tantamount to a sexual invitation in England, didn’t mean society worked the same way here. His hand clenched by his side; he drew a deep breath. A mistake. His lungs soon filled with the evocative essence of gardenias and moonlight. “He’s a good chap. Strong, reliable, and true.” His words rushed. “A good judge of horseflesh, I’m told.”

And other flesh, his body reminded him as the breeze stirred the gathered cloth covering her chest, which brought his gaze back to that enticing nub. His mouth watered with the urge to coax the titillating swell into something harder, firmer. His body responded with a rise of its own. “Some women find him handsome.”

“Do they?” Inexplicably, she stroked the lapel of his jacket and tilted her head back as if expecting to be kissed.

Shocked, he had intended to raise his hand to force the release of his lapel, but his fingertips reached instead for the dewy skin of her cheek. He traced the soft curve of her jaw and ran his thumb lightly across her full lower lip, wondering if he dare taste what she offered.

Remembering the excessive comforts evident at the cottage, the gold and silver, the floral towers and abundant champagne, the thought suddenly registered that perhaps this goddess was meant to be his for the taking. A smile pulled at his lips. These Americans, they think of everything. The frog mask slipped from his grasp and thumped to the ground. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

“I’m not sure how these things are accomplished here . . .” he whispered, letting the urgent nature of his needs take over. After witnessing the opulence at the ball, he wouldn’t be surprised to discover a bed hidden beneath the cover of trees, a gilt-edged bed at that. He dragged his lips tenderly across her forehead, inhaling her sweet scent and preparing for an outright assault on her tantalizing mouth. “But if you’re offering what I believe—”

A sudden clamor of footsteps behind him interrupted. His spine stiffened. Dallying with a light skirt was one thing, but he did draw the line at public performances.

“Francesca Winthrop!” A woman’s shrill voice wailed. “Francesca, you foolish girl, what are you doing?”

Before beginning her writing career in earnest,
Donna MacMeans
kept books of a different nature. A certified public accountant, she only recently abandoned the exciting world of debits and credits to return to her passion: writing romances. Her debut novel,
The Education of Mrs. Brimley,
won the 2006 Golden Heart for Best Long Historical. Originally from Towson, Maryland, she currently resides in central Ohio with her husband, two adult children, and loyal canine protector, Oreo.

Donna loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at P.O. Box 1981, Westerville, Ohio 43086.

Visit her website at
www.DonnaMacMeans.com
.