The music bore no resemblance to the waltzes he was used to dancing in London. It was wild and fast, almost Bacchanalian. The musicians’ exuberance was infectious. Nicholas heard the music in his ears, felt it in his blood. Dance faster, it urged. Faster. Lady Isabella must have felt the music, too; she matched him step for step as he led her into one flamboyant turn after another. They were both laughing by the time the musicians laid down their bows. Their hands clung together for a moment as they steadied one another. Nicholas dragged air into his lungs and bowed. “Thank you, Lady Isabella.”
“Not at all,” she said, fanning herself with a hand. “You’re an excellent dancer.”
“As are you.” He offered her his arm. “A drink, ma’am?”
“Please!”
The line to the punch bowl was long. Lady Isabella’s cheeks were flushed beneath her golden mask. She fanned herself again. “You enjoy dancing,” she said, in her clear, frank way. “And yet you give the impression of a man who dislikes attending balls.”
“It’s not balls I dislike,” Nicholas said, wishing he could remove his mask. He was so damned hot. “It’s the Marriage Mart. I feel like a beast up for sale at an auction, being examined by prospective buyers.”
Her face lit with laughter. “How uncomfortable!”
He shrugged, knowing he’d dislike it less if he didn’t have the scar blazoned across his face, but not willing to make that admission aloud.
Lady Isabella’s smile faded. “You’re correct, Major. That’s precisely what it is: an auction. I’m glad to be out of it.”
I will be, too.
They had barely received their glasses when there was a stir of movement behind them, a rise in the babble of voices. Nicholas turned his head and watched as liveried footmen flung open the French windows lining the far side of the ballroom.
Glasses in hand, they joined the drifting crowd out onto the terrace. Flambeaux burned and lamps lit the gardens. The cool night air was welcome on his chin. Nicholas inhaled deeply and wished it was time to unmask. Perspiration trickled down his cheek.
The hell with it.
He put his glass down on the stone balustrade and reached up and pulled the ogre’s mask off his head.
The air was cold on his face, refreshing, welcome. He closed his eyes in a moment of sheer enjoyment.
“Much better, isn’t it?”
He opened his eyes to see that Lady Isabella had untied her golden mask and was using it to fan her cheeks.
“Yes.” He wiped his face with one hand and ran his fingers through his hair. It was damp with sweat.
“Look!” someone cried behind him. “They’re starting!”
At the sound of the first explosion, the ballroom emptied of guests. The terrace became a jostling mass of people, pressed close to one another, laughing and exclaiming as the fireworks lit the sky. Nicholas was more conscious of Lady Isabella alongside him than he was of the display of pyrotechnics. She felt soft, warm . . .
Nicholas gave himself a mental shake and drained his glass of punch. He gazed up at the bright cascade of sparks tumbling in the sky. Around him people cried out in delight, clapping their hands.
The fireworks display over, the terrace slowly emptied, the guests drawn back into the ballroom by the light and the warmth and the lilting strains of music. Lady Isabella made no move to leave the terrace. She leaned her forearms on the balustrade and gazed out over the garden. London was several miles distant; the lights and clamor didn’t intrude here. The garden was dark but for a sprinkling of lamps. It was an enchanted landscape of shadows and flickering flames.
Nicholas stayed beside her, breathing in the cool air. Pleasure hummed in his veins. He felt careless, reckless, exuberant. He knew why: the punch. The stuff was lethal.
They weren’t alone; a few others lingered on the terrace, to converse, to flirt lightly with one another, and in the case of a young buck dressed in striped stockings and a jester’s hat, to sit groaning with his head in his hands.
“Are you enjoying your triumph, Major?”
The ogre’s mask sat on the balustrade, alongside his empty glass. Nicholas tapped the papier-mâché cheek, sculpted in scarlet whorls, with one finger. “Yes.”
Lady Isabella laughed softly.
He turned his head to look at her. She shone in the moonlight, pale and golden. “Why Demeter?” he asked. Why not Venus?
Lady Isabella touched one of the golden earrings in a reflective gesture. It spun, catching the light of a flambeau, gleaming. “A suitor of mine once wrote a poem. ‘To the harvest goddess with her corn-ripe hair.’”
Nicholas uttered a crack of laughter. “Good Lord!”
Lady Isabella was unoffended. She grinned.
“Who was it?” Nicholas asked, before he could catch his tongue.
“Brabington.”
“Brabington?” Nicholas said, startled. “The duke?”
Lady Isabella nodded.
“Why . . . ?” He hesitated a moment, aware the question was impertinent, and then plunged onwards, knowing his recklessness was due to the punch, but not caring. It was a night for stepping beyond boundaries. The music streaming from the wide-open windows urged it; Faerie music, spiraling up into the night sky, wild and lilting and as intoxicating as the punch. “Why haven’t you married?”
Lady Isabella’s eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t appear to be offended. “Because I haven’t wished to.”
“But . . .” He halted, stuck for words. Didn’t every woman want to marry? And then he remembered: “Your fiancé died,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Roland? Yes. He died a month before we were to be married.” She looked down at the empty glass in her hand.
“That must have been hard,” he said quietly.
“It was,” she said, but he heard no melancholy in her voice, saw none in her downturned face. “But it was eleven years ago, so don’t picture me with a broken heart, for that’s not the case!” Her expression grew thoughtful. “In fact, I’ve often thought it was fortunate the wedding didn’t take place. Not fortunate that Roland died! But fortunate I didn’t marry him.” She glanced at him, and uttered a laugh. “I’ve shocked you, Major.”
“Not at all,” Nicholas said, although her words had taken him aback. “Er . . . why was it fortunate?”
“Poor Roland had no sense of humor. A necessity, I believe, in a marriage.” She met his eyes, her tone serious, “Don’t mistake me, Major. I was in love with Roland—as much as a child of eighteen can be!—but I’m no longer wearing the willow for him.”
“But you haven’t married.”
“No doubt I would have, if my father hadn’t died so soon after Roland, and then my mother . . . She was very ill, and by the time she passed away I was twenty-four and quite used to making my own decisions, and I found that I didn’t want to marry. Fortunately she left me a sizable fortune, so I didn’t have to.”
Nicholas frowned at her. “Your brothers allowed you to set up house by yourself at twenty-four?”
“With Mrs. Westin, yes.”
Lady Isabella was looking at him with some amusement. She thinks me a stick-in-the-mud.
“And Brabington? What was wrong with him?”
She lifted her smooth shoulders in a shrug. “I didn’t wish to marry him.”
“But . . . a duke!”
Her expression became slightly exasperated. “Pray, what has that to do with it?”
Nicholas stared at her. He shook his head, not understanding.
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a husband,’” Lady Isabella said, her tone ironic.
Nicholas blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“A paraphrase.” She put her glass down on the balustrade. It made a dull clunk on the stone. “The world expects me to want to marry. Well, I don’t! I like my life precisely how it is.”
“Do you dislike men?” he asked, trying to understand, and failing.
“No, not at all! But I have no need for a husband of my own.”
“But—”
“Why should I trade my liberty and my independence for a husband’s name? What would I gain?”
He looked at her, standing pale and golden in the moonlight, the mask with its dark, empty eyes dangling from one finger. “Children?” he ventured.
“My life isn’t empty of children,” Lady Isabella said. “I have twelve nephews and nieces.”
“Oh,” he said. Her words rang in his ears. Liberty. Independence. Perhaps that was what made her shine so much brighter than the other women of the ton. She belonged to no one but herself. Within the strict confines of Society, she danced to her own tune.
If she were crushed into a mold—wife, mother—would she cease to shine so brightly?
Nicholas turned his head and frowned down at the shadowy, lamplit garden. Had Gussie become less of herself when she’d married? Would his own bride?
A groan drew his attention. The jester staggered to his feet, his hand clapped over his mouth.
Nicholas grabbed his mask, hastily took Lady Isabella’s arm, and guided her further down the terrace. The jester reached the balustrade where they’d stood and leaned over it, noisily casting up his accounts.
It was quieter here, darker. One of the flambeaux had guttered out. They had fewer companions.
Nicholas placed the ogre’s head on the balustrade again. The papier-mâché mask scowled at him. “Is marriage wholly repugnant to you?”
“I wouldn’t say repugnant, Major. Merely . . . it holds no temptations.”
But what of physical desire? Nicholas held his tongue; it wasn’t a comment he could make.
Lady Isabella turned the golden mask over in her fingers. He watched her frown. “I will own that there’s one drawback to my situation: I must rely on my friends to provide me with an escort.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “But Mrs. Westin—”
“Certainly she will accompany me if I have no other escort, but she has no great liking for balls and rout-parties.”
She leaned against the balustrade again and looked out over the garden at the darkness and the shadows and the flickering lamps. “Usually one or another of my brothers and sisters are in London for the Season, but this year they are none of them here. Julian has just been presented with his fifth child and poor Marianne is in no state to come to town. Simon has taken his family to the continent, and both Clara and Amabel are expecting.” She turned her face towards him, laughing, moonlight gilding her cheek. “You see, Major, there’s no shortage of children in my family!”
He looked at her for a long moment. “You truly have no intention of marrying, do you?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I enjoy being a spinster.” He heard the truth clearly in her voice: there was no defensiveness, just a quiet sincerity.
Spinster. An ugly little word. So wrong for her.
Nicholas looked at Lady Isabella in the moonlight. She was golden and silver, beautiful. Such a waste.
Lady Isabella looked out over the garden again. “Legally, a wife belongs to her husband. She’s his property.”
He’d never thought of it quite like that, but she was perfectly correct.
“I have no desire to become another person’s possession, Major.”
“But. . .” He groped for words, trying to articulate his thoughts. “But if a man truly loved you he wouldn’t try to make you a possession.”
“I have received a number of offers, Major, from men who professed to love me. But what they loved was my face, or my rank, or my fortune—or all three!” There was no bitterness in her voice, just honesty.
“Then you’re wise not to have married them.”
She smiled at him. “We’re in agreement, then.”
“But a love match,” he persisted stubbornly. “If—”
“If it was me he was in love with,” she said with irony, “and not merely my face.”
“If it was a love match,” he continued doggedly. “Then surely you could have no objection?”
Lady Isabella laughed. The sound had a hard edge to it, matching the glitter in her eyes. “It’s always my face men fall in love with,” she said. “And I’m much more than my face.”
“I am aware of that,” he said with stiff dignity.
The hard glitter left her eyes. Her mouth softened into a smile. “You are a prince among men,” she said, reaching out to touch the back of his hand, resting on the balustrade, with light fingertips. “Ogre.” The word was said with affection.
She turned to go inside.
“But—”
Lady Isabella looked back over her shoulder. “I shall never marry, Major. Accept it!”
She was Venus, standing silhouetted in the light streaming from the French windows. Tall and queenly and inordinately beautiful.
Their companions in this corner of the terrace were gone. Some had returned to the dancing; others, judging from the muffled giggles that rose from the gardens, were indulging in more clandestine activities. He and Lady Isabella were alone, apart from music and shadows and moonlight.
She held out her hand to him. “Come inside. Let’s dance some more.”
Nicholas took hold of her fingers. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
She laughed. “I assure you that I do!”
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
It was music swirling from the ballroom that made him tighten his clasp on her hand, that made him pull her closer. Faerie music, wild and reckless.
Lady Isabella became very still. “Major.” There was a note of warning in her voice.
“Don’t dismiss something as worthless until you’ve tried it.”
“Major Reynolds—”
“You’ve set your heart against marriage, without knowing anything of the pleasures that may attend it.”
“Major—”
“If you were to make a love match, you would find that the . . . er . . . physical side of marriage can be extremely enjoyable.”
Lady Isabella pulled her hand free. She folded her arms across her chest, defensive. “Roland did kiss me once; I didn’t like it.”
“He didn’t do it right, then.”
Her frown vanished. She laughed. “How would you know? You weren’t there!”
“How do you know if you’ve only tried it once?”
The question silenced her. She bit her lip.
He looked at her, gilded in moonlight. Desire clenched in his belly. Dear God, he wanted to kiss her. The music was no help, whispering in his ear, urging, enticing. “I think you should try it again.”
She stood quite still for a moment, her arms crossed, her face expressionless. “Just what is it you’re proposing, Major?”
He shrugged and tried to keep his tone careless. “A kiss.”
There was no revulsion in her voice, merely shock: “You know I dare not!”
He glanced over his shoulder, at the shadowy gardens. “We wouldn’t be the only ones.”
Her brow creased. “Why, Major?”
Because I want to taste your mouth. “So that your decision may be more informed.” He leaned against the balustrade. “It’s a very important decision, after all.”
Her lips twisted, as if she tried to hide a smile. “For my own good?”
“Yes,” he said, striving for a note of piety. “I feel it’s my duty.”
He saw laughter in her eyes; she knew he was teasing her. “Your duty?”
“Yes. I’m a very dutiful man.”
She laughed aloud at this and uncrossed her arms. “You have a glib tongue, Major. Is this how you won your battles? By sweet-talking your enemies?”
You aren’t my enemy. Nor was she the woman he wanted to marry. But right now, while the mad, Bacchanalian music swirled around him and the night air was cool on his face, he had a burning desire to kiss her. “What do you say?” he asked lightly.
She bit her lip, looking uncertain. “I don’t know.”
It wasn’t a No. Did the music affect her as it did him? It urged him to take her hand again and stroke his fingers lightly up her arm.
Nicholas gave into the urging. He stepped away from the balustrade and reached for her hand and ran his fingertips up the inside of her arm, over cool, smooth skin.
Lady Isabella shivered slightly.
“Aren’t you the slightest bit curious?” His voice was low.
“No,” she said. “I told you that Roland kissed me—and I didn’t like it at all.”
He bent his head and whispered in her ear. “And I told you that he did it wrong.”
She laughed at this. “Major, you’re more conceited than I’d thought!”
“Not conceited,” he said, stroking his fingers lightly up her bare arm again, from her wrist to the sensitive hollow of her elbow. “Merely honest.”
Lady Isabella shivered again. She bit her lip.
Nicholas bent his head closer. “I dare you,” he whispered in her ear.
“My reputation—”
“Will still be intact. I give you my word of honor.”
Lady Isabella made no demur as he led her down the steps into the garden, as they followed a barely seen path into the shadows, as he pulled her into the darkness of a gazebo.
“I’ve drunk too much punch,” she said.
“I know I have.” He pulled her close to him, cupping her face in his hands. “I shouldn’t dare to do this otherwise.”
“Am I so terrifying?” she asked, a tart note in her voice.
Not terrifying; untouchable. He was suddenly, painfully, aware of his ruined cheek. Beauty and the Beast. And yet he was touching her, her cool skin warming beneath his fingers.
“If you dislike it, you must tell me.”
Lady Isabella moistened her lips. “I will.” Her voice was barely audible; she was nervous.
She wasn’t the only one.
Nicholas inhaled a slow, steadying breath. He slid his hands from her face to her throat, tilting up her chin with his thumbs. Her eyes stared at him, silver in the night shadows.
“Relax,” he said, smiling at her.
“That’s easier said than done, Major!”
He laughed, a slight puff of breath, and angled his head and touched his lips to hers.
Slowly, he told himself, closing his eyes, inhaling the scent of her skin. Orange blossom.
He started gently, laying soft kisses on her mouth until he felt her begin to relax, then he tasted her lips lightly with his tongue. She tasted of punch, of strawberries and oranges, sweet and tart, delicious.
Heat was building in his body. When her lips parted to his tongue he almost groaned.
Slowly, damn it. Slowly.
He explored her mouth in small increments, keeping it light and teasing, playful. Arousal jolted through him when her tongue shyly touched his.
Slowly.
But it was impossible when she was kissing him back, her mouth shy and inexperienced, eager.
Nicholas abandoned his caution. He kissed her more deeply, losing himself in pleasure, in heat. His awareness of their surroundings, the gazebo and the shadowy garden, faded. Her mouth was more bewitching than the Faerie music, more intoxicating than the punch. He sank into it. His world narrowed to her lips, to her body pressed against his, to her scent, her taste. This was indulgence, this was bliss, this was—
Madness.
Nicholas forced himself to release her. He opened his eyes and stepped back a pace, struggling to breathe. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
They stared at each other. He heard her breathing, as ragged as his own, saw the glimmer of moonlight in her eyes.
“Lady Isabella?” he asked softly.
She inhaled a sharp breath. “I need to return to the ball.” Her voice was low and shaken. “If my absence has been noted—”
Nicholas took hold of her hand. “It will be all right.”
Her fingers clutched his. He saw her nod, heard her try to steady her breathing. “Yes,” she said. “Of course it will.” But her hand trembled slightly as he escorted her along the path and up the steps to the terrace. I shouldn’t have kissed her, he thought as he halted, letting her enter the ballroom alone. She glanced back, framed by the French window, golden in the light streaming from the chandeliers, then moved swiftly from his sight.
Nicholas stayed on the terrace for a full hour, leaning his forearms on the balustrade, frowning down at the garden. What had happened in the gazebo? A kiss, merely a kiss, spurred on by the punch they’d both consumed, by the reckless music.
Merely a kiss, and yet . . .
He was uneasily aware that his world had altered. Something was different, but he wasn’t sure what.