A Mistletoe Masquerade Page 8

  distracted her from retreating into a world that held only Lucas. By the end of the set she was composed, confident that she was showing a decorous face to the company.

  He yielded her hand to the curate for another set of country dances and strolled away. She managed to follow him with her eyes under the pretext of paying close attention to the figures of the dance, while all the time maintaining a sprightly conversation with the curate. He was young, cheerful, much given to sporting pursuits and proved a boisterous dance partner. By the time Lucas found her for the first of the set preceding supper she was panting slightly and fanning herself.

  'My, it is warm in here! And you look as cool as a cucumber-have you been sitting out?'

  'Strolling around and flirting wildly,' he said with a chuckle, taking her hand and sweeping her onto the floor. 'What is it? Did you not realise this was a waltz?'

  'No. How very dashing of the Steward to permit it!' She had not expected it. Not expected to have to be in Lucas's arms in front of everyone. Not expected to have to guard her expression and her gestures so very carefully.

  'I suggested it would be intolerable provincial of him not to,' Lucas drawled, placing his hand lightly at her waist.

  Rowan managed not to draw in her breath, reminding herself she had waltzed with the Duke of Wellington without a qualm.

  'After that he obviously felt that the honour of the house was at stake.'

  The floor was less crowded than it had been. Many of the lower staff and the men did not know how to perform this dashing and fashionable dance, but all were interested. Rowan felt she was on stage. 'They are staring,' she whispered. 'It is most disconcerting.'

  'It is because you are so beautiful,' he replied, not troubling to lower his voice.

  Mercifully the band struck up to save her blushes and habit took over. Smiling serenely, as though there was nothing in the slightest unsettling about being held close to a man and swept around the floor in his control, their bodies swooping and gliding, Rowan let her feet follow the steps without conscious thought.

  Every instinct, every sense, was focused on the man who held her. He was a good dancer-she had expected it from the way he moved. He led with authority, but without force. And he was close, so very close, and intent on nothing but her. Rowan drowned in his eyes, surrendered to his strength and lived only in that moment.

  When the set finished and he led her off the floor she knew she was trembling with desire, dazzled with enchantment and quite hopelessly in love.

  'Daisy? Are you all right?' He bent over her as they reached the edge of the floor.

  'No,' she answered, meeting his gaze frankly. 'I am not all right. Not at all.'

  He knew she was not referring to the heat, nor to any possible over-exertion on the dance floor. 'Would champagne help?'

  'It can hardly make it any worse,' she murmured, half joking.

  The supper room had been set with small tables, many already filling up with family groups or pairs of friends. Lucas sat her at an empty one, removed all but one other chair, and vanished into the throng. When he returned with two plates, a waiter at his heels with a whole bottle of champagne and glasses, she had emerged from her daze and was uncomfortably aware that her solitary state was attracting attention.

  'They are still staring.'

  'The women are jealous of your looks, the men are hating me.' He shrugged. 'I have acquired the very last lobster patties: please tell me you like them. I had to run the gauntlet of the doctor's wife to get them from under her nose.'

  'I love lobster, thank you.' It was a welcome distraction.

  'Really? You eat it much?'

  Lord! Dressers were hardly likely to acquire a taste for such delicacies. 'Vienna,' she said airily. 'They were two a penny.' He looked sceptical. 'The Congress- such a demand for them, you see.'

  'Why is it that you do not trust me, Daisy?'

  'I…' He was regarding her steadily over the rim of his glass. She focused on the spiralling bubbles in the straw-coloured liquid. So he knew she was lying about her past. 'I cannot… It is too complicated. It is not all my secret.'

  'Is Daisy your real name?'

  'No.' She wondered why he smiled and counterattacked. 'Why do you not trust me? And is Lucas your realname?'

  'Because it is too complicated, and not all my own secret. And, yes, it is my name.' He picked up a lobster patty and paused with it halfway to his mouth. 'Has the magic gone now we have stopped pretending?'

  'No.' She took a morsel and chewed, her brain spinning. What to do? Lucas sat, apparently content to watch her in silence while she swallowed and took a sip of the champagne. She loved him and there was no future for it, whatever he felt-whether he was a valet, an estate manager or a Bow Street Runner. That was clear.

  It was almost a relief how clear it was. There was no possibility of agonising about how to get around it, wondering if there was some way to make a miracle happen. They didn't happen. Not even at Christmas. She knew what she had to do.

  'I love you,' she said, holding his gaze so that she saw the way his pupils widened until his eyes were almost black, heard the sharp intake of his breath.

  'I love you, too.' He said it as clearly and as calmly as she had, and the very simplicity convinced her.

  'I cannot marry you,' she added, as though they had been discussing going for a walk.

  'Nor I you.'

  There was pain there, behind the three simple words. Pain he was not letting show on his face-just as she would not betray the realisation that something inside was cracking open into a scar that would last a lifetime.

  'Make love to me.' Rowan was not sure whether it was a question, a plea or a demand. It was only when she had said it that she saw from his face just how shocking her words were.

  He leant forward to refill her glass, the action bringing his head close to hers. 'You are a virgin, are you not?' His voice was husky. Desire? Regret? Horror at her suggestion? 'I cannot do it.'

  'Yes, I am.' She wondered just how she could hint at her thoughts, and discovered that with Lucas she could simply say the words. 'I have no experience, but it is possible, is it not, to make love without…that?'

  As he struggled with the shock Lucas wondered if she knew just what she was asking of him. She was watching his face intently, and although he did not think he had betrayed himself, she read his expression.

  'It wasn't fair of me to ask that, was it? It is asking you to exercise a great deal of self-control at a time when you will want to simply follow your instincts.'

  'For you, to be with you, a little self-control is nothing.' With a woman he did not love it would be everything. This would be heaven-and hell. 'Even without…that-' her mouth quirked in amusement as he used her own euphemism '-it is very intimate, very intense. Are you sure you want that? Are you sure you will not regret it afterwards?'

  'I will not regret it.'

  Daisy-he dared not ask her real name-was maintaining a bright, social smile, even nodding and waving to people at other tables.

  'All I regret are the things that are keeping us apart.'

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping their wine, spinning out the minutes into a memory.

  'Do you want to…to go now?' Daisy asked when her glass was empty.

  'Yes. But we will dance again.' He wanted to be with her in public, as though she was his for all to acknowledge. He wanted to weave the measures of the dances with her, savouring the fleeting touch of her hand, the little smile as they managed a complex step safely, the aching thrill of the scent of her, warm and feminine, as she brushed against him.

  'But you said until midnight,' she protested as they rose.

  'I did not know then that you would let me love you,' he said, low against her ear, pretending to free a wisp of hair from her simple earring. 'We have all night, Daisy. All night to make magic'

  He must have danced with hundreds of women in his lifetime, Lucas thought, watching Daisy laughing as she linked hands with the St
eward and let herself be spun around as the clock struck twelve. He could recall the faces of none of them. He had fancied himself in love more than once, but he could not remember their names now. He had believed himself strong and above emotional pain, and now he knew

  he was wrong.

  Daisy was still laughing when he took her hands again and swung her out of the set, through into the

  hallway and up the stairs.

  'Lucas,' she protested. 'The front stairs!'

  'Only the best for you, my lady,' he teased as they ran up to the first landing and along the corridor to the back stairs, and he wondered why she blushed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The room was in darkness save for the hot glow of the banked fire. Inside the door Lucas released her hand and went to kneel by the hearth to kindle a spill for the candles.

  I should be afraid, she thought. I should be shy and apprehensive. Or at the very least ashamed of myself. But I am not. I love him. I do not know how to pleasure him, but he will show me and I will do it. Lucas turned his head and looked at her, a long, serious look that turned her bones to water.

  'I must sit down. My knees…' She sat on the edge of the narrow bed. Was there room enough for both of them? Yes, if he held her tight. Rowan closed her eyes.

  'I have a Christmas present for you.' She opened them and found he was standing there with a small lumpy parcel in his hands. 'It is a trifling thing. Foolish. But when I saw it…'

  Rowan reached out and took it. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. She spread back the paper and found a small mug inside, made of glazed earthenware with an uneven verse trailed in cream slip around its curving belly. Smiling at the feel of it in her hands, she tilted it to the light and read:

  To Forget and Forgive is a Maxim of Old

  Tho I've learnt but one Half of it yet

  The Theft of my Heart I can freely Forgive

  But the Thief I can Never Forget.

  'Oh, Lucas.' It was ridiculous doggerel. Why, then, did it bring a lump to her throat and a shimmer of tears to her eyes? 'Thank you. I might have given it to you and the words would be just as true.' She placed it carefully on the trunk beside the bed and looked at him. 'Come and kiss me. I thought sitting down would stop my knees knocking together, but I am still foolishly nervous.'

  'Only because this is important.' He tugged his neckcloth loose and shrugged out of coat and waistcoat together, then came and knelt in front of her. 'At any time if you want to stop, to leave, you have only to say.'

  Rowan nodded. She might be innocent of a man's embraces, but she had picked up much about what actually happened, and she knew that for a man, once launched on this particular activity, stopping suddenly was not an easy or pleasant thing.

  Then he kissed her, and she ceased to worry about whether he could or should stop-or about anything at all. There was only Lucas and his heat and his strength, and the edge of fear and the knowledge of safety and the scent of aroused man in her nostrils.

  It was not a particularly easy dress to unfasten, but he had managed it without her realizing. His big hand was cupping her right breast, warm through the thin shift, and the silk was pooling around her hips. She moaned as his other hand slid down, under her, lifting so that he could tug the gown free, and she was clinging to him, only her undergarments and his shirt between her breast and his chest.

  He had not stopped kissing her, his mouth hot and excitingly moist and arrogantly demanding. She thought hazily that if she wanted to stop she would have to box his ears to gain his attention, for he seemed intent on nothing more than reducing her to a quivering puddle on the bed.

  Rowan found she could squeeze a hand between their bodies and found buttons, dragging his shirt open until her hand could slide inside against skin that was silk over muscle. She explored, fascinated, aroused, until with a growl he brought her down onto the bed beneath his weight, his fingers teasing her nipples until she gasped for mercy against his mouth.

  'Too much?' Lucas raised his head and looked down at her.

  'Yes… No. I just need to touch you.' He shrugged out of his shirt and she lay and looked at the firelight on his skin. It seemed to hold the remnants of the golden tan it must have had a few months ago-or perhaps her love gilded her sight. 'Take everything off,' she asked, greedy for him.

  'I had planned to be more discreet,' he said, getting to his feet, his hands at the fastening of his silk evening breeches. He stripped without bravado and without any apparent shyness, standing there as though waiting for her reaction before touching her again.

  'Oh.' He is beautiful. And frightening. Part of her wanted him inside her. Part was grateful he would not be. She had not realised that men were quite so…so… At least he seemed to find her arousing. To hide her confusion Rowan tugged her petticoat and shift over her head, then bent up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. That felt…safe. She was not sure what to do about her stockings.

  'You are a lovely woman,' Lucas said slowly. 'But that is not what I love about you. I love you and your courage and your grace and your fierce loyalty and your humour. And your eyes and your skin, and how I imagine it will feel when I loose your hair, and your scent.'

  He was sitting on the end of the bed now, and it was apparent he knew exactly what to do about her stockings. They were rolled down, snagging now and again against the skin of his strong rider's hands, then they were off and those hands were smoothing down the curve of her calves, up to her knees. 'Lie back, sweetheart.'

  She swallowed hard, but obeyed, almost soothed by his gentling hands, still quivering in anticipation. She knew where this was leading, but Lucas did not seem to be in any hurry to get there. Up the outside of her thighs to the curve of her hip, down to the soft skin behind her knees, up again, until she relaxed and her legs became limp. The next smooth stroke brought his palm to cup the hot, moist triangle of hair and his fingers slid in to touch her, stroke her.

  Rowan arched against the pressure, gasped, and one finger slid deeper, just where she was aching the most, just inside, and she cried out as the world spun and shattered.

  She came to, to find herself full-length against him, cradled so that she could hear his heart under her cheek. 'I'm sorry.'

  'Sorry? Have you any idea how flattering it is that I touch you and it has that effect?' His voice rumbled in her ear and his breath stirred her hair.

  'No.' She felt bonelessly heavy, and yet something was stirring again where he had touched her. Her breasts were aching and she wanted to move against him.

  'Believe me.' Lucas's hand was moving again, down over her flank.

  Bold, she moved her own hand from his chest, her fingertips riffling through the crisp hair down to his navel, finding an intriguing trail of coarser hair to follow.

  'Ah.' He sighed as she found the hard, unsatisfied length of him, her fingertips tentative as she stroked the unexpectedly soft skin.

  'Show me how.'

  He did not speak, simply took her hand and wrapped it firmly around, moving it within his own until she found a rhythm. It was powerfully erotic, feeling a man react to her touch, feeling the elemental sexuality of him, the heat, the shifting of their bodies together, the tantalising caress of his hands as they shifted their position so that he could pleasure her, too.

  The power of his climax, his gasp of release, her own shuddering pleasure swept her away utterly. She had no idea where she was, only with whom, only that they loved. Only, finally, that they slept.

  December 26th

  'Sweetheart, wake up.' Lucas's mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm.

  'No.' Rowan snuggled closer, denying his efforts to pull the covers down. He was warm and comfortable and all hers, and she was not going to be dislodged from this blissful dream.

  She heard a muffled snort of laughter, then he slid out of bed. There was a brief tug of war while she lay there, bedding gripped in her fists, eyes tight closed, then he seemed to give up.

  'Come back to bed,' she mumble
d. He was moving about. Rowan cracked open one lid and found the room almost dark. Lucas, in his shirt, had lit one candle and was pulling on his breeches. 'It is too early yet.'

  'It is four o'clock. You must get back to bed.' Rowan dragged the sheets over her head, then yelped in protest as he picked her up, bedding and all, her clothes tangled on top. 'My love, all the magic has run out. It is the morning.'

  'I love you.' She lay still in his arms as he shouldered the door wide and carried her out.

  'I know. I know, my love.'

  He carried her along the corridors, up the steep, winding stairs to her turret, and laid her on her own bed. 'Sweetheart, this is goodbye. I will not see you again.'

  'You are leaving?' She struggled up in the nest of bedding until she was sitting, trying to see him in the faint light.

  'After the ball-after Lord Danescroft has retired for the night.'

  'Then there is all of today, tonight-'

  'Do you think I am made of iron?' he asked harshly. 'Are you? Can you do this again? I thought I could. I thought I could spend a day and a night with you, knowing it was the end. But I find I do not have the courage for a lingering death. Let us make it a clean break. Goodbye, my love. Be happy.' He bent and kissed her-swiftly, hard, with an anger she knew was for himself.

  The door closed with a click. She heard his heels clattering briefly on the stone steps, then silence. Rowan turned her face into the pillow and lay, dry-eyed, waiting for morning and the rest of her life.

  'Was the ball lovely?' Penny's smile was over-bright, her movements lacking her usual slightly dreamy grace.

  'The… Oh, yes. Delightful. Most entertaining, and really surprisingly lavish and sophisticated.' Rowan managed to inject creditable enthusiasm into her tone as she bustled around her friend, helping her out of her travelling clothes.

  'Only you look rather strained.' Penny tossed her muff onto the chest of drawers and sat down at the dressing table to whisk a hare's foot over her nose and cheeks.