His clean scent invaded her senses, a pleasing combination of fresh linen and spicy soap that filled her with the unsettling, overwhelming desire to lean closer. To bury her face against his neck and breathe deeply.
Except that breathing deeply was proving a problem. Erratic puffs of air that coincided with her equally erratic heartbeat escaped her parted lips. A sense of pure elation, combined with a heady, heated awareness of him, infused her. She felt more alive than she had in three long years.
Lord Surbrooke drew her to a stop near the edge of the dance floor, and to her chagrin she realized that the song had ended. How was it possible she hadn't noticed? For several long seconds they both remained still, as if frozen in a posed, motionless dance, their gazes locked. The heat of his hands singed her and she couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Could only stare. And feel… the sensation of him holding her. Her hand nestled in his. His palm resting against her back. His body close to hers.
The sound of polite applause broke through the trance into which she'd fallen, and he slowly released her. Snapping from her stupor, she dragged her gaze from Lord Surbrooke's to join in the clapping for the musicians.
"Would you care for a drink, lovely goddess?" his low, compelling voice asked close to her ear. "Or perhaps a turn around the terrace for some fresh air?"
Fresh air sounded not only very welcome but essential, although she suspected his presence would do nothing to help her breathlessness. The desire to go onto the terrace with him was so tempting it both stunned and unnerved her. Yet, why shouldn't she? They wouldn't be alone-surely other couples had ventured outdoors.
"Some fresh air sounds delightful," she murmured.
He extended his arm, and although she placed her fingertips very properly on the curve of his elbow, somehow nothing about this felt proper. Which was utterly ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with her talking to Lord Surbrooke. Dancing with him. Taking a bit of air with him. He was a… friend.
Still, an undercurrent of tension, of excitement, filled her, one she couldn't recall ever before experiencing. No doubt because of their costumes and the masks that hid their identities. She'd only attended one masquerade ball before tonight and it had been years ago, shortly after her wedding. So surely these unprecedented heated flutterings were merely the result of this new experience. Of course, it might also be because in Memoirs of a Mistress the author described a steamy encounter with her lover at a masque. An encounter that began with a waltz. One during which the author had felt a heightened sense of freedom due to her anonymity…
She pressed her lips together and frowned. Botheration, she never should have read that book. You never should have read it half a dozen times, her inner voice chastised.
Oh, very well, half a dozen times. At least. The blasted book had filled her head with questions she'd never be able to answer. And with sensual images that not only invaded her dreams but flashed through her mind with appalling frequency, suffusing her with an edgy, prickly sensation that made her clothing feel too tight and her skin feel as if it were about to burst, like an overripened fruit.
Exactly the way she felt right now.
She stole a quick glance at Lord Surbrooke. He appeared perfectly calm and collected, which served as a splash of cold water to her overheated skin. Clearly whatever was ailing her was affecting only her.
The instant they stepped outside, the chilly breeze slapped her to her senses. He led her to a quiet, shadowed corner of the terrace surrounded by a grouping of potted palms in huge porcelain vases. Several couples strolled around the small fenced garden, and a trio of gentlemen stood at the other end of the terrace. Otherwise they were alone, no doubt because of the unseasonably cool air, hinted with the scent of rain.
"Are you warm enough?" he asked.
Dear God, ensconced with him in the privacy provided by the potted palms, she felt as if she stood in the midst of a roaring fire. She nodded, then her gaze searched his. "Do… do you know who I am?"
His gaze slowly skimmed over her, lingering on the bare expanse of her shoulders and the curves she knew her ivory gown highlighted-skin and curves that her normal modest mode of dress never would have revealed. That openly admiring look, which still held no hint of recognition, reignited the heat the breeze had momentarily cooled. When their eyes once again met, he murmured, "You are Aphrodite, goddess of desire."
She relaxed a bit. He clearly didn't know who she was, for the way he'd said "desire," in that husky, gruff voice, was a tone Lord Surbrooke had never used with Lady Wingate. Yet her relaxation was short-lived as that desire-filled timbre pulsed a confusing tension through her, part of which warned her to leave the terrace at once. To return to the party and continue searching for her sister and friends. But another part-the part held enthralled by the darkly alluring highwayman and the protection of her anonymity-refused to move.
To add to her temptation was the fact that this anonymous interlude might afford her the opportunity to learn more about him. In spite of their numerous conversations during the course of Matthew's house party, all she actually knew of Lord Surbrooke was that he was intelligent and witty, impeccably polite, unfailingly charming, and always perfectly groomed. He'd never given her the slightest hint as to what caused the shadows that lurked in his eyes. Yet she knew they were there, and her curiosity was well and truly piqued. Now, if she could only recall how to breathe, she could perhaps discover his secrets.
After clearing her throat to locate her voice, she said, "Actually, I am Galatea."
He nodded slowly, his gaze trailing over her. "Galatea… the ivory statue of Aphrodite carved by Pygmalion because of his desire for her. But why are you not Aphrodite herself?"
"In truth, I thought costuming myself as such a bit too… immodest. I'd actually planned to be a shepherdess. My sister somehow managed to convince me to wear this instead." She gave a short laugh. "I believe she coshed me over the head while I slept."
"Whatever she did, she should be roundly applauded for her efforts. You are… exquisite. More so than Aphrodite herself."
His low voice spread over her like warm honey. Still, she couldn't help but tease, "Says a thief whose vision is impaired by darkness."
"I'm not really a thief. And my eyesight is perfect. As for Aphrodite, she is a woman to be envied. She had only one divine duty-to make love and inspire others to do so as well."
His words, spoken in that deep, hypnotic timbre, combined with his steady regard, spiraled heat through her and robbed her of speech. And reaffirmed her conclusion that he didn't know who she was. Never once during all the conversations she'd shared with Lord Surbrooke had he ever spoken to her-Carolyn-of anything so suggestive. Nor had he employed that husky, intimate tone. Nor could she imagine him doing so. She wasn't the dazzling sort of woman to incite a man's passions, at least not a man in his position, who could have any woman he wanted, and according to rumor, did.
Emboldened by his words and her secret identity, she said, "Aphrodite was desired by all and had her choice of lovers."
"Yes. One of her favorites was Ares." He lifted his hand, and she noticed he'd removed his black gloves. Reaching out, he touched a single fingertip to her bare shoulder. Her breath caught at the whisper of contact then ceased altogether when he slowly dragged his finger along her collarbone. "Makes me wish I'd dressed as the god of war rather than a highwayman."
He lowered his hand to his side, and she had to press her lips together to contain the unexpected groan of protest that rose in her throat at the sudden absence of his touch. She braced her knees, stunned at how they'd weakened at that brief, feathery caress.
She swallowed to find her voice. "Aphrodite caught Ares with another lover."