More double meanings. Clearly he suspected her identity, but he was not sure. Thank God for the mask and her careful disguise. However, the intense attraction throbbing between them could not be concealed, and the longer they were together, the more suspicious he would become. "I do not think that continuing to dance with you is wise, monsieur."
"Why should we be wise?" His right arm slid around her waist and his domino enfolded her like protective wings as he drew her back into the waltz. She caught her breath at the sweetness of his embrace. She had been right to be wary of silence, for without words to protect her, she had no defense against him.
Torn between longing to stay and the knowledge that she shouldn't, she compromised by vowing to leave as soon as the dance ended. But the music flowed on and on, far longer than a normal waltz, weaving a web of sound and desire. Gradually, the frantic beat of fear that had driven her for weeks eased, soothed by the warmth of his closeness. Her eyes drifted shut, and her cheek came to rest against his shoulder.
Dimly she knew that their dance was an act of mating as explicit as if they were lying naked on satin sheets,yet she could not break away. They glided through the turns of the waltz, their dominoes floating about them as diaphanous as mist, black and midnight blue swirling together.
Finally-yet too soon-the music stopped. They halted beneath a chandelier, their gazes locked as if bound by a sorcerer's spell. Behind his mask, she saw that desire had turned his eyes as golden as new minted coins.
She wondered what her own eyes showed, and knew that she must leave now. "Good night, monsieur," she said, her throat dry.
As she turned to go, he caught her wrist. "Don't leave yet," he said thickly. "Or rather, let us go together."
She twisted away from his grip. "Sorry, but I have already made plans for the rest of the night."
Hot wax spattered across her cheek from one of the candles above. She raised her hand, but his fingers were there first, gently rubbing away the fragments of cooled wax. "Come with me now. Surely your 'other plans' can wait for an hour."
He spoke with the calm confidence of a man who did not doubt that in an hour he could make her forget all other obligations. But hers were more significant than mere fornication, as alluring as that might be. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but honor forbids. Perhaps another time."
She sensed the Sex of his fingers barely in time. Before he could pull off her mask, she slapped his hand away with her fan, shattering the ivory blades and ripping the delicate lace. "Do not seek to change the rules, monsieur," she snapped. "Such intimacy as we have shared is possible only because we wear masks. If I do not satisfy you, go seek the lady you think I resemble. She might be more accommodating."
"I can't help but wonder if I have found her," he said softly. "Though the appearance is different, the spirit is the same. Can there be more than one woman who shimmers with such a flame, and kindles such desire?"
Damnation. In spite of her best efforts, Strathmore was three quarters convinced of her identity. But notquite sure; if he had been, he would already have hauled her from the dance floor to a more private place.
Attack was safer than defense. She uttered a very French oath learned from the Parisian girl who had been her nursemaid, then turned away, her domino flaring wide. "You become tedious, monsieur. Do not trouble me again."
As she moved away, languidly rolling her hips in a manner quite unlike her usual walk, she could feel his gaze boring into her back. It took all of her willpower not to bolt. Only the knowledge that flight would confirm his suspicions kept her steps slow and steady.
She joined the largest group of people so that the earl would lose sight of her, then slipped out of the ballroom. When she was safely out in the foyer, she leaned against a wall, shaking. How could she have been such a fool as to let that happen? She should have walked away as soon as he accosted her. And how long had she been with him? Harford had intended to return to his room in an hour, and hah? of that must have passed. There was no time to waste.
Quickly she removed the pebbles from her slippers, for they were uncomfortable, and it was no longer necessary to alter her walk. Then she made her way upstairs at a speed just short of a run. Several times she saw other couples in corners or entering a bedroom, but all were too intent on their own concerns to pay attention to her.
Blackwell Abbey was U-shaped with a center section bracketed by two shorter wings. Dozens of identical doors opened onto the dimly lit corridors. To prevent guests from embarrassing errors, elegantly written cards announced who was in each room. She warily eyed the door marked with Strathmore's name, even though she knew that he must still be downstairs.
She reached the end of the corridor and fished out the key, then spent two frustrating minutes trying to open the unmarked door. Perhaps Harford was playing some kind of idiotic game with her.
Could she have come to the wrong place? She thought about it and realized that she had gotten her directions reversed and come to the east wing instead of the west. Mentally cursing herself, she retraced her steps, instinctively circling wide around Strathmore's door. Right around the corner, along the main corridor, right again. Last door on the left.
This time the key turned smoothly, and the door swung open to reveal a sitting room. She stepped inside with relief, then locked the door behind her so that she would have warning of Harford's return if she wasn't gone before he came upstairs.
A single candle lit the room. She studied her surroundings, wondering what to look for. Once before she had searched a room of Harford's, but then he had been a guest in someone else's house. This sitting room and the adjacent bedroom were places where he actually lived for part of the year, and he must have imprinted himself deeply into his surroundings.
She began searching. The bookcase contained an impressive array of salacious books, repellent and of no value to her. She opened the wardrobe and ran her hands between the garments, trying to find traces of some unde-finable essence. Then she turned to his desk and began searching his papers with frantic haste while she prayed that he would stay longer at the ball than he had intended.
The desk contained two drawers full of bills, none of them paid. Another drawer contained highly explicit love letters written in different feminine hands. She skimmed them quickly, but it was all rubbish. Even the doggerel verse about "Roderick's remarkable rod" scanned badly. Obviously, Harford did not favor women with intelligence.
In the center drawer was a journal containing terse notes. She studied them for a few minutes and realized with distaste that it was a record of the women he had bedded, complete with evaluations of their skills and willingness to indulge his sometimes peculiar tastes. If she were actually the trollop she pretended, she would be destined to end up in these pages. He would have made a note of her tattoo.
She flipped through all of the entries for the last several months, but found nothing to confirm her suspicions. She was leaning over to pull out the lowest drawer when an angry voice barked, "What the hell are you doing?"
She jerked upright, heart hammering, and saw Harford glowering in the doorway. Dear God, why didn't it occur to her that he might have second key? She must brazen it out. "Looking through your desk, of course," she said innocently. "I became bored waiting, monsieur, so I decided to explore."
"Next time, don't explore a man's desk," he said, his irritation fading with the quick mood change of the drunk. "You're French? I didn't notice that earlier."
Damnation, she had spoken in the character she had created for Strathmore! "In a bedroom, I am always French," she said throatily. "The French may be our enemies, but they are masters at the art of making love."