She ducked beneath his arm, watching in fascinated horror as the masked brunette rolled onto her toes and yanked Lord Ashford Synton’s lapels toward her, leaning in for a kiss, right there in front of the entire ballroom. A few couples stopped dancing, lips parting in shock.
At least Camilla wasn’t the only one who’d been rendered speechless.
And yet the cursed lord didn’t immediately disentangle himself from the masked beauty.
Not that Camilla watched for very long—or even long enough to see their lips crash together. The moment leading up to the kiss was all she’d needed to feel ill. Without thinking, she spun on her heel, fleeing the ballroom before she could do something ridiculous.
“Camilla, don’t!”
She ignored whoever called out for her, not wanting anyone to witness her jealousy, and pushed open the doors to the terrace, rushing down the stairs toward the hedge maze.
The damp cold of the autumn air stung her eyes and seeped in through the thin layers of her gown, chilling her to the core.
Camilla welcomed the feeling of ice—she wanted to feel nothing but numbness, to think of nothing but the cold.
Otherwise, she’d recall Synton and the way she’d wanted him to grab her earlier, press his mouth and body to hers until they couldn’t figure out where either of them began or ended.
She wanted to drown in his kiss, submerge herself in untold passion.
Camilla was startled to admit it, even silently to herself.
When he’d danced with her, saving her from Vexley, she’d foolishly thought it meant something. Just like the gown he’d sent. And the paintbrush.
All it meant was that he wanted something from her; he didn’t want her.
Camilla ran as fast as she could, rushing down one row of the hedge maze to the next, her slippers soaking in the dew of the freshly cut grass, icing her toes until each step felt like she was treading across tiny steel blades. The pain helped ease the ache in her chest.
She ran until the viselike grip of jealousy loosened, giving way to annoyance at herself.
Camilla should not suffer for a man who clearly didn’t harbor any secret affection for her.
If Synton didn’t wish to—
One moment the path ahead was clear, and the next she collided with the very man she’d been running from.
Lord Synton held her arms tightly, catching her before she stumbled and fell. Above her, his gaze was glittering and hard in the moonlight. He’d discarded his mask, and with it, any pretense of civility. Whatever looked out from his eyes did not seem human.
Camilla stood still, her pulse thrashing as his dark eyes dropped, taking special care to follow the line of her décolletage, then abruptly flicked back up to trace her jaw, her lips beneath her mask.
If she’d thought his expression was forbidding a moment ago, it was nothing compared to the brutally cold look he gave her now.
“Never show me your envy again, Miss Antonius. It won’t end well.”
“Do not threaten me.”
Camilla shrugged out of his grasp, not bothering to deny her jealousy.
His lips curved into a wolfish grin. “It was a warning.”
A strange, dark energy surrounded him out here, a mixture of shivering violence and burning lust, two opposing forces clashing together like a brewing storm.
Even with the charge sizzling in the air, she had the impression that he was holding himself back, aware of whatever power he wielded and the damage it could cause.
Her chin notched up.
“And if I don’t heed it?” She met his eyes, unwilling to drop her gaze.
There was one strained beat of stillness, then all the control he’d been exuding snapped.
One moment she was standing there before him, the next she was up against the hedge, the evergreen branches poking into her with a delicious hint of pain.
Synton had pressed his entire length to her front, his hand tangled in her hair, his nose buried against her throat, breathing her in. His body was tense, coiled tight.
With a mere flick of his wrist, he had her mask off, sliding its silky ribbons down over her ears, across her cheek, before he tossed it into the dense shrubbery.
He tipped her face higher, seemingly to decide which he’d like to taste first, her lips or the flushed skin of her throat.
She was shocked to realize she wanted him to taste it all.
Synton angled his face closer, his lips tracing a line of fire along her jaw as he brought them slowly to hers, hovering for a moment in which she could taste the hint of bourbon and berries on his breath. Then, at last, his mouth brushed against hers. Tender at first, and then firmly, sending sparks of desire up her spine.
As he withdrew, his teeth tugged needily on her bottom lip.
“Some games should not be played unless you’re certain you can win.” He ran a finger along the edge of her ear, gently settling her hair back into place. “Stoke my sin again and I will show you what it means to lose, Miss Antonius.”
Without another word, he turned, leaving her alone. She could practically hear the thunder of her heart echoing off the hedge maze, followed a second later by the scorching flame of her annoyance. A dramatic mood shift. Once again.
“Damn insufferable ass.”
She took a moment to collect herself, pulling free of the hedge, straightening her gown and fluffing her skirts. Her annoyance only grew as she plucked her mask from the nearby shrub. She picked a few stray leaves from it, the moonlight sparking off the mask to illuminate the abandoned maze each time she shifted it.
Camilla exhaled loudly, glancing back toward the large manor in the distance. She hadn’t realized how far she’d run. Now the warm glow of the windows seemed like distant stars.
Perhaps she should go home. She was no longer in the mood to play Synton’s games.
Holding her mask in one hand, she grabbed her heavy skirt in the other and trudged along silently, looking for the path out of the maze and to the front of the estate.
Surely Lord Edwards and Lady Katherine’s driver would take her home. He could always come back for them.
A twig snapped behind her and she whirled around. A man stepped out from the next pathway, holding his hands up.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Miss Antonius.”
Camilla strained to see him in the dark. “Lord Garrey?”
He stepped closer, hands still up as if to prove he meant no harm.
“You’re a long way from the ballroom.” He glanced around. “Shall I escort you back?”
Camilla’s heart thrummed faster, her instincts warning her that something was off. Lord Garrey’s gaze kept darting around, his head cocked to one side, as if listening.
His behavior wasn’t what it ought to be, given the fact that he’d come upon her alone. He knew just as well as she did how this would look. He should have turned and left her immediately. Yet he lingered, his attention straying to her neck.
“You know we can’t be seen alone. Please,” she said, keeping her voice calm and steady, though inside she felt anything but, “leave before my reputation is ruined.”
“I imagine that would be worth something to you.”
She didn’t like his tone.
“It’s valuable to every woman in Waverly Green, my lord. I’m no different.”
“But you are, aren’t you?” he asked, taking a small step in her direction. “Different.”
This conversation was heading down a road it shouldn’t.
“If you’re referring to running my father’s gallery, then I suppose I am.” She didn’t bother pointing out that society was to blame for more high born women not running a business, that only her circumstances were different.