Chapter 3

3

“Hades,”she breathed.

He wore a black toga over a black tunic with a three-headed red dog in the center. The toga reached his well-shaped knees and down his gorgeous, muscular calves and skimmed the floor around his sandals. The tunic underneath was short-sleeved and barely covered his powerful biceps. He wore a black mask with a three-headed red dog painted in the corner.

The man’s mouth was strong and chiseled, and his eyes were as dark as coal. He was tall and dark-haired, and there was something in him that made her tremble and feel safe at the same time.

“Persephone…” he purred with a deep voice, sending a thrill of something delicious through her.

It was impolite to get introduced this way, without someone proper initiating the meeting, but rules could be bent a little at a masquerade ball. He wouldn’t know who she was if she didn’t tell him. She wouldn’t know who he was, either. The ball would end, and it would be like this had never happened.

From behind the eye holes of his mask, his gaze took a leisurely walk over her body, made their way back up to stop at her lips, then met her eyes again. She felt self-conscious, wishing to hide behind a column, as she expected judgment and revulsion in his expression. Instead, her whole body felt as if it were set on a slow, hot simmer from the undeniable dark interest in his look.

He glanced around, and his full lips spread in a devilish half grin. “Out of three hundred guests, I had to run into you…”

She nibbled on her bottom lip, suddenly hungry for air as his intense stare bore into her.

She shouldn’t be waylaid. She should slip out of the ballroom and go to Ashton’s study. But perhaps it was best to pretend that she was a proper guest here and had no other intentions.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “This must be destiny, Lord Hades.”

His fingertips barely grazed her gloves, but the contact sent a current of energy up her arm and stirred something deep within her. The heat radiating from his touch left her feeling light-headed.

“Allow me to take you to the underworld, then,” he murmured as he led her towards the dance floor.

Was he limping a little, or was it her imagination? It didn’t bother her in the slightest—it was even more intriguing, her imagination running wild at the mystery of his injury. Perhaps he’d had to engage in a fight to protect someone, or chased a bad man in a dark alley and was ambushed…

The orchestra played the first chords of the waltz—the new, scandalous dance that was highly disapproved of by the matrons, but very much loved by the prince. This being a masquerade, perhaps he felt he could get away with it without condemnation.

Hades brought her to him, putting his large, warm hand on her back, his other palm holding her gloved one burning through the fabric. She simply couldn’t drag her eyes away from his, dark as night behind his black mask. He moved her expertly, swiftly. He was so large he could envelop her whole with his arms…and she was not a small woman.

“I couldn’t look away from you,” he murmured. “You don’t know this…but you came into my sight just at the right moment, saving me from a disaster. Like the light in a shelter during a storm…”

A light? He couldn’t look away? She saved him? No one had ever said anything so romantic to her in her entire life.

“Besides…” His gaze dropped to her bust. “Those pomegranates are quite a fine work of art.”

The embroidered pomegranates on her bodice couldn’t have been the source of underlying heat in his voice. She had quite an ample bosom, but she’d never noticed anyone paying special attention to it.

“I hope my pomegranates won’t blind you, sir,” she replied, though heat scorched her face, neck, and chest.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat. “They do not blind me.” Finally, his attention shifted back to her eyes. “Though, they definitely have a warming effect.”

She couldn’t stop herself and grinned. If his warmth was anything like the heat she felt merely from being near him, then they were indeed in mutual agreement.

“What did you mean that I saved you from a disaster?” she asked.

The corners of his mouth, lifted in amusement a moment ago, now settled into a line. “Let’s just say…as Hades I came back from the land of the dead quite recently. For the first time, I saw my Pirithous.” His voice trembled, and Joanna suddenly wished she could chase away any of Hades’s enemies—Pirithous was one of two heroes who had kidnapped Persephone and become Hades’s foe. “He was within my reach. And I almost snapped…almost did something that would have endangered greatly not only me but my family and also ruined all my plans. I hung by a hair. And then, through the crowd, I saw you. All in white, with your marvelous crown of wildflowers and your pomegranates… And I could see no one else.”

Joanna’s breath caught as her chest expanded with lightness and became very tight all at once.

He couldn’t see anyone else when her whole life no one saw her.

How was it possible that she was shining the brightest under a mask? How could just a few minutes in the company of this stranger make her feel seen?

She abruptly became aware of her surroundings. They were dancing among only four other couples, and they were in the very center of the room. Unlike ever before, she could feel many pairs of eyes on her. Usually, she’d be shy and self-conscious, shrivel within herself, but a strange feeling had her straighten her spine.

The godlike man holding her in his arms was mysterious, gorgeous, and he smelled like the sea and juniper and cedarwood.

“Tell me, Persephone,” he said, “have you ever tasted a pomegranate?”

She swallowed hard as she knew the meaning of his words. Her breasts, which were almost touching his chest, became heavy and achy, her nipples rubbing almost painfully against her corset. Something wonderful began simmering longingly between her legs.

Hades had tricked Persephone when he’d promised he would allow her to return to the land of the living if she didn’t taste any food of the underworld. Pomegranate was one of those forbidden foods, and he offered her the fruit, trapping her in his realm forever.

“I haven’t,” she replied, breathless.

“Hmmm…” he purred, a sly, slow smile playing on his lips. “It’s sweet…pungent…it’s the most delicious thing you’d ever taste.”

She could imagine dark red juice on his lips… She became so hot, she wondered if she was running a fever.

“Would you like to?” he asked, leaning closer to her, his breath brushing against the lower part of her face.

She would taste anything as long as he kept talking to her like that.

But before she could answer, she realized the last chords of the waltz were playing.

Realizing that, too, Hades quickly swallowed. “Please, tell me your name, Persephone. Your real name.”

Panic washed over her and she didn’t reply.

Hades and she stepped apart for his ceremonial bow and her curtsy, which indicated the end of the dance. Her heart was beating so fast it felt as if it was cracking her ribs.

She needed to get a grip of herself and to remember why she was here. She had a sister to protect and a brother’s fortune and title to save. She couldn’t play silly, flirtatious games with a stranger.

No matter how good it felt to be in his arms, trapped in the center of his attention. It wasn’t her place anyway. She wasn’t Persephone. It was just a masquerade, a pretense, nothing else. And once the masks were removed, she’d go back to hide in the shadows where she belonged—in the background.

Before he could catch her hand or get a chance to follow her, she quickly stepped back and did what she did best. She made herself invisible and disappeared in the crowd of guests.

Quietly and swiftly, but not so recklessly that anyone would take notice of her haste, she headed out of the ballroom through the back door and into a dimly lit corridor. There were a few candles here and there, and a footman stood at attention, and she asked him where the dedicated room with chamber pots for the guests was. He pointed out the direction to her, and she hurried there. Then, when she was sure he couldn’t see her anymore, she sneaked into the next corridor, which was even darker, with only moonlight throwing diamonds of bluish light on the carpeted floors. She didn’t need much light to know the way. She knew this house well from having lived here for a few years, before Gideon turned eighteen and her uncle kicked them out.

Carefully, she opened the door to Ashton’s study. No one. As she entered the study, Joanna’s heart was racing. She had never broken into someone’s room before, let alone her own uncle’s study.

She cautiously closed the door behind her and took a deep breath. The room was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. She made her way to Ashton’s desk, grand and imposing and dominating the entire room.

With trembling hands, she lit a single candle on the desk, quickly scanning the papers and books strewn across its surface in hopes of uncovering something incriminating. But there was nothing.

She pulled the drawers open one by one and looked through them. Nothing but mundane documents and letters. The last drawer seemed just as unremarkable, filled with papers. She was about to close it when her fingers brushed against a dent in woodwork.

Curious, she felt around the bottom and came upon a tiny seam. With her pulse quickening, she pressed down on it, but nothing happened. She probed the area, running her fingers along the edges, pressing at different angles.

She felt like centuries ticked by as her fingertips brushed and probed. Just as she was about to give up, her thumb slid over a small, cleverly concealed notch. She pressed it firmly, and this time, there was a faint but distinct click. A section of the drawer’s bottom popped up.

Joanna’s fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of the panel. She lifted it. In the hidden compartment beneath was a small lockbox.

Her heart pounded. This had to be it—something important, something her uncle had taken great pains to hide. The lockbox, to her surprise, wasn’t secured with a lock. Her uncle was either very confident no one would discover the hidden compartment, or he accessed it so frequently he didn’t bother securing it.

Carefully, Joanna extracted the box, her hands shaking. Inside, she found a stack of envelopes. Her chest constricting with hope, she read the inscription on the upper envelope.

“Whitechapel, Petticoat Street, 12.”

Whitechapel… A part of London known for its dark alleys and even darker secrets.

The letter in Joanna’s fingers trembled. Ashton had said, “Whitechapel is a certainty. Do not, under any circumstances, jeopardize our guise there.”

The envelope felt heavy. Joanna unfolded the letter carefully, her eyes darting across the words.

“August 19, 1813, Valiant – 260 – 28 18-pounders, 8 32-pounders – Portsmouth – Chesapeake Bay.”

The script was measured, confident and clearly written by someone well educated.

Someone like her uncle.

A chill ran down her spine. This was it, the proof she needed—a tangible link to her uncle’s secret activities—but of what? The words on the paper meant nothing to her.

Still, this would be enough to force his hand. She didn’t need to understand the letter’s meaning to know he wanted to keep whatever this was private.

Blue moonlight spread across the room.

She froze with the document in her hands, staring at a tall, broad-shouldered, and very male shape in the open doorway.