Chapter 4

4

Spencer stared at Persephone,who held a folded piece of paper to her lush breasts. In the near darkness, she was illuminated by a single candle standing on the desk in front of her.

Her pretty white mask with intricate lace patterns of flowers covered half of her face, leaving only her lips and lower jaw open. Her lips were pink and full, with the perfect Cupid’s bow—he wanted to explore it with the tip of his tongue.

The dance they had shared had been the first time since last September when he hadn’t thought of Ashton or Penelope or his worried family or the sea, or the men dying around him in a war they had neither wished for nor volunteered for. As they were dancing, he had been held captive by her sparkling eyes, the color of green apples, and had fought the urge to kiss the round birthmark near her ear. The shape reminded him of an open pomegranate, round and with a little tail on top.

He had to know her name. Just fifteen minutes ago, he’d asked it. But instead of answering, she had disappeared into the crowd as though she’d never existed. He had hurried after her, his leg aching, but she was gone. Just like she had appeared before him, as though formed from mist, she had dissolved into mist, too.

But now here she was.

A warning bell rang out in his gut.

“What are you doing here, madam?” he asked as he slowly made his way to her.

He was here to find proof of Ashton having him press-ganged. There must be some sort of paper trail, some letters, or some connection to the navy.

He’d almost slipped earlier. Seeing his enemy within arm’s reach had made him ache to grab him by the collar, drag him outside, and beat his face to a pulp. Hatred had surged through him, as unstoppable as a tidal wave.

And yet, the moment he saw Persephone in the crowd, he couldn’t see anyone else. With her strange crown of wildflowers—not exquisitely arranged, carefully selected roses, or gardenias or fuchsias—but simple bluebells, primroses, and foxgloves. And her gown, pristine and white and with pomegranates so artfully embroidered on her bodice, which hugged her full breasts that were so gorgeously perked up and so inviting. He hadn’t felt a stir of desire for a woman since before he had woken up stripped to his smallclothes on a ship, but this evening his cock had woken as if from a coma.

It was just that he hadn’t had intercourse for over a year now, he told himself. And it was her costume, and those gorgeous breasts. He was too much into the role. He was Hades. And Hades wanted Persephone.

But her sweet, intoxicating scent, the feel of her hand in his, her plush body in his embrace had him feeling light, and carefree and warm for the first time in almost a year.

He closed the door behind himself and advanced. When he stood three steps away from her, she moved the folded paper to her side, clutching it tighter.

“I might ask you the same question,” she said, raising her chin.

He took two more steps towards her, only a few inches separating them now. Here it was, her sweet scent in his nostrils, and he sucked it in like an opium addict. In the flickering golden light of the candle, the curves of her body were so delicious, the outline of her figure making the breath catch in his chest. She was all ripeness, with her flushed cheeks and her lips full and glistening.

He’d never think of pomegranates as simply a fruit ever again.

“Please, give the letter to me,” he said.

“I cannot.”

“I assure you, the reason I am here is to bring a bad man down.”

She froze for a mere moment, her eyes intent on him. “So am I.”

He blinked. How could this be? She couldn’t have known Ashton had had Spencer press-ganged…could she?

Ashton must have more enemies than just Spencer, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

He must maintain his focus on the paramount objective: the pursuit of proof. Which, it seemed, may now be in the hands of this mysterious lady. Something resembling fervor ignited his blood. He’d felt this anticipation, this excitement before every boxing match. He liked to be challenged, and as a duke, no one challenged him but his brothers and his sister…and Penelope.

He thrived on competition, a trait that had always drawn him to boxing. A pursuit now beyond his reach thanks to Ashton’s actions. Yet, in the presence of this spirited young woman, that fervor was reignited within him.

He made an ungentlemanlike attempt to grab the letter, but, like a cat, she evaded him and stepped back, holding the letter away from him, her eyes wide in the slits of her mask.

“Madam,” he said, a low threat in his voice as he slowly stepped closer to her. “Do not tempt me. I must see this paper. You do not understand what it might mean.”

“No, sir,” she said. “You do not understand what it means to me.”

She made a movement with the letter to no doubt bury it between her breasts when there was the sound of approaching footsteps from the hallway.

She looked up at him sharply, and he felt a jolt of lightning in his gut. A quick understanding ran between them.

They were both after the same thing—to bring Ashton down—but what was her reason? And what did she intend to do with whatever incriminating evidence she had found?

The steps got closer. In a flash of movement, she shoved the letter into a little box in the desk drawer and snapped the drawer shut.

The footsteps stopped, and light fell on the floor as the door opened.

In a panic, he grabbed her and pulled her to his chest. He laid her on the desk and covered her lips and her body with his.

A small gasp erupted from her mouth. She didn’t move for a moment or two, and his lips were just pressed against hers…but they were full and soft. Her scent—the wildflowers and, he’d be damned, the pungent scent of pomegranates—had blood rush through him like hot water.

He pressed into the kiss slightly, and her mouth opened to him, inviting heaven on earth. He dipped his tongue into her mouth, and then, as though a dam had broken, he went wild.

And so did she.

They were a tangle of limbs, arms, legs rubbing, his tongue gliding against hers, licking into her, lips brushing against each other. Their masks collided, his was pressing uncomfortably into his nose from the friction, but he didn’t care. Her breasts were crushed against him, her body, warm and smooth and so responsive, under him. He was hard for her in an instant, wild with the only thing that mattered…having her in his arms, feeling her, and, God almighty, being inside her.

“Pardon me!” came an outraged cry from the door.

Spencer raised his head, breathing hard. He didn’t know who he’d expected. A footman, perhaps.

His blood chilled when he realized Ashton stood in the doorway holding a candle. “What the devil are you doing in my study?”

Damnation. But it wasn’t his own identity and safety he was worried about now but that of this beautiful, seductive spy in his arms.

“Follow my lead,” Spencer whispered to his Persephone.

He rose, stumbled, and made a strange swiping gesture with his arm.

“Forgive me, mister…” he said, slurring his consonants.

“Mister?” demanded Ashton. “I am the Duke of Ashton. Who are you?”

“Ah,” said Spencer as he stood up slowly, drunkenly. “Your Grace. I was so enthralled with this young lady…” His Persephone stood up next to him, swaying slightly and giving a very convincing hiccup. “Didn’t realize it was your study.”

“We apologize,” she said slowly, in a strange, high-pitched, fake voice.

Ashton snarled and flicked his hand dismissively. “Just leave.”

Spencer took her hand, still swaying, and passed by Ashton.

In the hall, she was giggling, covering her mouth. Spencer admired how convincing she sounded.

Once he could get her to a quiet, private corner, he fully intended to resume the kiss…and maybe more, so much more. His loins ached with the need for the simple act of fucking, and there was no one more delicious than this gorgeous Persephone.

But if he thought with his head, the first thing he needed to do was to find out what was in the letter, what she wanted from Ashton, and who she was.

They hurried down the hallway. They would have to pass through the ballroom before finding a more secluded spot. He held her hand in his, but when they entered the crowd of people, she let go of him…and, like a fish in the sea, slipped away.

Damnation! How did she do that?

“Persephone!” he cried after her, and darted in the direction he thought she went, elbowing people left and right.

But it was like dragging a carriage through the muddy road. He wasn’t fast enough with his muscled bulk and his damned limp. He made his way to the right first, then left, ignoring cries of outrage and angry glares.

“Spence!” came a call from behind him, but he ignored his friend. “Where are you going?”

The only one who knew Spencer was here was Dorian Perrin, the Duke of Rath. Dorian was the one who had snuck Spencer into Ashton’s masquerade ball under a false name.

Rath had always been intense, a fierce enemy—if one was unlucky enough to wrong him—but an equally fierce friend with a good heart. A rake, just like Spencer used to be, he had acquired the reputation of being a powerful, rich, and mysteriously brooding man. Ladies thought him devastatingly handsome, with dark hair and sky-blue eyes.

Spencer liked him for his directness and, despite being a duke, his joy of breaking the rules and scandalizing the ton.

They had trained in the same boxing club, and Rath fought at the illegal boxing ring in Portside from time to time. The sport did Rath good, to release all that angry energy the man had inside.

Spencer kept looking for his mysterious Persephone while Dorian walked after him.

It took him several minutes to realize he’d never catch up with her, not with this leg. He’d lost her, and with her, the knowledge of whatever had been written on that paper.

He could still try to reach her at the entrance, though. He hurried to the entrance doors to the mansion, but there was no one but footmen.

“Wait, sir!” Dorian called. “Who are you chasing?”

Spencer released a sharp breath, his hand raking through his hair in a mix of frustration and adrenaline. He pivoted to face Dorian. The man was as tall as him, although not as bulky. He was dressed like the devil, wearing a black and red mask with flames painted on it and horns.

Very suitable for a man with a temper as explosive as fireworks.

“Nobody,” Spencer grumbled. “Thought I recognized a face, but I was mistaken.”

Dorian glanced back, his eyes glinting with mischief. “All right. Don’t tell me,” he suggested with a hint of impatience. “But will you at least tell me why you came back from the dead and the first thing you want to do is to break into a masquerade ball?” he said too quietly for the footmen to hear.

“I can’t, Dorian,” Spencer said.

“Come on. You must be an absolute wreck after a year in the navy.”

Spencer let out a long, exasperated breath. “Please. Not you, too. My family’s already pestering me enough. Leave me alone.”

“All right,” said Dorian. “To the devil with you, too. Let us take our leave.”

Despite his defeat, a strange sort of exhilaration, the rush of a chase, ran wild through Spencer’s body. He was warm, light, and…alive.

He had a rival. A tempting, luscious, elusive rival.

And he’d be damned if he’d stop here. He’d find her. Whatever it took.

“Yes,” said Spencer, and a smile stretched one half of his mouth. “Let us go.”