Chapter Thirteen

If Theo could have contrived to drop through the floor into whatever lay below, she would have done. As it was, she could do nothing but stare into the face of the man standing before her. His mask concealed all but his grey eyes and mouth, but she had spent enough time thinking about both to know them immediately.

Nathanial.

He gave a bow, his eyes glittering half with anger, half with razor interest.

He had never looked at her like that.

She was aware of a sinking feeling. It appeared, either due to the wine's potent effects or the surprise of Nathanial's arrival, that she wanted him to kiss her a lot more than she wanted Sir Montague to kiss her.

This was perhaps her moment for it. He clearly did not recognise her, or he would have scolded her and taken her home, so she might act as she pleased. She could flirt with him, perhaps kiss him again, and he would never know it was her.

Anticipation, low and heated, unfurled in her stomach .

She glanced up at him, her eyelids low. "And what do you know about a lady's desires?" she asked, her voice low and husky. She had never sounded like that before, and it was liberating to think she could do so here without judgement.

Maybe she had had a little too much to drink.

Nathanial hesitated for a moment, as though he had expected a different response, before leaning forward and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. His face was too close to hers as he murmured, "Perhaps you might be good enough to show me."

Her face heated under the mask, and she was relieved to think he couldn't see her. An experienced lady, no doubt, did not do anything as foolish as blush . "Surely first you should invite me to dance with you," she said, holding out her hand. "I love to dance."

"That I know well." He accepted her hand. "I've been watching you for quite some time. Will your friend mind you dancing with me?"

Theo tossed her head, the wine making her bold. "No one can command me."

The music began—a waltz—and he placed his hand on her waist. Though they had danced before, this was different; he guided her body to slot against his like two puzzle pieces, and even through her dress, she could feel the heat of his hand.

Her flush extended down her neck in a rush of warmth she could do nothing to hide.

"Are you all right, my muse?" he asked, clasping her hand in his. When she met his gaze, there was unexpected softness there. "We don't have to do this."

If Nathanial had been any other man, she would have asked to return to the side, knowing Sir Montague would find her. She would have chosen Sir Montague over every other gentleman in this place except Nathanial. And he had told her, when they married, they would not behave as husband and wife.

This might be her only chance .

"I love to dance," she said, resting her hand along his arm. In response, he pulled her even closer.

"Then let us dance."

He had never treated her with this reckless abandon, with such a want of propriety. For a moment, she wished they were not masked, and they were in the privacy of their home; that he knew it was her and was holding her close regardless.

She wanted him to look into her eyes and see her .

For now, though, she would settle for this dance.

"I've never been to a masquerade before," she said, hoping the confession wouldn't give her away.

His eyes were magnetic. "And what do you think of them now?"

"I think they are something I could grow accustomed to," she said as he guided her across the ballroom. Each step was sure, each movement precise. Dancing with him was like flowing; she followed where he led, losing herself in the intricacies of his touch. She had not known so much could be conveyed through subtle presses and pushes. She had not known that her body could match another's so perfectly.

She was blind even to the way Sir Montague prowled around the edges of the ballroom, his black figure towering over everyone.

All there was, all there ever could be, was Nathanial.

The music stopped.

There was a hush, a pause, a space where the spell hadn't broken and reality hadn't yet intruded. Nathanial looked at her with that same spark in his eyes, and his hand still pressed against the small of her back—not that she knew precisely when it had moved to that position—bowing her body to his.

The other couples laughed, moved, changed positions, but Theo kept staring at Nathanial. He looked at her now, like . . . like he was hungry .

Answering heat moved in her, an ache low in her body that she had never experienced before. Nathanial could ease it for her, she knew. All she had to do was give in to him. Here, where her identity was safe, and he would never know he was consorting with his wife, she could be as wanton as she dared.

The thought made her shiver, and she blinked. The spell broke, and Nathanial straightened. He didn't move the hand on her back.

"I've heard the garden is especially beautiful this time of year," he said.

"March?" She swallowed a laugh, because she knew what he was asking, and she knew what her answer would be. "I would love to see it."

"Then please, my love," he said, the endearment dropping from his tongue with the sweetness of honey, "follow me."

The world took on the blurred quality of a dream as she accepted Nathanial's hand and allowed him to lead her outside. At first, the coldness in the air made her shudder, but the heat from under her skin—heat that seemed to emanate from her very core—burned away any lingering chill.

The gardens were just as grand as she had imagined. Flaming lights illuminated the vast lawn and the gravel path along which couples wandered. In the distance, a fountain glinted in the lights, and further away there was a maze. With the statues pressing against the hedges, and the small walls that separated the gardens and walkways, there were ample places a couple might find privacy.

"Are you cold?" he asked. "No matter; we shall warm you soon enough."

This couldn't be happening. Nerves jittered in her stomach. She must be out of her mind, allowing any man to compromise her like this, never mind her husband.

"Or," he said, raising an eyebrow, "are you wishing to remain inside? "

Looking at him now, it almost seemed as though he wanted her to return inside; as though, despite the fact he'd brought her out here to—well, do something—he wasn't certain he wanted to.

Except, that spark in his eyes told her he did want her. And she so desperately craved being wanted, even if this was just tonight. Even if he didn't know whom it was he wanted.

They took a path through the gardens, past giggling couples and quiet rendezvous, until they reached the centre of the maze. It was barely lit, and in the darkness, Theo felt as though she was somewhere far more scandalous than on a walk with her husband. She had to remind herself that no one knew it was them.

A statue of a nymph poured water into a fountain, and Theo looked at it, gilded in moonlight.

What am I doing?

The nymph, unsurprisingly, had no answer.

Nathanial touched her arm, drawing her attention back to him. "Now, my muse," he said, running his fingers along her jaw. "Do you want to know what you inspire in me?"

This was her point of no return. If she asked to return to the ballroom, he would take her.

If she asked for more, he would give it.

Her breath caught in her throat as she nodded. "Perhaps you might show me, my lord," she whispered.

His gaze darkened. "I'm not a lord," he said, and kissed her.

Before, their kiss had been soft, gentle, delicate.

There was nothing soft about this; his mouth crushed hers, one hand possessive at the back of her neck, angling her head so he could open her mouth. He consumed her, demanding everything she could give. And she offered it freely, melting against the forcefulness of his kiss, letting her chest press against his. There was so much to a male body she hadn't explored before. She ran her hands along the line of his shoulders, marvelling at the way he allowed her to touch him so brazenly. The back of his neck was warm and soft, tiny curls clustered on his neck. They were silken against her fingers.

He broke away from the kiss and turned his attention to her neck. She tilted her head back and looked at the diamond-encrusted sky. Clouds concealed the moon, but the stars were still there, twinkling down at her. The world was so big, and she so small—she felt suddenly the absurdness of allowing one person to consume her so utterly.

"What's the matter?" he asked, in a voice that was both gently mocking and heavy with desire. "Would you like to stop?"

The stars could not draw such a precious moment from her.

"No." The word was breathless. "I want . . ." She did not know how to answer, but that didn't matter; Nathanial understood her request and kissed her again. His mouth was hard and angry, lust and rage combined, but his knuckles grazed her lower cheek, the space left bare by her mask, in a soft gesture that melted her heart.

In return, she slid her hands through his hair, cupping his head to hers, offering herself up to him like a goblet of wine. His eyes were dark, intoxicated, and she had no doubt hers were the same.

He was everything. More than everything.

She skimmed her fingers down his spine and around to his chest. His hands stilled on her as she explored, dipping under his waistcoat until only a thin layer separated her questing fingers from his hot skin and the muscles that tightened with her touch.

As she dug her fingers into his side, he grunted and moved again, running his palm up her stomach until he reached her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, and she gasped.

"You are delectable," he murmured, licking down her neck. She shuddered. "You are sweet. You are irresistible." He breathed the last word as though he could hardly believe he was saying it. Her fingers tightened in his shirt, pulling him inexorably closer, and he pressed her against the statue's white base. Above her, the nymph continued to pour, the sound of trickling water unceasing, offset only by their panting breaths. She was panting . Each breath was a gasp, coaxed from her by his ceaseless hands. First, they explored her breasts criminally slowly. Then, when she was concerned she might catch alight, he slid his hands down her waist, past the flare of her hips and down her thighs. Heat pooled between her legs.

"This dress seems somewhat in the way," he said against her neck, drawing up her skirts so he could access her bare skin. "This is better."

This was, in Theo's opinion, entirely too much. As his fingers skated closer to the apex of her legs, she gripped his arms until it must have hurt. "Uh," she managed.

He paused seconds before touching her there , in the place she most needed—and most dreaded—him to be. "Yes, my muse?"

What could she say? If she intended to go back to the house, she should have said so long before they reached this point.

And his fingers were so close. The terrible ache inside her longed to be appeased, and she knew that Nathanial, who had no doubt experienced this with countless ladies, knew precisely how to satiate it.

The thought sent a weight to the base of her stomach, but she merely shifted against him, searching for those fingers.

"I see," he said, and kissed her again. He removed that hand, to her disappointment, and instead lifted her bodily in the air. Her skirts were around her thighs and her legs were bare, which meant she could wrap them around his waist, locking her ankles and holding him against her. He laughed—a hard, edged sound—and pressed her more firmly against the statue. With one hand, he removed the skirts that piled between them, so the sensitive flesh at the apex of her thighs rubbed against his breeches.

And, more pertinently, a hard, thick ridge that pressed against her core. His breath was harsh as she shifted her hips, searching for the place that might offer the most pleasure.

Theo no longer cared if someone were to find them. If this was what it meant to be wanton, perhaps she should have indulged some time ago. Every brush of his hands—across her breasts, her buttocks, her back—wrought more sensation from her, and she ground against him. He groaned.

"You will be my undoing," he muttered.

With every gyration of her hips, the heat pooling at her core built. She was liquid, heat, blazing light, and he seemed to know, thrusting against her until her gasps became moans and the flesh between her legs was almost unbearably sensitive. The friction he offered was everything, it was more than everything, it was too much.

"That's right, love," he said, his voice rough but the hand now cupping her cheek infinitely gentle. "Don't hold back."

Theo did not have the breath to tell him she had already given everything to him; he owned every part of her. She was utterly, irrevocably, his.

He moved to allow some space between them, but before she could protest, he ran a hand to her slick core. She stilled, shocked by the intimacy of it, the vividness of the pleasure that slid through her.

"Trust me," Nathanial said, his eyes so dark she couldn't see where his pupils ended and his irises began. "I won't hurt you."

She didn't even have to think about it. "I trust you."

He kissed her again, urgent and needy as he touched her. They were wildfire, burning everything they touched. Theo wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close to her, as her body grew hotter and lighter and she thought she might implode from the intensity of it .

Finally, as she quivered right on the edge, he eased back. "Well, my muse?" he asked. "Do you understand now?"

She raised her gaze to his, and whatever he saw there made him groan and pull her back against him once more. That simple pressure was enough; she shattered, the heat catapulting through her. Nathanial held her as she shuddered, his lips capturing her moans, his arms tight around her. He had broken her into a thousand pieces and now, as her body slowed and she came back into herself, he was fitting every shard back together.

Perhaps if she had wanted him less, she might have been happy with just this. Perhaps, if she was a better person, she would not hate the fact he thought she was someone else. The dark emotion that swept through her made her eyes burn. She tried to force her breathing to steady.

But Nathanial, so alert to every movement of her body, stopped stroking her hair and tipped her chin up so she met his gaze in a haze of swimming tears. One broke free and he brushed his thumb across the mask under her eye, smoothing it away.

"My muse," he said, so gentle it almost broke her all over again. "Are you sad?"

"I—" Her voice cracked and she swallowed. It was too late, now, to reveal to him who she really was.

She did not think she could bear to see his horror. She could not endure his regret.

"We should return to the ball," she said.

Even in the moonlight, she could see the way his face tightened. "Back to your friend?"

Sir Montague. Her heart gave another lurch. The night could not get worse. "I doubt he will be waiting for me."

"If you believe that, you are a fool."

How quickly the tenderness had left him. She backed away, and to her relief, he let her. "Pray excuse me, sir. Goodnight." As fast as she dared, she hurried back towards the house.