“So you invited her to leave him with you?” he asked. “Your husband’s child?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“That was very kind of you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It was no hardship, especially when Christopher was small. I hired Carruthers, made sure he was provided for…” Her voice trailed away uncertainly.
“But?” he prompted.
She darted an irritated look at him. “But as Christopher has grown, he has become oddly fascinated with me. He sneaks into my rooms, hides in the drapes and under the bed, looks through my dresser and jewelry box.”
Winter blinked. “Does he take things?”
“No. Never.” She shook her head firmly. “But still… why would he do it?”
“It’s not such a mystery as all that,” Winter replied. “You’re the head of the household, beautiful, and charming. It’s natural that he would be fascinated by you.”
She smiled for the first time since he’d seen her that day. “Why, Mr. Makepeace, I do believe that’s the loveliest compliment you’ve given me.”
He refused to be distracted. “The boy bothers you. Why?”
He almost regretted his question, for her smile faded and she looked away from him. “Perhaps I’m not very fond of children.”
Then why become a patroness of an orphanage? he thought, but fortunately did not say.
“Well.” Isabel drank the rest of her tea, set the dish down, and then stood. “Lady Whimple—Lord d’Arque’s grandmother—is having a soiree tonight at d’Arque’s town house. I suggest we practice your dancing.”
Winter sighed. Dancing had become his least favorite activity.
“That is,” Isabel said sharply, “if you intend to attend tonight?”
Winter rose, looking down into Isabel’s bright blue eyes. The invitation to d’Arque’s town house would provide a perfect opportunity to search the man’s study and bedroom. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Chapter Ten
For two nights, the Harlequin’s True Love braved the dangerous alleys of St. Giles, searching, searching for her love—only to return home at dawn disappointed. But on the third night, the True Love found him, standing over the body of a thief he’d just slain.
“Harlequin, oh, Harlequin!” the True Love cried. “Do you not remember me?”
But he only turned aside and walked away as if he could neither hear nor see her…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Despite Winter’s assurances that he would attend Lady Whimple’s ball, Isabel entered Lord d’Arque’s ballroom that night with no real expectation of seeing him. Once again he’d chosen to arrive separately, this time with the excuse that his schoolmaster duties kept him late.
She was growing tired of such stories—tired of thinly disguised lies from a man who was otherwise strictly moral. Was he ever going to confess to being the Ghost? Or did he think she was so stupid that she couldn’t recognize him under the mask and motley? The longer he pretended that nothing was out of the ordinary, the more her ire rose.
Isabel took a deep, steadying breath and glanced about. The ballroom was extravagantly decorated, naturally, and painted an elegant crimson. Lord d’Arque appeared to have spent a fortune on hothouse carnations—his grandmother’s favorite. White, red, and pink mounds were everywhere in the room, perfuming the air with the heady scent of cloves.
Viscount d’Arque stood next to his grandmother to receive their guests, and as Isabel drew abreast of them, she curtsied to the elderly lady. Lady Whimple lived with her grandson now. She was rumored to have been a beauty in her youth, but age had placed a hand on her face and pulled down, bringing with it the skin around her mouth, eyes, and neck. Her eyelids drooped on either side of the peak of her eyebrows, making her look as if she perpetually grieved, but the light gray eyes beneath sparkled with intelligence.
“Lady Beckinhall,” the elderly lady drawled, “my grandson has informed me that you have championed the cause of the manager of some home for children.”
Isabel smiled politely. “Indeed, ma’am.”
Lady Whimple sniffed. “In my day, society matrons were more interested in romantic intrigue and gossip, but I suppose you gels of today are more saintly for your charitable work.” Her tone made plain that saintliness was not an attribute to be prized.
“I hope I can bear up under the strain,” Isabel murmured.
“Hmm,” Lady Whimple replied skeptically. “D’Arque has also told me that he himself is interested in managing this home for urchins, but he does like to bam me, so I’ve taken no notice.”
“Grand-mère.” The viscount bent to buss his grandmother on the cheek—a move that seemed to irritate her. “I know the idea of my doing anything not immediately beneficial to myself is very strange indeed, but we must learn to move with the times.” He slid a mocking glance at Isabel. “And if I should become bored with the home I can always hire others to oversee it.”
Isabel narrowed her eyes at him. D’Arque was merely baiting her now with his show of fickle ennui. The only good thing about his mercurial moods was that he might grow bored of this “contest” and give up the whole thing before it was too late.
“Ha. Just as long as I’m not expected to join in this madness,” Lady Whimple muttered.
“I concur, my lady,” a masculine voice said beside them.
Isabel turned to see that Mr. and Mrs. Seymour had come up behind her in the receiving line.
Lord d’Arque smiled. “Have you thrown your lot against me as well, Seymour?”
“Not against you, d’Arque.” Mr. Seymour chuckled while his wife looked bored. “But you must admit that Lady Whimple has it right when she says that ’tis odd to think of you as the manager of an orphanage.”
“Odd or not, ’tis my ambition,” d’Arque said stubbornly. “If only because several lovely ladies are patrons of the home. ’Sides, London has begun to bore me. Overseeing urchins might be terribly amusing.”
His grandmother snorted.
“If you say so,” Mr. Seymour replied, shaking his head ruefully. “And it’ll do me no good, I wager, to try and dissuade you. So I’ll turn to Lady Beckinhall instead and ask if she’s recovered from her encounter with her friend the Ghost of St. Giles.”
Isabel frowned, about to make some objection to his words, but the viscount spoke first.
“And here is my rival,” d’Arque continued. “Points for arriving on time, I think.”
Winter was there suddenly, close beside her, his presence overwhelming her senses. He wore the new suit with the tobacco waistcoat, and she was struck anew at how handsome he looked in it.
“My lord.” Winter Makepeace bowed shortly to the viscount. He took Isabel’s arm. “If you’ll excuse me, your receiving line grows long.”
Isabel barely had time to nod to the others before Makepeace dragged her away. “That was not well done.”
“Wasn’t it?” His air of aloofness was wrapped firmly around him tonight. “But isn’t it rude for the host to make his guests wait so long in line?”
“Perhaps.” Isabel faced forward as they began to move through the room. “But it was almost as rude to walk in and simply snatch me away without a greeting.”
“I did greet the viscount.”
She stopped and faced him. Why was he being so argumentative this evening? “But not me, nor Lady Whimple, nor Mr. and Mrs. Seymour.”
His mouth tightened. “I believe they are about to begin a dance.”
Her brows rose incredulously. “Is that an invitation?”
He looked at her and then away as if he had a right to be angry with her. “If you want it to be.”
“I do,” she said simply, because she did want to dance with him, in spite of her anger. In their lessons, he’d been surprisingly graceful, but more, despite his mood, despite his avowal to not become involved with her, she wanted to be with him.
Wanted him.
So when
he held out his hand, she took it and let him lead her to the dance floor. It was a country dance, the steps brisk and intricate, but she was aware all the time of his large body, weaving around hers. The subtle slide of his shoes against the floor, the way he bent and leaned with an economy of movement that was elegance itself. She’d never seen a more graceful male dancer, and yet he drew no notice to himself; he was not at all showy.
When at last they halted, face-to-face, holding hands, he wasn’t even out of breath, though her chest rose and fell faster than usual.
He looked down at her, his brown eyes brooding and a little sad.
She cleared her throat. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”
He cocked his head, his gaze growing wary. “I cannot think of anything. If you want me to apologize for my abrupt dismissal of d’Arque, I shall not.”
Her lips firmed. So he still meant to keep her in the dark about the Ghost!
“No?” She breathed deeply. “Then it’s just as well that I referred to something else.”
“And what is that?” He wasn’t even looking in her direction.
She smiled tightly. “I referred to last night. You never did explain why you were so late to the opera that you missed an appearance of the Ghost entirely.”
“I did try to tell you that there was an emergency at the home—”
“That seems to happen quite often,” she snapped.
He finally looked at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. “Yes, it does. It is a home for children after all, and children are quite unpredictable.”
“They aren’t the only ones.”
He stared at her a moment, then looked away. “You seem perturbed. Perhaps if I fetched a cup of punch, you would find yourself refreshed.”
And he walked away before she could say she loathed punch.
He walked away from her, leaving her flat in the middle of the dance floor. Such a thing had never happened to her before. Good Lord, did he think he was the King of England? Did he think she was a common strumpet?
She smiled fixedly at a matron who was staring at her openly, and then turned and made her way off the dance floor. A few acquaintances called greetings and she wasn’t even sure what she replied. Long moments later, she found herself back at the dance floor and couldn’t remember how many times she’d circumvented the room. She had some choice words to say to Winter when he got back. Where was he anyway? It shouldn’t take this long to get a cup of punch. Not unless he was avoiding her altogether or had snuck out of the ballroom like a coward…
Or snuck out to do some Ghostly activity.
The realization hit her. Her head jerked up as she scanned the ballroom. He was nowhere in sight. Surely he wouldn’t… not here. But as she moved from room to room, she soon discovered that Winter Makepeace was not in any of the public areas.
Which, of course, left the family quarters.
Isabel was by the side of the ballroom. It took only a half-dozen steps to slip into a hallway. She’d been in Viscount d’Arque’s house once before, and she remembered that a library lay at the end of this hallway. Swiftly she went to the door and peeked inside. One candelabra lit the room, but she could see it was empty. Another few minutes was all it took to discover that Winter wasn’t anywhere on this floor.
Isabel took a deep breath and crept up the stairs to the next level. She was risking her reputation here. When she was merely searching the same floor as the ballroom, she could always say she’d become turned around if discovered. Harder to plead confusion when she was on another floor.
She cautiously opened a door and found a lady’s bedroom, probably Lady Whimple’s. Fortunately there was no lady’s maid inside, but Winter wasn’t here either. The corridor made a turn and she found herself in front of another bedroom door. Isabel took a deep breath and eased inside.
The room was decorated in masculine deep reds and browns—obviously Lord d’Arque’s private rooms. A huge bed with hangings took up most of the center of the room with matching curtains hiding the windows behind. Various heavily carved pieces of furniture lay against the walls. Isabel crept inside and, feeling silly, looked under the bed. Nothing. She was just beginning to feel disappointed when she realized that someone was humming in the next room over. Good Lord, it must be Lord d’Arque’s valet—and by the sound he was headed into the bedroom. Isabel stood, about to flee—
When a strong arm shot through the window curtains and dragged her into the alcove behind.
She gasped—a tiny sound—but he clamped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes weren’t yet accustomed to the dark, but she knew who it was instantly. He bent, the nose of his long mask sliding against her hair as he whispered, “Hush.”
She froze, her heart beating like a trapped rabbit’s. He held her tight against his body as they both listened to the still-humming valet move about the room. His hand was hot even through the leather of his glove, and she could feel his hard chest against her back. Now her heart was beating quickly for an entirely different reason.
An entirely inappropriate reason.
There was the slide of what sounded like a drawer being opened from outside the curtains. His breath was even and deep. They might’ve stood in a tearoom so unaffected was he.
Outrage hit her hard and low. How dare he be so calm, so collected? How dare he make her nipples tighten, her belly warm? How dare he do everything he’d done to her—and never acknowledge a thing?
Her hands had been clutched around his arm, but now she let them drop. The valet started a new tune, something familiar, though she couldn’t quite recognize it. She felt behind her, her fingers touching a smooth material laid tightly over his thighs. He shifted as if to retreat from her, but there was simply no space in the alcove. The floor-length window was behind them, the curtain in front.
He could not escape her. She stroked her hands behind her as far as she could reach in this awkward position. She could feel his thighs and the beginning curve of his hip, but no more. She balled her hands in frustration and then made the decision.
Swiftly she turned in his arms. He could’ve prevented her, naturally, but any kind of struggle would’ve alerted the humming valet.
She looked up and saw his eyes glinting behind the strange mask. Was he angry? Curious? Aroused?
It hardly mattered. She was tired of waiting for him to acknowledge who he was. Tired of donning a false mask of gaiety when she was so much more—felt so much more—beneath. No one had ever noticed her mask. No one but him. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t make the first move, then damn it, she would.
She dropped to her knees.
He inhaled sharply. She felt the movement even if she didn’t hear the intake of breath. Reaching up, she found the buttons of his fall and began working at them.
His hands clamped around her wrists, holding her hands still against his groin.
She looked up as the distinctive sound of a door opening and closing came to them.
Silence.
His head was tilted as he stared down at her, the muscles of his thighs hard and tight against her forearms.
She waited, but he made no move.
Slowly she leaned forward and whispered a kiss against the thin leather of his gloves. Opened her mouth. And bit his knuckle.
He jerked in reaction. Small, a movement barely noticeable, but she felt it nevertheless and grinned.
“Don’t,” he whispered, so low it might’ve been a sigh.
Beneath her captured hands, he was fully erect.
Her words were soft but distinct. “Let me.”
Slowly, as if fighting himself, he opened his hands.
She didn’t wait to see if he’d change his mind. Bending forward, she tugged at his fall, dragging it open, feeling within, finding what she sought.
He was as she remembered: thick and heavy and oh so beautiful. She drew his cock out from his smalls and breeches and ran her fingers over the hot, taut skin.
He’d stilled as if ready to either flee or d
o battle, so her next movement was quick and sure: she opened her mouth and engulfed the head of his cock.
Above her, he whispered a word, short and harsh.
She closed her eyes, reveling in the scent of him, musky and sensual. He tasted of salt and man, and she suckled him eagerly, feeling the life beneath her tongue. She moved her right hand, stroking him softly but firmly, for she wanted to make this last. Wanted this to be something he never forgot as long as he lived.
His big hands moved hesitantly, touching her hair, her cheeks, whispering over her forehead in the gentlest of caresses.
Tears pricked her eyes and she gasped, letting him fall from her mouth but still holding him in her hands. She looked up, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and felt him stroke one away with the fingertip of his glove. He made her feel… feel too much. Made her want things she could never ever have.
His perfect lips parted. “Isabel.”
“No,” she murmured, and returned to her task.
The silly tears wouldn’t stop, and she tasted them as she licked along his length. He was so hard, so hot! She lapped against the head, flattening her tongue on the very tip, hearing him groan softly.
And then she took him once more into her mouth and sucked.
He rocked back on his feet as if pushed hard, and the reaction made her lips curve about him in satisfaction. She closed her eyes once again and let her surroundings, the sorrow inside her, and even the man himself drift away from her. She focused only on the penis within her mouth. So hard, so needy, so entirely at her mercy. She stroked dreamily along his shaft, finding each throbbing vein, delving in his breeches to palm his tight balls. And all the while sucking and sucking and sucking.
Until his fingers grasped her hair almost painfully and she knew he was at his point. She looked up then, desirous of seeing him in his throes, watching as his head rolled restlessly on his bunched shoulders, as his mouth opened, his bared teeth glinting in the moonlight.