“Where are we?” she asked, glancing around, trying to make out any identifiable shapes. Moonlight filtered through a sheer curtain, but did not give her imperfect vision enough light to see details beyond a few hulking pieces of furniture. One of which was—a bed?
“My room,” he replied. He stayed in the shadows by the door.
She turned on him, her mouth falling open. “Your room? I should not be here.”
She could just make out him shrugging. “No one will know you’re here. You’re in bed ill, remember?” His voice held an edge to it.
“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “Why are you angry with me?”
He paused, and she wished desperately she could see his face.
“I am not angry with you, Imogen,” he replied in a low, intense voice.
“Then what is it? Why are you acting like this?”
He took a step toward her. “This isn’t you.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “No, it isn’t. But wasn’t that the whole point? This was your idea, that I should have one night as someone else.”
He took another step. “I made a mistake. I never should have had you dress like this.”
“Why?” Her eyes strained, but his face evaded the light, remaining in shadows even as he came closer. “It was only for one night. Why are you reacting so strongly?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he stepped into the moonlight, so close she had to crane her neck to look at him. He had removed his mask, and the expression on his face took the very breath from her lungs. There was a heat there, an intensity she had never seen before.
He reached out and pulled the ribbon securing her mask, removing it and throwing it aside. She could only stare at him mutely, her every nerve ending tingling with awareness. Gripping her arms, his hands were hot on her flesh. He dragged her against him, and even through the stomacher and stays and hoops she could feel the hard, muscled length of him pressed to her.
“You don’t need this, Imogen. You don’t need any of it.”
With that he lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter 14
This kiss wasn’t like the first time, when he thought she was someone else. Nor was it like last night, when he had kissed her with a gentleness that had bordered on familial. No, this kiss was hard, and hot, and full of some desperate emotion she could not begin to name but that she wanted more of. So much more of.
His hands dove into her hair, pulling pins from it. Imogen could vaguely hear them hit the floor over the rushing in her ears. Her hair tumbled free, the great heavy mass falling like a wave down her back. He ran his hands through it even as his lips tore free from hers and moved to the column of her throat. She gave a shuddering breath, her eyes closing as she was bombarded with sensation. She arched her neck, her entire body thrumming and alive.
“Your hair is glorious,” he said against her skin. “You are glorious. Every bit of you. I don’t know why I fought it for so long.”
Fought what? she wanted to ask. But then his lips moved down, over her collarbone, to the mounds of her breasts pushed up over the neckline of her gown, and her brain simply stopped working. She gasped, straining toward him as his lips and tongue played over her flesh.
He growled when he reached the fabric of the dress. Immediately his fingers were at the stomacher, fumbling at the material as he searched for access to her.
“How the hell did our ancestors manage to get these blasted things undone?” he muttered against her skin.
Imogen gave a breathless laugh. Without a second thought she began working at the clothing. Between the two of them they managed to get the gown, corset, and hoops undone. And then she was standing before him in just a thin shift, her hair free down her back.
She couldn’t feel ashamed or shy. No, this was Caleb, and she loved him.
His eyes were hungry as they raked her body. He gave a tortured groan and stepped closer. She reached for him, beyond caring that this went against every one of Society’s rules, that after tonight she would be ruined beyond saving. Never before had something felt so right and pure and…good.
Her hands gripped the soft thickness of his hair as his lips claimed her own. She sighed into his mouth at the intimacy of the embrace. Now she could feel him, the thin material of her chemise doing nothing to hide the hardness of his aroused body against her own. He reached down, grasping her bottom, and she could feel the insistent length of him pressing against her belly.
But it still wasn’t enough, she realized hazily as his mouth devoured her own. There was a tension, an ache building inside her, and she knew she had to feel more of him, to see more of him.
Her hands took on a life of their own, working at his cravat, loosening the material and tossing it aside, moving to the buttons of his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt. His hands left her body long enough to shrug from his clothing, his mouth lifting from her own only as he pulled his shirt over his head. And then he hauled her back against him, and her hands were on his skin, that same smooth skin she had so longed to touch at the pond just days ago. Now she took her time, delighting in the way it bunched and flexed under her questing fingers. He felt hot, and tense, and absolutely wonderful.
He moved her further into the room, and soon something pressed against the backs of her legs. Her world momentarily tilted as he lowered her to the bed, the softness of it embracing her like a lover. He left her lying amid the blankets and pillows. She felt bereft without him, chilled.
