A groan escaped him, unbidden. “A woman after my own heart.”
With a gloved hand, she reached up to touch one of the ridiculous peacock feathers that adorned his coat, her gaze heated. “And what if I desire something other than your heart?”
He cursed under his breath. Whatever this woman wanted, it was hers.
Her words were so soft, Percy strained his ears to hear over the rush of his own pulse.
“Kiss me.”
Without another word, Percy swept down and captured her lips with his. At the very back of his mind, he was dimly aware of their masks knocking together, but his attention was narrowed onto the feel of her and—Christ—his body’s reaction.
Lips as soft as the petals of a flower parted beneath his, her tongue matching his movements with tentative, explorative flicks. She tasted like champagne, flowers, and sin. And he bloody loved it. His cock throbbed, painfully hard against his hip, and his stomach buzzed with anticipation.
Percy was Achilles, and this widow was his heel. He was utterly helpless in the face of such intense longing.
Voices sounded from the terrace, and, with regret, Percy drew back. Without breaking their gaze, he touched the tips of his callused fingers to her jaw, and a shiver wracked her frame.
“Would you care to join me for a stroll deeper into the gardens?” The question was innocent enough, but his voice was thick with arousal.
“The gazebo,” she breathed.
He linked her hand around his elbow and led her down the garden’s path. The thrum of anticipation and desire beneath his skin was like banked coals, hot and ready to ignite.
They wove between the flowerbeds and shrubberies, making their way through the darkness. The air was cool against his heated skin, and the gravelled path crunched beneath their feet.
Heart thumping madly, he scanned the shadows, ensuring their solitude before drawing her within. The gazebo glowed milky white in the moonlight, and despite its shrouded interior, his eyes adjusted swiftly. The fragrance of flowers followed them inside.
His senses were alive. Hell, but it had been far too long since he’d had a woman.
Heather’s eyesquickly adjusted to the darkness, her breath hitching at the man’s sheer size. He was but a shadow in the space, but he loomed large. Before taking a position on Bow Street and beginning her training, Heather might have found such a man intimidating. Now, however, she knew at least seven ways in which to fell him should he attempt to do her harm.
At the moment, all she felt was eagerness and desire.
The shutters surrounding the gazebo were closed, creating a private circular space bordered by a bench that appeared to be covered with pillows. An ideal place for a tryst.
Oh, hell. Am I really doing this?
The man’s breath still came fast, a clear sign of his excitement, and her core gave a responding throb. She wanted this.
“We haven’t much time,” she said, her voice husky and entirely foreign to her ears.
He nodded once and tore his coat from his shoulders, then went to work on his waistcoat buttons and cravat. Heather followed his lead and removed her gloves, then went to work on her feathered costume.
“Allow me,” he said hoarsely.
She turned her back to him, and he nimbly unbuttoned the black frock, helped her step from it, and draped it carefully over the edge of the circular bench. He reached for the ties of her corset, but she stayed him.
“We needn’t bother with those.” In the interest of saving time, keeping layers on was paramount. Additionally, she felt absurdly conscious of her naked body being on display for this unknown man. While she was by no means uncomfortable with her size or weight—no matter what her aunt and cousins said—the thought of such vulnerability, in a moment when she wished to be strong, rankled. This was a moment she was taking for herself.
He gave a sharp nod and pulled his shirt over his head, careful not to dislodge his silk domino mask. And she gasped, long and loud in the small space. While he was still in shadow, her eyes had adjusted enough for her to discern his marvellous—and utterly fascinating—body.
From his narrow waist, up his muscular abdomen and broad chest, and down his thick arms, the man was almost entirely covered with images. The expanse of his chest was covered with a large image of an anchor with rope woven around it, and surrounding it were images of swallows in flight. She couldn’t discern their colours, or the images that graced his arms, but that anchor…Blimey.
Almost instantly, a wave of uncertainty tightened his muscles and thinned his lips.Drat. She’d been staring too long. If she had more time, she would dedicate it to thoughtfully exploring every inch of his torso. But she had an elderly earl to return to before he came in search of her.
So, before the mysterious man could turn away, she reached out. “May I touch you?” she whispered.
His throat bobbed before he said gutturally, “Christ, yes.”
