To his utter dismay, she snatched up her ugly cap and replaced it over her glorious hair, covering it from view once more. With a hasty curtsy and nary a word more, she fled from his study.
*
Jacinda resisted theurge to tug at her alarmingly low décolletage as she took in the masked revelers swirling about the ballroom. The bodice of the gown she had chosen for the masquerade fit her as if it were a second skin, and the corset Madame Ormonde had insisted she wear beneath it only served to further the effect. Her bosom was lifted high, her ordinarily large breasts on shocking display. How she longed for the blanketing comfort of one of her fichus.
But the Duke of Whitley did not seem to mind.
She caught his pale gray eyes—more arresting than ever with his black mask emphasizing them—upon her bosom. Warmth skittered through her before she chased it away. When he had insisted upon her day to herself, she had intended to ignore his suggestions. Her objective had been to engross herself in the library or to have a delightful afternoon nap. Something proper. Somethingsafe.
Instead, her feet had seemed to have a mind of their own, carrying her to the waiting carriage to the taunting echo of his impassioned plea.One more day. One more day. One more day.The Duke of Whitley was a difficult man to refuse, and despite her objections to the contrary, she could not resist the temptation of more time in his presence.
Or more time in his arms. One more night in his bed.
Because she could not keep delaying the inevitable. She had less than a fortnight remaining to uncover the ciphers Kilross claimed were in his possession and spare herself and Father from impending ruin.
“You are somber for one surrounded by so much gaiety,” he observed, his voice a decadent rumble in the raucous din of the assemblage.
She pursed her lips, grateful for the presence of her golden half mask, which complemented the diaphanous pink silk gauze of her dress. “I should never have agreed to come here with you. It is horribly—”
“Improper?” he interrupted, his tone one of dark amusement.
Jacinda frowned. “Precisely. My gown is far too low to be seemly.”
“It is perfect, Cin.” Again, his stare lowered, glinting with appreciation.
“Furthermore,” she continued, ignoring him, “this is no ordinary ball.”
“Indeed.” His sensual lips twisted into a wicked grin, making her wish his mask also did not draw so much attention to his mouth. “It is a masque.”
“At a house of ill repute,” she could not resist pointing out.
It had not taken long for her to make the alarming discovery. The licentious murals and ribald marble statues in the front hall, along with the daring décolletages of her fellow female revelers, had made the conclusion easy to reach. She supposed she ought not to be surprised the Duke of Whitley would escort her to such a depraved soiree. Little wonder everyone in attendance wore masks.
“This is not a house of ill repute but a gaming establishment.” He grinned, flashing white, even teeth.
She was scandalized, she told herself. But she was also… intrigued. “You are a scoundrel,” she said, but the accusation lacked heat. “You should have warned me of the nature of this ball.”
His grin deepened. “If I had, would you have agreed to accompany me?”
“Naturally not.” Her ears went hot as a couple floated past them in the scandalous hold of the waltz. The lady’s skirts were dampened, her miniscule bodice cut so low that a hint of pink peeked from the top of each breast.
“Then I wholeheartedly do not regret my decision.” His gaze flitted past her shoulder at the same moment she felt a presence. “There you are, old fellow.”
Jacinda turned to find a tall gentleman, garbed in black from breeches to cravat. He was handsome in a classic sense, his golden hair and bright blue eyes an ironic foil to his penchant for darkness. At odds with the rest of the merrymakers, he wore no mask.
“Miss Turnbow, Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, owner of this fine establishment,” Whitley introduced them.
Her mind processed the knowledge he was a gentleman whom it would ordinarily never be possible for her to meet. Mr. Kirkwood offered an elegant bow that Jacinda met with a curtsy.
“A pleasure, Miss Turnbow, to make your acquaintance.” He took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips, lingering longer than necessary. “Would you care to dance?”
The duke stepped forward, scowling. “I am afraid you are too late. I have already claimed this dance with Miss Turnbow.” He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded likeand every bloody other one.
Mr. Kirkwood grinned, his good humor unaffected. “Perhaps the next dance, then.”
Whitley’s gray gaze narrowed to slits behind his mask, his jaw going rigid. “Haven’t you an unsuspecting patron in need of fleecing somewhere?”
The other man’s good humor remained unaffected by the duke’s insult. Despite Whitley’s irritation, the two shared an easy air that suggested a close friendship. Mr. Kirkwood’s grin deepened, the disparity between his boyish charm and his dark apparel more notable than ever.
