Small comfort. Hardly a victory. The blasted mustache had been askew from the moment his valet had placed it. The deuced thing was crooked.
The duke inclined his head. “As you wish. Costumes are not for me, I have no shame in owning.”
This response further confounded Neville. Did the duke suppose costumes were forhim? This entire bloody exercise was a nonsensical experimentation proving just how much costumes were not foranyone. It led to mistaken identity.
But before he could offer additional questions, Cashingham was gone, leaving Neville alone on the periphery of the ball, the same position where he so oft found himself. From his vantage point, he watched what appeared to be a couple garbed in Roman togas circling the chamber in animated discussion with everyone they passed, gesturing to various elements of the garments as if eager to explain the significance of various details.
How tiresome this affair was. Nary a hint of Miss Pennypacker anywhere that he could see. Perhaps Cashingham had been right to seek refreshment. A glass of something strong enough to ease the knots inside his stomach and quell the ache beginning in his head would be just the thing. Moreover, mayhap it would distract him from the cursed itching caused by the twin creatures upon his face. To say nothing of the mask.
Why was it so despicably warm in the ballroom this evening? No doubt it was down to the blazing chandeliers and the crush of revelers. Yes, a drink was what he required, Neville decided, before fleeing the ballroom in favor of one of the anterooms.
In his agitation, however, he managed to find himself on the terrace, which led to the gardens instead of the chamber dedicated to the quenching of the guests’ collective thirsts.
Just as well, he decided. The night air was cool, and the quiet was welcome, as was the solitude. He walked deeper into the shadows.
“There you are, my lord!”
The low, feminine voice had Neville turning to discover a lady dressed in a flowing gown covered in silk flowers by the light of the moon. Her hair was unbound and flowing down her back, and he could not discern the color, but he did not think it golden.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am ready for the kiss you promised me earlier,” the lady—who he supposed was dressed as Flora, the goddess of flowers and spring—prompted, taking his arm and leading him deeper into the darkness.
Ah, yes! Here was the danger he feared. Masks and darkness and false mustaches invariably led to this moment.Mistaken identity.He had most certainly not promised anyone a kiss. He was here to court a lady, not to seduce. But then, at least he was not making sallies.
Small relief.
“I do believe you have mistaken me for another, madam,” he said as the feminine hand on his arm tugged him along.
He followed, fool that he was, not wishing to be rude. She was smaller than he by far, and he could have stood stubbornly on the terrace, refusing to budge. Why had he not?
“Silly man! Have you already forgotten?”
Deeper into the shadows they went, farther away from the safety of the ballroom and the light of the chandeliers. They were venturing into dangerous territory indeed, and Neville had to have a care about his reputation. Miss Pennypacker’s conditions for marriage would most certainly not include her prospective husband disappearing into the darkness with another lady. And the lady in question was decidedly not Miss Pennypacker, for her accent was crisp and perfect, nary a hint of the American.
“I have not forgotten,” he managed to say, his rising alarm rendering his tongue sluggish. “Madam, I am most certainly not the gentleman who promised you a kiss. I have not promised anyone a kiss.”
His wayward Flora had tugged him into the gardens where the moon shone high above, gilding the world with silver light. She pivoted to face him, face upturned but obscured by her mask. All he could see was glittering eyes and a decidedly tempting set of lips.
Lips that smiled.
These are not Miss Pennypacker’s lips, he cautioned himself sternly. He ought not to long for the sensation of this wicked mouth beneath his. Whoever Flora was, she believed him to be another. And he was not the sort of man who dallied with ladies.
Yet…
“Do stop protesting and kiss me,” she ordered him.
Perhaps it was the sorcery of the moonlight. Perhaps it was the creamy curves of her breasts, so divinely put on display by the daring cut of her gown. Or that sinful, smiling mouth of hers. A saucy baggage, this Flora. Rather reminiscent of—no!He would not think of Lady Charity Mannerless now.
Whatever the reason, Neville could not say. But nonetheless, in the next moment, his head dipped, and he pressed his lips to hers.
* * *
Wilty was kissing her.
For a heartbeat, Charity remained perfectly still in her shock. She had not believed he would do so. She had imagined him incapable of being goaded into taking such a rash action as kissing a masked lady in the moonlit gardens. But he had.
Nor had she expected to enjoy the feeling of his mouth on hers.
