“Yes, capital,” Trem said. “What can we do?”
“This event will really happen? You’re not going to cancel it?” Montaigne felt badly that his friends had to go forward with a party that they did not particularly care to hold. Nor did he want to root his plans around an event that was likely to be scuppered.
“Mr. and Mrs. Foxcroft would murder us,” Henrietta said, shaking her head, “It’s all in motion. Do not worry about that.”
He nodded.
“Well, if you want to give purpose to this event in the name of aiding a friend,” he began, “then I do need your help. Rather desperately.”
His friends nodded, listened, squealed in glee, and then assented to his plan.
John and Catherine might not quite approve. Leith would be aghast.
But somehow Montaigne had known that Trem and Henrietta would understand.
*
She wasn’t dressedas Aphrodite.
ShewasAphrodite.
That was all he could think when he saw Olivia Watson, crossing Henrietta and Trem’s ballroom, attired in a white gown. A wreath of myrtle in her hair announced—as if her opulent, voluptuous beauty did not already—her costume. Her white mask, made of some flimsy, gossamer substance, splashed across her eyes and cheeks, doing nothing to obscure her identity.
Cut a dash or two lower than the typical evening style, her bodice revealed so much delectable bosom that he hardened at the sight. How could her skin look so tantalizing? In the candlelight, it looked as smooth as the custard of a crème brulé and just as sweet. Her hair was piled into a coiffure of brown curls that appeared, at any moment, likely to topple. It kept a man on the precipice of discovering what she looked like in the bedroom, her hair coming loose, her elegance mussing.
Of course, he knew what she looked like in such a state, and it only drove him to greater distraction.
Especially when he knew what he had planned for tonight.
He lurched towards her, willing himself to keep his composure until they were in private.
She was flanked, of course, by the Mappertons. Thankfully, as he approached, his brother appeared from thin air and waylaid the mother and daughter. Such was his relief that he felt that he had never adequately valued Percy until this moment.
That left the problem of Nathanial. His only hope was losing the young man in the crowd.
“Lord Montaigne,” Olivia said, curtseying as he approached.
He bowed in response. “Miss Watson. Count Mapperton. May I have this dance, Miss Watson?”
“My lord,” she said, putting her gloved hand in his own.
“I will be watching, Lord Montaigne,” Nathanial said, although his tone was cheerful. Montaigne nodded and smiled, but he felt his teeth grind as he did so.
He swept Olivia into the waltz. She looked up at him, her eyes dark honey in the candlelight.
“Please don’t be cross with Nathanial.”
“Of course, I understand,” he choked out, finding words even harder now that he was pressed against her softness. “You are beautiful.”
She laughed. “I am sure only you think so. I didn’t want to wear any costume, but Natasha insisted—and she picked Aphrodite because she is so easy to execute.”
“I couldn’t imagine a goddess more fitting.”
Olivia shook her head. “You shouldn’t flatter me so shamelessly.”
“It’s not flattery.” He put his mouth to her ear as they turned with the music. “Don’t you know how badly I want you, Olivia? That I would die for just one more moment with you?”
He felt her shiver in his arms. She wanted him, too. He was sure.
