So impatient, his Netta. So demanding. But with her love of dramatics, he knew she would approve of that night’s entertainment.
“We, my dear poppet, are attending a masquerade ball.”
***
Netta twirled, her face lifted to the ceiling, the glittering lights of the Dutch embassy’s chandeliers making her dizzy.
She didn’t care. She’d never danced in a ballroom in the embrace of a dashing gentleman before. One of the many things she’d missed by leaving home before coming out. Of course, she’d saved herself years of misery so the trade-off was well worth it, but she couldn’t deny her joy at having a taste now of what she’d lost.
“You appear to be having a marvelous time.” John took her hand and guided her in an intricate pattern down the floor, weaving between other couples. “I feel like I ought to be offended.” He leaned down to whisper. “That look should only belong to me. In my bed.”
She pushed off of him and skipped around the man opposite before returning to John’s side. “Either way you’ve put the look on my face. But if you want to see a superior one in bed, work harder.”
“Trust me, poppet.” He placed his gloved palm on the small of her back and guided her in a figure eight. “I will be very hard for you tonight.”
The music ended, and Netta dipped into a low curtsy, her gaze never leaving John. In a room teeming with black-and-white dominos, he had dressed as Oberon, king of the fairies, his costume a vivid display of rose pink and Paris green. The mask he wore was of the same emerald shade, the eyeholes embroidered with silver thread and faux diamonds.
At least, she thought they were fake. But with John, one never knew.
His gaze was hooded by the mask, but she couldn’t miss the hunger as she exposed her décolletage with her low dip. She was Titania, and the gown John had chosen was of the same rose color as his costume. She hadn’t thought the color would suit the flowing, red wig she wore, but John had been right. Again. Instead of letting his superior fashion sense irritate her, she’d decided to reap its benefits.
She straightened and flicked open her fan. “My lord, one would almost think you find something in this gown improper.” She pressed her hand to her bosom, and the large emerald pendant nestled between her breasts. John had draped the jewel around her neck before they’d left for the evening.
She fingered the sharp rectangular edges. John didn’t know it, but it too was going to be added to her fee. He couldn’t wear it, after all. “Perhaps the modiste you hired isn’t quite at the level she ought to be if your focus is so diverted.”
“That modiste should be given a medal of honor.” John took her hand and led her to the side of the ballroom floor. “Your gown has all the trappings of modesty – not too low cut, no sheer fabrics wetted to conform to your body – but is just tight enough across the bodice to let a man know what lies underneath. If I had my way, you would wear that dress morning, noon, and night.”
“Even the nights?”
His full lips curled under the edges of his mask. “Even then. At least until I could peel it from your body, slowly revealing every luscious inch of flesh below.”
She snapped open her fan again and attempted to cool her face. Hidden so beneath her own mask, the swirling air did little to alleviate her heated skin.
A man in a pirate’s mask and headscarf approached and made a sweeping bow. “Might I have the pleasure of the next dance?”
John never removed his gaze from her face. “No, you may not.” He took her hand and led her back to the dance floor.
“John, that was insufferably rude.” But delight burbled through her veins as she swung back into his arms. “And if your intent is to have me attract men, shouldn’t I spend some time in their company?”
“Not men. Man. One who has not yet arrived.” He grunted. “But mayhap a dance or two with someone else wouldn’t go amiss. Besides, I must leave you for a short while. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”
Netta stumbled over the train of her gown. “You’re leaving me? Where are you going?”
“Not far.” He looked over his shoulder.
Netta followed his gaze and saw a man with nutmeg hair in a black mask nod at him. “Is that—”
“There’s a group of wallflowers over there you can join.” He turned her and gave her a small shove.
Netta gritted her teeth. If she wasn’t very much mistaken it was his friend Rothchild waiting for him. John was off for some bit of skullduggery and she was supposed to drink punch and converse about the weather?
Purely to irritate him, Netta slipped from his grip and looked over her prospects. “I’d rather dance. Take your time with your mystery task. I’ll be quite well occupied here.” She caught the eye of a portly man in black-and-white and smiled broadly.
He started and looked behind him.
John crossed his arms, his satin jacket pulling snug across his wide shoulders. “All right. One dance.”
“Or two. You said two before.”
