“I seemed to hold my own this afternoon.”
He noted the way her ears turned a little pink. “You were… satisfactory.”
He paused mid button and growled in her ear. “Do I need to prove myself again?”
“I think it will take several for me to be assured of your… expertise.”
He smiled as he finished the next loop, realizing the words she hadn’t said.
This hadn’t been casual.
This hadn’t been just a one off.
It had been as important to her as it was to him.
“I’m happy to prove myself at any point. Your wish is my command. Afterall, you are my superior. How could I refuse?”
“How indeed?” she answered, but her tone was breathless, and he noted her back was expanding quickly as if breathing heavily.
She had a poker face, but her body told all her secrets… when her guard was down.
And he was thankful he was part of that inner circle.
A fierce need to be protectant of her choice to let him in coursed through him. It was an honor, one she surely didn’t hand out freely.
He would guard it, be worthy of her trust.
And in turn, he would simply ask for her heart.
Because she was utterly taking ownership of his.
Chapter Thirteen
The ballroom at the Wessix estate was filled with sparkling crystals that threw golden light from the hundred or so lit beeswax candles. The glow was nearly as heady as the scent of honey from the candles. Jaxsen noted the low light and the most interesting twist of events: every guest was given a mask, a masquerade prop, upon entering the room.
Emerson cast her a curious glance as he graciously accepted a mask from the footman, then stretched the crimson cord behind his head, fastening the silver into place.
Jaxsen accepted her own prop, an exact replica of Emerson’s, and fixed it into place around her elaborately designed hair. As she adjusted the cool metal against her skin, her eyes darted around the room, seeking details that could indicate why Wessix had chosen a masquerade.
A masquerade no one expected.
Each guest was handed a mask; none had brought their own, it seemed. Which meant that the masquerade idea had been a secret to the invited guests, but why? She searched the sea of silver-covered faces, noting that most of the masks were identical.
Most.
Which meant there was decidedly a method to the madness. But what?
“Do you notice the differences?” she murmured to Emerson as they walked farther into the ballroom. His arm was warm under her gloved hand as she followed his lead. A delightful shiver of awareness and desire fluttered through her belly like butterfly wings, and she swallowed against the urge to reach up and kiss him just below his ear, feeling his pulse against her lips.
“Yes,” he replied in a soft whisper, “but they are quite subtle. Some masks have blue cords to fasten them, and some have white.”
“Red, white, and blue -- the French flag’s colors.”
“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Emerson commented. “Blatant and yet, not. Because well, the British flag carries the same.”
“Yes, so that doesn’t exactly point us in any helpful direction.”
“Unfortunately.”
