Chapter Thirty-three
The masquerade was a smashing success. Samantha watched as people continued to come through the foyer into the Kilmarin ballroom. Her mask fit perfectly, a gift from her husband only that morning. It was silver with several opals embedded in the arch; all fracturing the light and catching fire in the candlelight’s glow.
It was clear her husband and brother-in-law knew how to give a party. From the dim, flickering candlelight lending a haunting glow to the masked footmen who silently offered champagne to each guest when they entered, it was a sumptuous affair. The string quartet played quietly in the corner, not enough to initiate the dancing yet, but enough to give a texture to the very air that hinted at movement, that hinted at seduction.
The news that the lord of Kilmarin had married passed around the room, and there was a loud buzz of conversation and no shortage of glances in Samantha’s direction as she stood beside her husband. They stood together at the entrance of the ballroom, greeting their guests. Her back was to the wall, and Heathcliff reached out and grasped her waist tenderly.
She gave him a soft smile.
As another guest walked up and offered them congratulations, Heathcliff’s hand lowered from her waist, to cup her bottom.
She gave him an scolding glare.
He squeezed.
She jumped slightly.
But she couldn’t make any remark because another guest came up to greet them.
She was sure everything had been planned that way, especially when he repeated the action, this time pinching playfully.
He’d pay for that.
She gave him a challenging look but belatedly realized it would be lost because of the mask covering her face. Instead, she waited till their current guest walked on into the ballroom, then placed her hand on the middle ofhisback, but rather than cup his buttocks, she moved her hand lower, a smile on her lips as she suggestively rubbed the inside of his thigh far lower than he had teased her.
He groaned.
She smiled.
Another guest walked toward them, and she was satisfied to hear the gravely tone of her husband’s voice, the same tone she heard when he spoke when kissing her softly but built toward something more.
As she bit her lip to keep from grinning too widely and perhaps attracting attention, she cast a glance to her husband, who was watching her with an intensity that made her body burn. His mask covered what was common with any mask, but his eyes, those caramel eyes that burned like a fire’s glow, seared right through her, and all the lovely memories of the night before came back to the forefront of her mind with astounding clarity. Her body hummed with an energy he could release with his touch, and she burned for him.
And by the expression in his fierce gaze, he burned for her as well.
But the guests continued to arrive, and their intimate moment faded with the need to greet another lord and lady from Edinburgh society.
As the night wore on, the dancing began. Rather than start with country dances, Lucas had suggested there only be waltzes. It was not the common thing, nor was it necessarily proper, but it was delicious. As the first strains of the first dance began, Heathcliff grasped her hand and led her to the ballroom floor. The room hushed, the strings almost shivered with the hauntingly beautiful quality of the music, and with an intense gaze into her eyes, he began to lead.
She followed, her heart as much as her body. With each step, she was locked deeper into his gaze, her body catching just a little more of a flame, her heart pounding ever harder as she melted into the intensity of the dance. Never before had she realized just how erotic the waltz could be. The push and pull, the twirling, and dear Lord, the touching. To have his hand on her hip, her shoulder, his fingertips gently caressing her flesh with insinuation, was heady. He pulled her in tighter, his hand slipping scandalously low on her back, possessing her, marking her with his heat.
“Are you enjoying your evening, Wife?” he asked in a silken tone.
She gave an answering nod. “Indeed, but I find myself easily distracted.”
He arched a brow in query.
“You,” she answered simply.
After a low chuckle, he replied, “I share the same problem. All evening I’ve scarcely been able to keep my hands from you. And my thoughts: I’m afraid they never made it past our bedroom and linger there still.”
A blush heated her face. “Would it be so terrible to leave our own party early?”
He glanced about teasingly. “It will only make the news of our marriage more delicious, and will certainly seal the truth of it being a love match,” he added, regarding her, his gaze searching hers.
She was about to give a witty reply but paused, thinking over his words. “Love match? Is there something you’re saying to me?” she asked, her tone breathless. After all their endearments, all their intimate moments, he had never once mentioned love.
He spun her, and she was anxious to return to his embrace. “Is it so difficult to believe?”
