“No, I believe you would not.”
She was studying him, one arm beneath her peerless bosom, the other hand propping up her chin. With her head tilted and lips pursed, she looked like an innocent bluestocking…perish the thought. For despite Wick’s worldly attitude about sexual matters, his honor would never permit him to seduce a virgin.
Luckily, neither he nor his honor had grounds for concern this eve. Encountering a maiden at this masquerade was as likely as finding one in a Covent Garden nunnery. This lady, who he guessed to be in her mid-twenties, was probably a widow or married lady out for some fun.
He found he didn’t like the idea of her being married. Not that it was any of his business.
“May I ask you a question, sir?”
“I am at your disposal.”More than I ought to be.
“What do you think I’m dressed as?”
He cocked his head. “Don’t you know your own costume?”
“I do,” she said seriously. “Tonight I am looking for a man who can guess the nature of my disguise. I do not intend to leave until I find him.”
The idea of her rifling through the males in attendance caused an odd tightening in his gut. Jealousy? Surely not. He hadn’t felt possessive over any woman before.
Bemused by his reaction, he lifted his brows. “What do you intend to do when you find this paragon of discernment?”
She looked him in the eye. “I intend to have relations with him, of course.”
2
I did it.I just propositioned a man.
Heart pounding, Bea was grateful for her mask. Not only did it hide her defect, it concealed her furious blush. As she waited with affected insouciance for the stranger’s reaction to her scandalous offer, she took the opportunity to study him further.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he had the lean build of an athlete. His cloak framed his trim torso, narrow hips, and long, muscular legs. His black half-mask underscored his high cheekbones, straight nose, and strong jaw, all of which could have graced a sculpture. Above his noble forehead, his golden-brown hair had a thick, enticing wave. Her hands curled with the instinctive desire to feel that glinting richness between her fingers.
In her entire life, she’d never done anything this forward. Thisbrazen. Clearly, she was no longer the innocent and naïve debutante she’d once been.
Seven years had changed her. Changed everything.
You want this,a voice inside her said.A taste of passion. Not to go to your grave a virgin.
The memory of her only kiss stirred up dregs of longing and pain. She pushed aside the feelings; it was easy to do, for she’d had years of practice. Time enough to rage, mourn, and come to peace with the vagaries of fate.
While I cannot change the past, the present is mine to decide.Resolve swelled inside her.And I’ve made up my mind to experience, just once, a lover’s touch.
Tomorrow, she’d return to her normal life of safety and seclusion. To the life she’d carved out for herself—one that had purpose and meaning, yes, but which always left her alone when darkness fell. For this one night, days shy of her twenty-fifth birthday, she wanted…more.
Taking a lover would be her birthday present to herself.
Excitement shivered through her as she met the gaze of her potential bedpartner on the other side of the desk. She had only three requirements for her lover, the first one concerning physical attraction. Obviously, she wanted to find him desirable…but she hadn’t expected a man to have the effectthisfellow had on her. Her heart raced, and her insides felt as quivery as an aspic. She felt like the heroine of a sensation novel rather than the sensible spinster she knew herself to be.
When it came to appearance, the man was faultless, and she was quite certain he met her second requirement as well. She wanted a lover who knew how to please a woman, and this stranger, with his easy charm and gentlemanly comportment, was clearly comfortable with the opposite sex. He exuded a natural, virile confidence that she hoped extended to the bedchamber.
Bea had one final requirement, one that was rather self-indulgent. Yet even disfigured old maids had standards, and she wanted her first, and perhaps only, time to be with someone with a modicum of intelligence: a man with the ability to see beneath the surface. Not of her mask, of course—which she would never remove for she knew that would only open the door to pain and rejection—but to the heart of her.
The living, breathing woman who lived behind the beastly scar.
To that end, she’d devised a simple test.
She didn’t think the challenge was difficult, yet not a single man thus far had succeeded in guessing what she was dressed as. The bastard she’d dispatched with the pistol, for instance, had thought that she was a black cat. Had his eye patch prevented him from noticing her lack of a tail, pointy ears, and whiskers? Sadly, his deduction was better than the other guesses she’d received, which had included a raven (one that was wingless and featherless?), a black sheep (without wool?), and a leopard (don’t even get her started).
In a fit of desperation, she’d ignored her instincts, coming with the piratical cad to the study. When he’d started pawing at her, telling her that he couldn’t wait to drop his “anchor” in her “wet harbor,” she’d known she couldn’t go through with her plan. Not with him.
