She was desperate not deranged.
He hadn’t liked being told no. Luckily, she’d come equipped with another deterrent. Not one for self-delusion, she was fully aware that her behavior tonight was risky: she would not add lack of preparation to her sins.
The Adonis before her let out a slow breath…an exhalation that suggested that he’d come to an internal decision. Was it her fanciful imagination, or was that interest flickering in his heavy-lidded eyes? The wobbly feeling spread from her center to her limbs.
“Pardon me if I seem slow-witted,” he said. “Are you implying that if I correctly guess your costume, you wish to…go to bed with me?”
“I’m not implying it, sir.” She frowned, some of her giddiness fading. Had she overestimated his intelligence? “I am stating it quite clearly.”
“But I do not even know your name.”
“Anonymity is no barrier to bed sport. Indeed, it enhances discretion.”
“Indeed.” His brows inched upward. “Done this before, have you?”
She hadn’t, not even close. Yet to achieve her goal for the eve, she had to play the part of a woman of experience. One who knew what she was about and what she wanted from a lover, which Bea did…in theory, at least.
Intellectually, she understood the difference between love and sexual pleasure. The scar had done her a favor by tearing away the curtain of modesty that shielded maidens and, frankly, set them up for disappointment. She saw the truth of things: love was an ephemeral emotion, one that could not be trusted. To yield one’s heart and happiness to another was an act of ultimate folly. The pain of losing Croydon had taught her that lesson, as had watching her parents’ blissful union crumble before her eyes.
Sexual pleasure, on the other hand, was more akin to an appetite. Like hunger or thirst. If Bea was honest—and she made it a habit not to lie to herself—she’d had cravings of a carnal nature for years, since her first kiss. While her dreams of love had turned to ashes, her needs still remained.
Tonight would allow her to finally satisfy her curiosity. As long as she was clear in her mind that this rendezvous was a physical thing only, with no expectation of anything more, no harm would come of it. All she needed to do was stay in control of the situation and her emotions, two things she’d learned to do very well.
She ran her finger along the edge of the desk, making the movement casual. “I prefer to be direct in all matters, sir. I am not looking for entanglements, merely an evening of pleasure. If that offends you—”
“Only a madman would be offended to be approached by a beautiful lady. Last time I checked, I’m not a candidate for Bedlam.” His smile managed to be both boyish and sensual. “Although, come to think of it, that is probably what a Bedlamitewouldsay.”
“You seem in full possession of your faculties.”
“Now that I’ve lured you into complacency,” he said with a wink, “may I take a closer look at your costume?”
Here’s your chance. Take it.
Screwing her courage to the sticking place, she left the safety of the desk and went to the door, locking it with a decisive click. If this was going where she hoped it would, she wanted no interruptions. She rejoined the stranger, who was now regarding her with a bemused expression. Waving a hand at her gown, she indicated that he should look his fill.
He circled her without haste. His scrutiny was masculine and courteous. His gaze had a startling effect on her: it felt like a physical touch, a caress that caused her blood to rush in her veins, goose pimples prickling her skin.
When he reached the back of her, she twisted her head to see his reaction. The few men who’d bothered to look at the back of her dress hadn’t spent much time doing so, seeing naught of interest in the folds of plain black silk. Would this stranger be different?
She held her breath as he raised a large hand, stretching it toward her right shoulder blade. Anticipation danced along her spine. His fingers paused a hair’s breadth away from her.
“May I?” he asked.
That he’d asked permission caused something warm to tumble inside her.
“Please do,” she said softly.
Even as she strove to sound self-assured, her lungs pulled for air, fighting against the constriction of her stays as his fingertips grazed her bare shoulder. It was the briefest of touches, yet it conveyed many things about the man. The gentleness of his strength. His knowledge of a woman’s pleasure… and his enjoyment of it.
His fingers trailed lower, her pulse beating a rapid cadence as he unerringly sought out the line of camouflaged fasteners. His touch was as expert as her maid Lisette’s, freeing the tiny ebony buttons from their black silk loops.
He pulled out the hidden panel of silk. In the candlelight, the orange and white-spotted pattern had an otherworldly sheen, deepening her sense that something magical was unfolding.
“A butterfly,” he said in husky tones. “Red Admiral, I believe?”
“You know butterflies, sir?” she asked in disbelief.
“I know beauty.” He released the panel on the other side. Finding the silken loops at the tip of each wing, he attached them to the buttons located beneath the pleats at her shoulders. The rasp of his fingertips sent shivers over her as he spread her wings...literally.
