In his younger days, Ben had run in the same pack as Edgecombe. Indeed, the two of them plus Viscount Bollinger and the Honorable Simon Thorne had been dubbed the Four Horsemen for their destructive rakehell ways. Their wealth and family connections had insulated them from repercussions, their notoriety even gaining them admiration among the fast set. Yet Ben knew his fellow Horsemen for what they were: jaded sensation seekers who cared only for their own pleasures.
He was not proud of the fact that he’d once been one of them. When he had tried to get his marriage back on track five years ago, his first act had been to sever ties with the Horsemen, who’d been a bad influence on him and his duchess. Now to see Livy venturing into Edgecombe’s lair…
A sense of foreboding clenched Ben’s gut. Since the exchange in the orangery, he had avoided Livy. Losing her had been hard; hurting her would be a far worse consequence. One he could not live with. Yet now his concern for her safety propelled him down the hallway. Casting a quick glance around to ensure that he was not seen, he twisted the knob and entered the study. He closed the door, muffling the sounds of the masquerade.
He scanned the luxurious male retreat dominated by heavy wood furnishings and studded leather upholstery. A fire crackled in the stone hearth by the seating area, and a large desk sat next to floor-to-ceiling windows framed by voluminous red drapes. No sign of Livy.
He crossed the room, the thick Aubusson muting his steps. Striding behind the desk, he crouched and said sardonically, “Good evening.”
Livy stared up at him from her hiding place beneath the desk. She was wearing a sleeveless white robe, her bare arms hugging her raised knees, her eyes huge in the holes of her golden mask. She looked like a naughty nymph caught in the act of mischief.
“Hadleigh?” she breathed.
He held out a hand, hauling her from the cove. “Expecting someone else?”
“Um, no. Not really.” She averted her gaze as she straightened her costume.
He noticed the golden shears suspended around her neck and, amidst his roiling concern, wry humor twinged. It figured that she would choose not only to be one of The Three Fates but the most lethal.
“I suppose there is an excellent reason for you to be here,” he said. “Other than testing the limits of your own life span, Atropos?”
She beamed at him as if he’d paid her the greatest compliment. “You know who I am.”
“I would know you no matter your disguise,” he said sternly. “What I wish to know is what you are up to in our host’s study.”
“There’s, um, a perfectly reasonable explanation…”
She trailed off as voices sounded just outside the study.
Devil take it.Ben scanned the room, identifying the best place of concealment. He dragged Livy over to the curtains and behind the roomy folds. Pressing himself against the wall, he held her securely against him, her back to his chest.
“Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear.
He felt her shiver as the door to the study opened.
10
As male voices entered the study, Livy felt a tremor travel from head to toe. Partly the tremor had to do with the fear of discovery: she’d found the diary, now hidden in the concealed pocket of her petticoat. Mostly, though, the shivery feeling had to do with the fact that her backside was nestled against Hadleigh’s front. His arm circled her waist, holding her snugly against his muscular form.
“Don’t move,”he’d whispered in her ear.
As if I would everwantto,she thought dreamily.
The perils of the situation faded in Hadleigh’s presence; he made her feel safe. He always had. Even if they were caught, he would protect her. She knew this to the core of her soul, and her fear dissipated. In its place, a wicked excitement sparked.
Conversation filtered through the thick layers of velvet. Thankfully, the men didn’t sound too close to their hiding spot. The voices seemed to be coming from the seating area at the other end of the room.
“I say, Edgecombe,” a nasal voice said. “This is a damned fine cigar. French?”
“Undoubtedly, Stamford,” another man replied. “Edgecombe h-here is a true connoisseur, and thus likes his cigars the way he likes his t-tarts.”
As the men guffawed, Livy’s cheeks heated.I don’t think they’re talking about pastry…
“Thorne has the right of it,” Edgecombe drawled. “A good French light-skirt is the antidote to domestic drudgery.”
“An eager bit o’ muslin is a fine way to lift a man’s spirits,” a fourth man agreed.
“More than just his spirits, I daresay,” Stamford said with a snicker.
