“You came,” he murmured, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and leading her down the uneven staircase.
“Didn’t you think I would?”
“I hoped.” His voice was so deep, it resonated through Bess’s chest. “But I didn’t know.”
Bess held her breath. Would he ask her why she’d stayed away? She didn’t know how she would answer that question.
But he didn’t ask. He merely maneuvered her with care across the short ramp out over the lapping waves of the Thames riverbank to the boat tied up at the end of it.
The waterman, projecting an impressive air of unconcern at ferrying two masked people, shoved off from the makeshift dock as soon as they were aboard.
Bess wobbled her way to a seat in the rear of the low-slung wherry, which had been fitted with a canopy draped in gaily striped fabric trimmed with tasseled fringe. It was a largeish boat for only one waterman to row, but he set his back to it and skimmed them across the river easily.
With one hand on the top of the canopy, Nathaniel balanced himself easily against the rocking of the boat. His thick thighs flexed and tensed visibly in his tight evening breeches.
Bess felt heat come into her face and turned it into the evening breeze gratefully, hoping to cool down.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the shush of the water lapping at the boat’s sides and the shouts of other watermen across the river, casting about for customers and challenging one another to feats of speed and daring as they piloted their light crafts between larger cargo vessels and under bridges.
Nathaniel had managed to find a waterman as taciturn as himself, Bess noted with some amusement. Other than the odd grunt as he handled the oars, the man was so quiet she could almost forget he was there.
Nathaniel drew her gaze like the moon drew the tides. He was all she could see.
“Where are we going?” Bess asked.
“Wycombe House. Most of the Ton moved their residences to Mayfair a century ago, but there are still a few old piles along the Thames from the days of your namesake. Queen Elizabeth.”
He said her name like a caress. Bess felt it all the way down her spine. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’ve been the last few nights?”
His eyes were opaque, the color of moonlight. “Your time is your own. I have already pressed you too much.”
Frustration sharpened her voice. “What if I want you to press me?”
What if I want to press you, in return, for more than you could possibly give me?
Bess averted her face, blowing out a breath over the roiling waters of the Thames, but she could feel his gaze upon her like a weight. Like firelight. Warm and steady and all-encompassing.
“Whatever you want tonight, I’ll give it to you,” he said simply.
What she wanted…Bess hardly knew herself. She should not punish him for that. It wasn’t fair.
“What I want,” she said slowly, “is to dance and drink champagne and laugh and be with you. That’s all I want.”
“Then you shall have it.” He held out his gloved hand and pulled her to her feet as the boat nosed gently against an ornate set of stone steps that disappeared under the water and led all the way up the riverbank to an arched entrance in a stone wall.
Bess thanked the waterman as Nathaniel paid him, but all her attention was on the monstrosity of a crumbling house hulking beyond the wall.
The Tudor mansion had none of the airy grace of the white-columned houses that lined Grosvenor Square. It was dark and blocky, brick towers rising sharply into the night sky, their narrow arrow-slit windows ablaze with light.
Slippery with moss and damp, the stone staircase passed under the archway whose heavy iron-bolted door was swung wide to welcome guests in. Torches blazed on either side of the door, casting a smoky, dancing glow and beckoning Bess into…another world.
The paving stones wound away from the archway through a riotously overgrown secret garden, lush and shocking in the heart of dismal, fog-bound London.
Even in the torchlit darkness, the profusions of red and pink blossoms almost seemed to glow. Tangles of purple wisteria draped the crumbling stone walls of what must have once been a thriving kitchen garden. Beds of wild mint had overtaken everything, sending their fresh scent out into the air to mingle with the stench of the river and the smoke from the torches.
“Where are we?” she breathed, holding tight to Nathaniel’s arm. It was rigid under her fingers, tense with something she couldn’t identify.
“The Midsummer Masquerade,” he said grimly.
