Daphne frowned. “Blackmail?”
“Moseley said evil men return to the scene of their crimes. That the villain has likely visited both our houses.” That might make the bastard easier to identify. “He may be at the Masque tomorrow.” The idea of her alone in the cottage chilled him. He leaned closer and kissed her temple. “If Moseley’s right, you should stay with Mrs Buckley.”
“If I’m your prisoner, I have no choice. If I’m your partner, I shall remain at your side.” She tucked herself closer. “We were separated this morning, and look at the trouble it caused.”
“I’m not complaining.”
Her sultry smile said she wasn’t either. “I’d prefer not towalk four miles to prove a point, though it wasn’t a wasted journey.”
His heart missed a beat. “Mrs Buckley knew something? She’s always played ignorant with me.” Women were better than men at keeping their word to his mother.
“If it’s any consolation, your mother told her nothing. But Mrs Buckley did recall something she once said.” Daphne draped her arm over his chest as though she feared he might bolt from the bed.
He braced himself. “What did she say?”
“That Lord Templeton could bleed a desert dry and call it charity.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Laughter should warm the heart, not chill the blood. Music drifting from the ballroom should stir delight, not dread. Yet a shrill squeal outside the cottage made Daphne clutch her chest, wishing the Masque were ending, not beginning.
She should be celebrating.
Dominic Hawke had made his choice. He would rather be her lover than her gaoler. He wanted a partner, not a prisoner.
It was foolish to want more. Affairs such as theirs rarely endured. She had told herself as much while lying sated in his arms.
Yet she could not quiet the memory of him. The timbre of his voice. The scent of his skin. The weight of him pressing her into the mattress.
She had not slept. She had scarcely eaten.
Desire she could manage. Hope was another matter.
She inhaled deeply, though there wasn’t a spare inch in her gown.
Her costume had arrived an hour ago. A daring shade of moss green. The bodice hugged her figure, its necklinesweeping low across her shoulders, delicate lace threaded through the silk like creeping ivy. Layers of gauze fell from her waist in a soft cascade, trailing behind her like forest mist.
It was not the gown of a timid debutante. It was the armour of a woman who had chosen her battlefield. Yet she felt anything but armed.
Her heart lurched at the sudden knock. It would be Dominic. But she demanded he repeat the secret phrase before she opened the door.
“I want you in my bed tonight,” he drawled.
The hair on her nape stirred at the thought. “That’s not it.”
He sighed. “I left my heart in the ice house.”
“No, though that might be true.”
He paused, though she knew he was smiling. “Nothing compares to the sky above Shadowmere.”
“You’re supposed to say it with conviction.”
“I would if I believed it.”
She opened the door and peered around the jamb, though the sight of him stole her breath. He stood there in black. Broad shoulders. Dark green eyes. A mouth made for sin.
She caught his hand, drew him quickly inside and locked the door behind him. Only then did she notice the scent of lilac on his coat.
