“If I were your husband, I would not allow you to attend this ball of decadence as my envy would outdo Othello’s.”
“But then we would not have met.”
Leisurely, he slanted and pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck. She startled but didn’t pull away, and envy did assuredly seethe within.
Aideen arched her neck as he mouthed kisses along the warm flesh until reaching her lobe. He bit lightly. “Perhaps that would have been for the best. For both of us,” he said.
A low moan greeted his words and he slid an arm around her waist, tugging her back against his body. The silks rubbed and he felt something firm brush his groin, not entirely unpleasant, and he realised it was her tail.
“My enchanting black cat,” he rasped and pulled the sleeve from her shoulder, revealing satin skin. He laved, nipped, aware this dark game was becoming too twisted, but his aching body refused to end its play.
“Accept the things to which fate binds you,” she murmured.
Pushing a hand into her hair, he brought her face around for a kiss. Her lips were as he’d yearned for these past days, lush and warm, but the angle was strained, their masks clashed, and although he craved to turn her, he was more than aware of the danger.
And yet his fingers slipped down, caressed the silk of her skirts, rucking the material. Aideen curved into him, and he couldn’t help but push back, letting her feel his arousal. Perhaps he should continue. She was his wife, but self-disgust and hurt held him back.
A mysterious contour at her thigh halted his touch. “What have we here?” he drawled.
“A knife,” she answered. “To halt unworthy intruders.”
Why, he didn’t know, but the notion of his wife with a blade in her garter nearly unmanned him. What a remarkable woman, and faintly, the idea that Aideen wasn’t nearly as fragile or artless as Gwen wafted into his thoughts, but then she raked something sharp against the back of his hand.
“Are you unworthy?” she whispered, and he realised she’d branded him with light scratches.
He groaned and pulled her tight before abruptly letting her go. He’d speak the truth.
“Yes,” he answered, “I am unworthy.”
Aideen stumbled and spun, but he’d already vanished, like a ghost of the gentleman he portrayed.
Foolish man.
Did he really think she wouldn’t know her own husband?
Admittedly, the costume had suited him. On some men it may have appeared foppish but not so the duke. It contrasted with his masculinity, his rangy height and straight spine. She’d had to turn, to prevent herself from pouncing upon him.
The deep timbre of the accent had further roused her. But why had he played such a game? To ascertain if she was an innocent Desdemona? Or to punish for her presence at the Miltons’ ball?
Wandering back through the garden, she heard a tapering whistle so peered across the lawn into the far dark.
The statue of a beleaguered Atlas glowered back and behind the marble, a flash of pale-blue silk and an ostrich feather in a tricorn hat caused her heart to falter.
Had her husband a tryst of his own?
But then a Roman centurion veered towards those same shadows, leather sandals causing no sound upon the gravel path.
Or was he engaged on a mission? That might explain the utter dichotomy of his clothing, his appearance so at odds with his nature.
But for all the goats in Gorey, why didn’t he say so? “Please do not attend, Aideen, I will be there on business.” That was all it required.
Memories of a night working with Uncle Seamus to finish a special commission intruded. He’d warned her in a hushed tone of the men that bought his wares. “These people bring danger and death to your door, so keep your distance.”
Was that what Rakecombe was doing? Keepinghisdistance. She’d already been kidnapped due to their association last year so was he staying away for her own protection?
How thoughtful…and infuriating.
Then again, mayhap this was all her fevered and optimistic imagination.
