Unmasking Lady Innocent Read online

  He brushed the curls teased free by the wind back from her face, holding his hand against her temple as he looked down into her eyes. “There are pleasures you wish to know.”

  His smiling lips tempted. She stood on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his full mouth. They tasted of freedom. She pulled back to look at him. “Yes.”

  His gaze searched her face. “Then let me send your driver home and we will spend the night exploring what you seek.”

  This man truly was a rakehell. Danger gleamed in his eyes. Recklessness hung about his shoulders. He was dark and he was dangerous.

  And she had the feeling he did not think her up to the challenge. He obviously didn’t know her. Yes, she had no doubt what she wanted, even if she didn’t know the precise details. The excitement stirred her blood and made her feel dizzy, like too many glasses of champagne.

  She also knew in her heart that if she didn’t go with him tonight, she would never have the courage to try again. She laughed recklessly. “It seems you kissed Sleeping Beauty awake and you must now deal with the consequences.”

  Diana heard him let go a long sigh, as if he had some regrets at her answer. She must have been mistaken, for a second later he flashed a wolfish smile that lit his eyes and turned her limbs to the consistency of butter left out in the sun. He bowed. “Let us find my coach and we will be gone.”

  Good Lord, she was actually doing this. Taking a lover. Her body shivered, but not with fear.

  Ensconced in her escort’s carriage alone, Diana stared out of the window. She hadn’t expected him to drive. More discrete, he had said. A good thing, she had agreed. She stared out of the window, trying to make out their destination, but on this side of the river there were few streetlamps and only one or two houses. After what seemed like hours in her heightened state of anticipation, but might only have been minutes, the carriage turned into a narrow lane and slowed to a halt in front of a stone, square-built house with lanterns ablaze on each side of the portico over the front door.

  A house of ill repute? Her mouth dried. Her throat tightened against her attempt to swallow.

  The carriage door swung back. The man in the black domino bowed. “Welcome, my lady.”

  Tremors shook her body as she took his hand and stepped down. She felt trapped in a dream, expecting any moment to awake and find herself alone in the dark. She didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight, when she felt more alive than she had for years.

  He guided her up the steps to the front door. She turned and glanced back at the carriage, where a groom was taking care of the horses.

  “You may leave anytime you wish,” her escort murmured in her ear. “You need only say the word.”

  He must have felt her inner trepidation, sensed her flash of cowardice. She straightened her shoulders and strode boldly across the threshold. She was no green girl. She was a woman who knew what she wanted. And she wanted tonight.

  Candles lit the marble entrance. Bits of quartz caught the light and twinkled like snow on a moonlit night. Her steps echoed in the silence. Her heart seemed too big for the space behind her ribs. Her stomach fluttered and tumbled. But the large, warm form beside her bolstered her inner strength and stoked her desires. Too long she’d been forced to stand aside from life’s pleasures.

  He opened the door to a softly lit room, the splash of light from the hallway revealing a patterned rug of reds and blues, finely woven. She stepped inside.

  The door closed behind her with a click. Her breath caught in her throat as a gentle glow of light from the hearth and one or two lanterns on the walls enveloped her in dimly lit shadows. She swung around, bumping up against his broad chest. Solid and warm.

  He caught her above the elbows, steadying her. “Don’t be afraid,” his deep voice whispered.

  Her eyes adjusted to the low light and she took in the solid shapes in the room, a sofa by the hearth. A table beside it. A bed against the far wall. The man towering above her. She breathed deeply, inhaling his scent of night air, horse and leather and bay cologne…and a darker note of the man himself.

  She sensed more than saw his smile, yet perhaps she did see a brief gleam of teeth in the firelight “Welcome, my dear sweet lady, you honor me by your presence.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her own voice huskier than usual, her chest rising and falling too rapidly. “What do I call you?”

  “Call me what you will.”

  “‘Will’ it is then,” she said.

  He chuckled softly. “A lady of wit.”

  She thrilled to his deep seductive whisper, it stirred excitement edged with fear. Not fear of him, but of herself, of the risks she seemed prepared to take to satisfy the bold desires thrumming through her body.

  In this new guise of wanton, she scarcely knew herself. Her throat dried at the thought of her boldness.

  To her disappointment, he released her arms and stepped back. Then his lips smiled beneath his mask. “Will you please me by taking a glass of wine?”

  Calmed by the gentle tone and the familiar social nicety, her heart settled back where it belonged. “Thank you. I would like that.” A prop to her courage.

  “May I first take your cloak?”

  The room was warm, and she realized she was hot beneath the heavy wool she’d worn to ward off the night air at Vauxhall. She swept the hood back and untied the strings at her throat.

  Gently, he slipped it from her shoulders, casting it across a chair-back.

  She stretched out a hand in his direction and he took it in his, a warm dry touch of skin on skin. So sensual, when all she usually felt was the pressure through gloves. Sensual. She liked the way he held her hand firmly, but without any squeezing or demonstration of masculine strength.

  He twirled her around, his gaze consuming her as it raked her body. “Lovely,” he said in reverent tones. She’d worn her sheerest gown tonight, a wisp of red silk, knowing the domino would keep her warm. She basked in the admiration in his eyes. When he pulled at the pins holding fast her hair, it tumbled down around her shoulders in a heavy golden mass. His smile of pleasure was praise indeed.

  “Now…you,” she said breathlessly.

  He shrugged out of the black silk domino, revealing he wore naught but a fine linen shirt, which clung to his broad expanse of chest and showed the shadow of muscled arms beneath the fine fabric, and a pair of form-fitting buff pantaloons.

  “Very nice,” she said bravely.

  “I believe it would be better if we retained our masks,” he said quietly. “We will find more freedom in anonymity. No embarrassment, should we meet again in society.”

  Though she regretted not being able to see all of his face, she quickly nodded her agreement. Apparently they both had their reasons for not wishing for recognition. “It is better we remain strangers.”

  “An intriguing idea,” he said silkily. “Two strangers coming together for passion.”

  A shiver ran down her spine, dark and delicious.

  She glanced up at his face, and saw the glint of eye and the shadow of his hair.

  He turned away and she heard the sounds of pouring. She glanced at the bed—a bright white patch in a sea of mystery. She swallowed hard. He would be a man of experience. Skilled. She had nothing to fear.

  He touched her shoulder and, startled, she swung around on a gasp.

  “Your wine, my lady.”

  Of course. The wine. She squeezed her eyes shut, glad of the dim lighting hiding her flush. “Thank you.”

  “To you,” he toasted.

  “To us,” she replied and brought the goblet carefully to her lips, fearing the trembling of her hands would betray her nervousness. She took a healthy swallow.

  He smoothed her hair back from her face in slow gentle strokes and gazed into her eyes. His were dark, shadowed, reflecting only the light of the lamps. His hair was dark, too.

  She touched a tousled lock. “Brown or black?” she asked.

  He smothered a laugh. “Brown.”

 
Once more, she wished she could see all of his face. But discretion must be her watchword this night. She could not afford to be ruined, to be isolated from the friends she treasured, and she would not wish to cause them embarrassment. She let her fingers wander over the sculpted jaw, the firm lips and lean cheeks beneath the edge of the mask.

  He held still under her exploration. “Do I please you still?” he whispered when her hand returned to his hair.

  “Very much.”

  “Ah, then I am happy, my lady. Sit.” He patted the bed. “Make yourself comfortable.” She perched on its edge and finished the rest of the glass in one gulp.

  He took the goblet and deposited it on a table beside the bed.

  He sank onto the bed beside her, his weight tipping her toward him, so that the long, lean length of his thigh pressed against hers and their shoulders brushed in a hot shiver of sensation down her arm.

  A strong arm enclosed her shoulders and she felt secure again. His other hand came up to her cheek, turning her face to his. He was going to kiss her again. Her body trembled with eagerness to once again feel the sensations he’d aroused. He brushed her mouth with his lips. A warm, moist caress, repeated over and over, wandering to the corner of her mouth the point of her chin, even the tip of her nose. Her lips tingled with longing for his mouth’s caress.

  A soft sound rose in her throat, a wordless request.

  As if he understood this primitive language, his mouth returned to hers, his head angling to grant him better access, while his fingertips rested against her cheek and temple, as light as butterfly wings, yet searing in their heat. He plied his lips softly to hers, his action seductive, sweet, and yet so powerfully sensual something deep inside her clenched and sent a burst of heat through her body. Breathtaking.

  He sucked and nipped at her lips, gently enough not to hurt but intensely so as to create an ache in her breasts.

  She gasped at the sensation.

  Before last night, she’d had other kisses. A peck on the cheek, a swift brush of a careless mouth by Peter on her lips before some sporting event, but nothing had prepared her for the storm of sensation this man’s lips produced.

  Storm didn’t describe the maelstrom of heat and ratcheting tension. Nor did it account for the moans struggling for freedom in her throat. Cries of pleasure, and demands for more.

  He broke away, cupping her cheek. Another smile. Or was he laughing at the poor confused spinster with her ragged breathing and cries of wonder. Did he pity her? If so it was the kindest form of pity she had ever known.

  He drew a quick breath, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. The arm around her shoulder exerted a pull and she sank backward onto the mattress. By some quick sleight of hand she could not see in the dark, he slipped his arm from beneath her shoulder and his other hand swung her legs up onto the bed. So smoothly done. She wanted to applaud his skill, but with his breath warm and moist against her cheek she could only sigh as she awaited the next touch of his lips to hers.

  She raised her hand to touch his cheek and found the hard angle of his jaw and a part of the smooth plane of a well-shaven cheek. He turned his head and licked her palm.

  A shiver ran own her spine. A pleasurable, delicious thrill.

  He stretched out alongside her, leaned over her and took her mouth. His tongue licked and teased at her lips until she parted them.

  His tongue slipped between her lips, over her teeth. Deep inside her mouth.

  A shocking intrusion. And so wonderfully exciting. His tongue slowly stroked and explored. Little pulses of delight fluttered low in her belly, her spine melted. Her insides felt hot and her limbs turned to liquid. The blancmange of moments before a thing of substance compared to this languid state.

  Was this it, then? Why women glowed when they looked at their husbands? This state of weakened limbs? It was lovely indeed, but surely there was more?

  He angled his head, his body leaning over hers the better to torment her mouth, and his weight pressing her into the mattress felt solid and warm, the rise and fall of his chest against her breasts a tangible source of a new kind of pleasure.

  He deepened his kiss, tasting her hungrily, stroking her tongue with an urgency that called to something inside her, the need to taste him, to kiss him back. Her tongue stroked his.

  A deep groan of pleasure growled in his throat. He tasted good, slick and hot and incredibly male. His scent filled her nostrils, the a hint of bay she’d noticed earlier, the musky undertones that seemed uniquely him went to her head like fine wine, yet were somehow more intoxicating. She clung to his shoulders, the material of his shirt filmy beneath her fingers, and when her hand slid around his nape and she felt the warmth of his skin and the soft silky touch of his hair, something inside her unfurled. It opened like a blossom, sweet and tender, and hesitant in its fear of hurt.

  He groaned and broke their kiss.

  Only then did she realize how hard she panted for breath. He seemed equally short of air. Her heart thudded against her ribs and she felt its echo in his chest. A timpani of sound. They were in harmony. Two finely tuned instruments made of flesh and blood, designed to make music of the most earthy sort.

  A subtle shift of his body, and one thigh came across her, resting along the length of her legs, warm and heavy, pressing down. Dimly aware of the weight, she parted her thighs and heard his guttural sound of approval.

  His hand left her hair and trailed down her face, the touch light yet intruding on the headiness of the kiss as he traced her jaw, the line of her neck and came to rest lightly on her breast.

  She gasped at the intimacy of the touch, at the tingle and heaviness she felt there. He blew a soft breath in her ear and she shivered beneath the torrent of sensation rushing through her body.

  The hand at her breast circled, his thumb brushed her nipple and the most delightful thrill rippled downward to where his thigh dipped between her legs. So much pleasure. Who knew her body could play such thrilling arias. If she was the instrument, this stranger, this man, was a master virtuoso. She hovered on the brink of some grand finale and she hadn’t yet read the score.

  The hand at her breast gently massaged through her layer of clothing, his thumb strumming her nipple, which was tight and hard and terribly sensitive to his touch. She arched into his palm, tilting her hips against his thigh to relieve the sweet ache lower down.

  “You taste delicious,” he murmured. His mouth returned to hers, and this time she opened to him and kissed him, tasted him, carried far beyond herself in the delightful sensation of tangling tongues and hard-won breaths, and the feel of his long hard body against her yielding flesh.

  His hand left her breast and caressed its way down her body, to her knee. Such large hands. Strong and warm through the flimsy gown. Her skin leaped to life everywhere he touched, picking up the rhythm of their hungry kisses.

  He raised up on his other arm and pulled the skirts of her gown upward, all the way to her hips. The loss of his closeness made her moan her displeasure.

  She pulled on his shoulder, wanting him back. Like a rock, he remained immobile on his side, his hand stroking her thigh, pushing them farther apart, moving toward her hip toward her….

  Something hard jutted against her hip.

  “Oh,” she gasped, pulling away from his mouth.

  She wasn’t in the least surprised. Even if she wasn’t supposed to know, she did. Any woman curious about life knew how the parts fitted together in the marriage bed. She found the thought of it touching her completely arousing.

  Her body clamored for the joys of physical love. She ached for his touch, the fires he’d set raging out of control, beneath her skin, in her veins. Her head felt light and muzzy with all the delicious sensations assaulting her body.

  As if sensing her need, his lips nuzzled her neck and he had resumed his caress of her thigh, and the orchestra of notes singing through her blood cut her mind free, leaving only sensations of touch and a craving for more.

  His
lips trailed kisses across her throat, along the rise of each breast above her bodice. Then as his hand shaped the curve of her belly, his mouth covered the peak of her breast, his breath hot through the fabric.

  She melted. A cry rose in her throat, cut short by the feel of his teeth against her nipple and his hand cupping between her thighs. She groaned with pleasure, nipped at his shoulder, his ear, raked her fingers through his hair.

  His indrawn hiss of breath sounded like pleasure and pain. She bit harder.

  His fingers combed through the curls at the apex of her thighs, found her most private place, stroked gently. A stab of pleasure brought her hips off the mattress. Astonishment filled her mind. Not thought, but wonder, even as she moaned for more of the same, pressing into his hand.

  His mouth moved on her breast, keeping her taut deep inside, a tension so unbearably tight, she feared the result should it break.

  He shifted with a groan. Leaving her bereft. “Let us do away with the barriers between us,” he said.

  With swift, sure hands he unlaced her gown and divested her of her stays and chemise. He discarded his shirt in a rustle of fabric and peeled off his lower garments.

  The firelight gleamed on his shoulders, carving muscle and sinew in rippling shadows. In a brief instant, she saw the profile of his male member jutting from the shadows between his long thighs. No more than a teasing glimpse. A maidenly peek at something mysterious and wickedly interesting.

  In her mind, she cursed the dim light, even as she hid within its comforting shadows.

  He returned to the bed, nudging her legs apart with one knee, while his mouth returned to kissing her breasts. She let her hands wander the breadth of his silken back, felt the muscle move with each caress of her breast with his hand. Roaming the length of his torso with her fingertips, she pictured the curve of his buttocks and the plane of his hard lean flank. All the while indescribable sensations wrought by his hands and the feel of his heat against her female flesh held her in a grip so sharp, she felt as brittle as spun sugar, ready to shatter, or dissolve into nothingness.