Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley
Chapter 12
Julian did not give Miss Thorne’s bewitching lips time to formulate an impertinent response.
He kissed her instead.
Her mouth tasted like fresh fruit. Tart and sweet. A combination he was coming to associate with her and her kisses.
Julian hated not being in control, yet that was exactly how he felt whenever he was near Miss Thorne. It wasn’t the biscuits that concerned him. It was the odd sensation of being drawn to her because she forced him to unbend, despite his express wishes.
Even now, with her inviting warmth and soft curves pressed against him, he could not state with certainty that this embrace had transpired because he’d hauled her to him like a boor of low breeding.
He suspected Miss Thorne had known from the moment she entered the green parlor whether any kissing would be taking place within its walls today.
In any case, he was glad for it. He had hungered for her mouth, for her arms about his neck, for her breasts pressed against him, ever since she’d stepped out of his carriage after the market and disappeared.
No—ever since he’d first tasted her lips on the steps of his ballroom.
That he had got his wish, and his hands could now trace the curve of her spine, and the swell of her hips, did not dampen his ardor in the least. He wanted more. He hungered not just for her kisses, but for the feel of every curve rubbing delectably against the hardness of his body.
She was all edges when they argued—sharp tongue, sharp mind—but when she was in his arms, everything about her was pleasingly soft. He loved the softness of her hair, the softness of her skin, the plump softness filling out her gown to perfection.
He wanted to rend her gown from her frame and feast upon all that softness with his mouth. Caress her, tease her, tempt her, until her passion burned just as bright as his own. Then he’d sink his hard shaft beneath her thighs and—
Julian tore his lips from hers before he could act on his thoughts. His heart beat erratically. Guests would be arriving within the hour. He must be in the ballroom to greet them.
“These kisses mean nothing,” he reminded her.
And reminded himself.
Life had proven time and again that Julian could keep the things he held dear, but not the people.
It was good that he’d long ago hardened his heart. Kissing was just physical. Something he did for a moment’s enjoyment, like eating a shortbread guinea with a dollop of blueberry. Delicious while it lasted, and then easily forgotten.
“I remember your rules.” Miss Thorne did not look chastened. “If you have trouble remembering, you should write them down in your spontaneity diary.”
“In my... what?”
She rose from his lap and picked up a large canvas bag from beside the sofa.
His focus had been so consumed with kissing her, he hadn’t even registered the bag’s presence.
She loosened the drawstrings, reached inside, and handed him a small brown book.
“What is this?” he asked suspiciously.
“I just told you,” she said. “Spontaneity diary. My, you do need to write things down.”
She held out a pencil.
He ignored it.
Instead, he opened the book. It was mostly unmarked, save for the headers labeled prettily at the top of each page.
The first sheet read, “17 April, 1819.”
Beneath that:
Planned Spontaneity:
None
Achieved Spontaneity:
Biscuits
Kissing
Costume
“There’sno such thing as planned spontaneity,” he informed her.
“Not for normal people,” she agreed.
He turned the page. Every day was a different date. Most were blank. Only Saturdays held the labels “Planned Spontaneity” and “Achieved Spontaneity.”
“You expect me to... schedule moments in which I deviate from my own rules?”
“Baby steps,” she told him. “One per week. It’s like exercising an atrophied limb. You won’t cease being an uptight, rigid sobersides overnight, but with time and practice, perhaps you’ll become marginally more tolerable.”
He cut her a quelling gaze. “Flattering.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Look how much you’ve accomplished, just in one day!”
He re-read the prefilled list. “What do you mean by ‘costume’? I never wear—”
“Ah-ah-ah.” She shook her finger. “An uptight, rigid sobersides might have such limitations, but a spontaneous soul such as yours would never say ‘never.’”
She pulled a mask out of her bag.
He stared at it. “What is that?”
“A mask,” she said helpfully. “It goes on your face.”
“I don’t want it.”
She pulled out another just like it. “Mine matches yours. Isn’t that adorable?”
“Why would I wish to seem adorable?”
“You wouldn’t,” she said. “That’s the entire point. No one will think it is you behind this mask. We can attend tonight’s masquerade as an anonymous Lord and Lady X.”
“Attend my own party,” he repeated. “Anonymously.”
“Just think of it,” she coaxed. “You can stand next to the refreshment table and administer a forty-question quiz to each guest who selects a shortbread, and no one will ever know the obnoxious Lord X was actually you!”
“It may have advantages,” he admitted.
“One hour,” she said. “If you hate it, you need only whip off the mask and shake the white powder from your hair—”
“Powder my hair?” Julian covered his brown locks protectively with his hands. “It would look gray!”
“It’s a costume,” Miss Thorne enunciated. “Are you really that vain?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “Extremely vain and deservedly so.”
“Good.” She smiled at him. “Then it’s an excellent costume.”
Which was how Julian Newcombe-Ives, the sixth Duke of Lambley, found himself being cheered by a raucous group of joyful revelers as he and Miss Thorne stepped over the threshold arm in arm.
“Lord X! Lady X!”
Flutes of champagne flashed skyward all throughout the ballroom as the crowd roared with enthusiasm. A pair of footmen appeared at their sides with brimming trays of champagne-filled glasses, so that Lord and Lady X could take part in the fun.
And it was fun, Julian admitted grudgingly. Fun and awkward and interesting and uncomfortable and eye-opening.
Even with an ugly mask and powdered hair, he attracted plenty of admiring gazes—but no one fawned over him specifically or toasted his name.
Julian could not help but wonder how much of his popularity was his popularity at all. Were they here for him? Or because of his title? Or did they come simply because he threw one hell of a good party?
“Well, Lord X?” Miss Thorne opened her reticule to reveal a small notebook and pencil nub inside. “Shall we begin the ‘masquerade biscuit’ inquisition? Or shall we dance?”
“I do not dance,” he reminded her.
“Our important host is too busy to dance,” she corrected him. “Too busy controlling every tiny detail, no matter how insignificant. You, however, are the carefree and spontaneous Lord X.”
He stared at her. Lord knew he’d like to have her in his arms again.
“I do have ‘planned spontaneity’ in my diary entry for today,” he admitted.
She grinned at him, and he pulled her onto the parquet.
“Has anyone ever mentioned you are appallingly bossy and presumptuous?”
“You do.” Her eyes twinkled. “Every time you see me.”
“It is a repugnant quality,” he informed her.
Or at least it should be. Instead of repelling him, each encounter only served to make him desire even more of her. What he wouldn’t give for a wife like this! As a man accustomed to getting his way, being thwarted by fate rankled.
If only Miss Thorne had been born to the world of the ton...
Julian nearly stumbled at the direction of his thoughts. He put that nonsense out of his mind at once. She wasn’t beau monde. He was. She knew she would never be his duchess.
Yet she made him want things they both knew he could not have.