A Scandalous Affair Page 2

  She leaned toward him ever so slightly. Wanting to hear him speak again.

  Who was he?

  Offering his hand, he led her out onto the crowded dance floor, his impersonal touch burning through the thin material of her gloves to pierce the very deepest part of her. Her skin erupted in a wash of gooseflesh when he drew her effortlessly into his arms. His large, warm hand settled on her back, fingers splayed and close to her hip. She rested her gloved hand on his broad shoulder and even through the layers of fabric she could feel how hard, how strong he was.

  Her heart picked up speed at the realization she danced with a man who wore not a stitch of padding, who was cut so finely he could probably rival any Italian statue when unclothed.

  Oh, dear. Her cheeks heated over thinking of him possibly nude.

  “You’re a very fine dancer,” she complimented after he spun her around the floor twice in silence.

  “Thank you.” His voice, the mysterious pauses before he spoke she detected, did strange things to her insides. Had any man ever affected her in such an odd manner? Her husband, he’d been her friend—very dear to her, really. Their relationship had lacked passion, yet made up for it with companionship and trust.

  This—this feeling she was experiencing with a complete stranger was a different thing altogether.

  Lifting her lashes, she studied him covertly, admiring his strong features. He was exquisitely made, with plush, full lips and a square jaw and chin. Stubble shadowed his cheeks, giving him a rakish air despite that he’d most likely shaved earlier in the day and merely dealt with a heavy beard. His nose was straight, though a bit on the large side, and his eyes were dark. Not as dark as his hair, which curled invitingly about the back of his neck, enticing her to tangle her fingers in the silky strands and test its softness.

  “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” she asked, trying to pull herself out of her silly and overindulgent thoughts.

  “I am. Y-you are a most magnificent hostess.”

  Her breath stalled in her chest at hearing him describe her as magnificent. Not that he meant anything by it, not at all. He was merely being kind while she was overreacting, being a silly romantic as usual.

  But the way he watched her, his dark brown eyes locked upon her face, drifting down to linger upon her lips for the barest moment before he jerked his gaze to hers once more… Her mouth tingled as if he’d physically touched her.

  “I apologize. I’m afraid you’re at the advantage, sir, for I haven’t a clue as to who you might be.” Her voice shook. She sounded breathless and swallowed hard, searching for even a shred of composure.

  “Isn’t that the magic of a ma-masquerade?” He smiled, the sight of it so beautiful her entire body ached.

  He sounded nervous, which she found positively endearing. “Are you implying you’re not going to properly introduce yourself?” She arched a brow, wondering if he could see it beneath the delicate mask she wore.

  He didn’t say a word. He merely twirled her about the floor and she had no choice but to follow his lead. He tightened his hand about her waist, pulling her closer, the heat from his body so alluring she couldn’t help but allow it.

  Revel in it.

  “Revealing myself—now where would the fun be in that?” He smiled, though his eyes remained dark. Intense.

  Oh, the devil. Every other man she’d spoken to or danced with this evening had been most eager to offer his name, title if he had one and a complete family ancestry. It was rather exhausting, pretending to be interested in such matters.

  Not one of them interested her such as this man.

  “Since I am your hostess, don’t you believe you should tell me who you are?” She fluttered her eyelashes, feeling foolish, but how else could she gather information from him?

  “Let’s just say we knew each other long, long ago, though you never paid me much attention.”

  “Well, then I was an absolute fool, wasn’t I?” Her mind raced. Who could he be? She’d known him? Was that the truth or an exaggeration? She’d met many young men during her debut season but her father had tied her up with Pomeroy rather quickly.

  “P-perhaps I was the foolish one,” he said with a slight stutter, and she frowned.

  Did he have an affliction? Or was it merely nerves? Whatever the case, she found it—him quite charming.

  She breathed deep his spicy, masculine scent. The commanding manner in which he led her about the floor was most arousing. Now, if she could only discover who he might be…

  The set ended too quickly for her taste. She reluctantly stepped away from his embrace, offering a polite curtsey. “Thank you so much for the delightful dance, my lord.” Instinct told her he was titled. A man who moved with such effortless yet commanding grace had to be.

  “No, I should thank you, my lady.” He nodded in return then turned on his heel, instantly becoming swallowed by the crowd.

  Her jaw dropped open in shock, she watched him retreat. He was a good head taller than many of those in attendance and pushed his way through the throng of revelers with ease, heading straight for the door. Without looking back, without offering even a single word to any of those he passed, he left the ballroom.

  As quickly as he’d entered her life, he exited it. And still she didn’t know his name.

  “What in the world were you doing, dancing with Black Hart?”

  Daphne whirled around at the sound of her brother’s incredulous voice, staring up at him expectantly. “Who was he?”

  Hugh rolled his eyes. “The Marquess of Hartwell. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”

  “Of course I haven’t. I’ve been in the country for the past two years, Hugh. Please fill me in on all the lurid details.” Drat it all, she’d hoped he had potential. He was the first man to strike her interest all evening. In years.

  “You’re wasting your time with that one. He’s cold as ice. They call him Black Hart, for the love of God. A play on his name and such, you know,” her brother explained and she wanted to bat him on the head.

  Did he think her completely daft?

  “He snubs everyone, even those who rank above him—not that there are many, his being a marquess and all. I’ve heard he’s rather cold with his mistresses too. Well, the few women who tolerate him, that is.” Hugh immediately made a face when Daphne glared at him. “What, you’ve been married. You know of mistresses and untoward treatment in the bedchamber. Don’t act the delicate flower, Daph.”

  “Don’t speak of ladybirds and conquests, Hugh. I beg of you.” She turned away from him, quietly furious. How dare he spread such rumors about the man? Who knew if they were even true?

  The man she danced with hadn’t been cold. Not at all. He’d been warm, very enticing. He hadn’t said much, intriguing her further, giving him a mysterious air that she’d found herself drawn to. So handsome and a skilled dancer, yet he’d wanted to remain anonymous.

  She frowned, didn’t even acknowledge when Hugh left her side after being called away by a group of his friends. She stood on the edge of the ballroom dance floor, amongst a crowd of people who all wanted her attention, yet she wanted another.

  A man known as Black Hart, who didn’t want to reveal his true identity to her… It was strange.

  Mysterious. Everything about him was confusing, from his secretive behavior to the nervous way he spoke. And she’d always been one who loved a good mystery.

  A little smile curved her lips and she tapped her finger against them, already lost in thought.

  The Marquess of Hartwell, otherwise known as Black Hart, was a most complicated puzzle she couldn’t wait to solve.

  Chapter Three

  One month later…

  He made it so blasted hard for her to capture his attention.

  Daphne stood along the edge of the dance floor, her shoulders taut, head held high as she scanned the small ballroom. Really, she searched for only one particular man. A man who seemed not to care a whit about her—his indifference
cut to the very bone.

  Ah, there he was. Her gaze lit upon the Marquess of Hartwell as he stood directly across the ballroom from her, seemingly engaged in conversation with another gentleman. She brought the delicate silk fan she clutched high, covering most of her face so only her eyes peered over the pleated, lacy edge as she watched him.

  He turned his attentions away from the man he spoke with, a dark scowl doing nothing to mar his fine face. No, the fierce expression seemed to only increase his handsomeness—at least in her eyes. His assessing gaze swept across the room. The music had quieted as the small quartet in the corner took a break and the dance floor was completely devoid of swirling couples. Making it easier for her to see him and perhaps…

  Making it easier for him to find her.

  Why won’t he acknowledge me? The words whispered through her mind. It was foolish, her intrigue with Hartwell who pretended she didn’t exist. She didn’t understand it. Perhaps he was just as cold and dark as they all said. Hence the lurid nickname.

  But something deep inside told her he was more like the warm, sweet man she danced with at her masquerade ball. The very one who held her like she was made of fragile glass and whisked her across the dance floor.

  She wanted to meet that man again. Not the cold, unfeeling husk of a marquess who occasionally made his appearance at the various and never-ending social events of the Season.

  Yes, yes, she’d eagerly returned to London for the Season, but now she missed the country. She despised the attention, the unappealing gentlemen who claimed they wanted her hand. Most of them were old and leering, many of them interested in the size of her hips and whether she’d be good enough to breed with.

  Pushing the irritating thoughts from her mind, she tried to focus on the opportunity that had been presented to her this fateful evening. For once, Lord Hartwell was in the same room, breathing the same air as she.

  Watching her at this very moment.

  Her fingers shook, the fan trembled in her grip and she stiffened her hand, desperate for control. To appear as if she were completely unaffected by his curious gaze, which touched upon her like his very fingers caressed her skin.

  She looked down, held the pose for three slow beats, ten longer beats until she slowly lifted her lids. He still watched her, his head cocked slightly to the side. He looked like he wasn’t quite sure what to think.

  Lowering the fan, she curved her lips upward in a beguiling smile. Or at least she hoped it was beguiling.

  He frowned and turned away.

  Disappointment crashed through her and she slumped her shoulders with defeat. What was the point in continuing a flirtation with a man when said man found her so unappealing he couldn’t stand to look at her?

  “Watching him again, eh?”

  Daphne jerked her gaze away from Hartwell, guilt and shame causing her to study the floor. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” She could pretend all she wanted but she knew it was futile.

  “Hartwell. You’re staring at him. Again.”

  “No one notices but you,” Daphne muttered, casting an irritated glance in her brother’s direction. Goodness, he was just as much a pest as he’d been at the age of eight, when he’d run after her with slimy frogs clutched in each hand.

  “I’ve warned you already, Daph. He’s not good enough for you. There are plenty of gentlemen vying for your attention. You could have your pick of any of them.”

  “I don’t want any of them,” she said between clenched teeth. How many times had she told him this?

  “I just ran into the bloke not two days ago. He said two words to me in greeting then scurried away. I believe he cannot stand the sight of me.” Hugh sounded affronted, expressing the very thoughts she’d had only moments before.

  “Introduce me,” she suddenly said, the idea taking hold within her and refusing to let go. She gripped her brother’s forearm, putting on her most imploring tone as she stared up at him. “I’m begging you, Hugh. Please.”

  “You’ve already met him. Why pretend otherwise?”

  “Because he pretends that I don’t even exist. And he never revealed his name when I danced with him, which I found odd. I want to—”

  “Confront him? Yes, I’m sure that will go over well.” Hugh shook his head. “He’s not for you. He’s not worthy of your attention. Besides, like I mentioned, I don’t think he particularly likes me.”

  “You’ve implied more than once he doesn’t care for anyone. I don’t believe that matters much.” Daphne tugged on her brother’s arm, determination filling her. “I refuse to approach him again. I already made a fool of myself once for this man. I need you to make an introduction. Please?”

  Shaking his head, he shrugged away from her grip, smoothing the front of his waistcoat. He appeared agitated, as if she’d just asked him for the world. “I shouldn’t do this.”

  “But you’re going to.” She knew he would. She’d always been able to convince Hugh to do just about anything for her.

  With a resigned sigh, he offered her his arm. Daphne took it, curling her arm around his elbow. Nerves made her stomach dance and she stood straighter, hoping she looked composed. Serene. Attractive enough to catch the man’s attention—again.

  And see what she might be tempted to do once she had it.

  * * *

  Hartwell swallowed hard as he watched Lady Pomeroy approach. Christ, she was beautiful. A sensual, regal countess and completely untouchable to a man like him. Except for that one evening he’d held her in his arms. A stolen moment he knew he’d never be able to experience again.

  A miracle then, that her brother led her to him at this very moment. A slight smile curved her lush, rose-colored lips, the sight of her mouth making him stiffen all over. His throat went dry and he coughed. Prayed like hell he wouldn’t make an utter fool of himself and trip over his words.

  For whatever reason, that night at the masquerade he’d spoken with relative ease. For him, anyway. As if she were a balm to his rather hectic soul.

  “Hartwell.” Viscount Huxley’s jovial voice filled Hartwell with immediate jealousy. How he envied Fitzgerald’s easy, friendly behavior. The man always acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “May I make an introduction?”

  He kept his gaze trained on Fitzgerald’s face. One look at the beauty standing next to him, and he’d turn into a stuttering idiot. “Of course,” he said, wincing at the formal tone of his voice.

  “Capital. This is my sister.” Fitzgerald extended his arm and Lady Pomeroy took a step forward, her pale green silken skirts rustling with the movement. Hartwell allowed his gaze to wander all over her form, noted the flush on her cheeks, the sparkle in her pretty greenish-blue eyes. Lustrous dark brown curls brushed her cheeks and the front of her gown dipped low, allowing him a perfect glimpse of the tops of her perfect breasts. “The dowager Countess of Pomeroy, I introduce you to the Marquess of Hartwell.”

  “L-Lady Pomeroy.” He jerked his head in her direction, cursing himself for stumbling over the word. He could hear his father yelling at him. The same demands he’d heard every day for years, especially when he was younger and his problem overwhelmed him.

  Out with it, boy! You’ll never be a success if you can’t string five words together!

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Hartwell. Again.” Her smile grew, dazzling in its intensity, and he was momentarily blinded by the sight of it. Christ above, she was a vision. Surely the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. “I have so wanted a more…formal introduction between us. I finally persuaded my brother to do the honors,” she continued, shocking him with her confession.

  “Indeed.” Confusion flooded him. She’d wanted to formally meet him? Had forced her brother to introduce them? So she had realized he’d been the one who danced with her. Her not-so-subtle hints were enough proof to confirm.

  Despite his wariness, the fact that she wanted the introduction pleased him. He knew of his reputation
amongst society. How they all viewed him as a cocky, arrogant bastard who couldn’t be bothered with anyone, not even his bloody peers.

  He’d much rather endure that particular reputation than allow anyone to discover the truth. That he was painfully shy because of his childhood affliction. An affliction he still hadn’t completely rid himself of. Hence the reason he kept his mouth clamped shut most of the time.

  All of society considered him unfriendly. In fact, he was damned lonely if anyone wanted to know the truth, which it seemed no one really cared about.

  Until, perhaps, Lady Pomeroy.

  “Are you enjoying yourself this evening, my Lord Hartwell?” Her lilting voice was sweet as honey and the sound of it filled him with an ache he could hardly deny.

  “I am.” He was now that he was in the presence of this woman.

  She held a delicate cream silk fan in her right hand, waved it madly for the briefest moment, and he watched in fascination as the tendrils of dark hair that curled about her neck fluttered with the breeze. The delicate wisps teased her creamy skin, lifting as if ready to take gossamer flight before settling gently against the slope of her elegant neck.

  He was filled with the sudden urge to touch her there. Skim his fingers down her throat, feel her pulse flutter wildly beneath his fingertips and then his mouth. Kiss her, lick her, nibble her sweet skin until he had her whimpering, begging for more…

  Hartwell banished the tempting vision, focusing on the woman who still smiled up at him. She looked so very pleased to be in his presence and he found it damned odd. Even her brother cast her a strange sideways glance, as if he too couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding. Hartwell wondered desperately what he should say next.

  “It’s such a shame we weren’t able to talk further when we last saw each other,” she said with a beguiling smile. “Perhaps we can remedy that sometime.”

  She was not so subtly asking him to call on her. The deadly look her brother shot him screamed stay away, but he wasn’t quite so inclined to pay attention to protective brothers. Especially when such a lovely lady openly flirted with him.