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He had not been invited.
That did not mean he would not be here.
If his interest in her was related to St. John, she imagined he would have the knowledge required to gain entry to the house and find the private sitting room. She could not decide if that meant it would be best for him not to come. With the household she lived in and the man she was promised to marry, she could not afford any more trouble. But her heart recklessly ignored the situation as a whole and concentrated solely on what it wanted. She wasn’t certain what she would do if he responded to her invitation; she knew only that she wished he would.
Anticipation and heady expectation filled her at the thought. She had dressed with purpose this evening, choosing a gown made of dark, thick sapphire damask accented with delicate silver lace at the bodice, elbows, and underskirts. With sapphires in her hair, at her throat, and adorning her fingers, she looked older and worldlier.
If only she felt that way inside. Instead she felt as she had as a young girl—breathless with the desire to see Colin and eager to feel the emotions that only he roused in her. She had thought she would never feel similarly again. It was both thrilling and frightening to feel that way about a masked stranger.
Finally, she reached the small sitting room she had specified in the note. Sarah had learned of the room from her cousin who worked in the Fairchild household. The abigail passed the information on to Amelia, wanting her to have a quiet place to retreat if necessary.
Pausing a moment with her hand on the knob, Amelia took a deep breath and attempted to calm her riotous nerves. It was hopeless, so she abandoned the effort. Opening the door, she slipped inside. The drapes were open, allowing a sliver of silver moonlight to slant in through the sash.
She waited just inside the door, giving her eyes the time necessary to adjust to the reduced lighting. She held her breath expectantly, her ears straining to listen above the rushing of blood, hoping that he would be there and call out to her.
But there was nothing more than the ticking of the clock on the mantel.
Amelia moved to the window and turned, taking in the contents of the room. Two settees, one chaise, two chairs, tables of various sizes scattered about . . . There was more, but no Montoya.
She sighed, and her hands moved restlessly over her voluminous skirts. Perhaps she had arrived too early, or he was having some difficulty gaining entry. She looked out the window, half frightened by the thought that he might be standing outside. But there was no Montoya there either.
A few minutes. She could spare that much.
As she began to pace, the clock ticked relentlessly. Her heart rate slowed and her breathing settled into a natural rhythm. Disappointment weighed on her shoulders and the corners of her mouth. After ten minutes passed, Amelia knew it was impossible to linger, though she thought she might wait all night if not for those who would seek her out in worry.
She walked toward the door. “Well . . . Now there is nothing to distract from the wedding plans,” she muttered.
“Who was the miniature created for?”
Amelia paused with her hand on the knob, shivering as that dark, deep voice wrapped around her like a warm embrace. Gooseflesh covered her bared skin, and her lips parted on a silent gasp. Wide-eyed, she pivoted slowly to face the room. It was then that she saw the faint glow of the white half mask and cravat in the far corner. Montoya wore black again, enabling him to hide in the shadows of the unlit room.
“Lord Ware,” she answered, slightly dazed by her phantom’s sudden appearance and the realization that he had been there the whole time. Watching her. Why the mask? What was he hiding?
“Why was it created?” he asked gruffly. “It is not a gift commonly given from a virginal bride to her fiancé.”
She took a step toward him.
“Stay there and answer the question.”
Amelia frowned at his curtness. “I wanted him to see me in a different way.”
“He will see you in all ways, in the flesh.” There was bitterness in his tone, and the sound of it softened her apprehension, which enabled her to say what she might not have said otherwise.
“I wanted him to see that I was willing to share that side of myself with him,” she admitted.
The sharp alertness that tensed his frame was palpable. “Why would he doubt it?”
“Must we talk about him?” Her foot tapped impatiently. “We have so little time since you spent all of it hiding in that corner.”
“We are not talking about him,” Montoya said silkily. “We are discussing why an intimate gift meant for your fiancé found its way into my possession. Did you intend for me to see you in a different way as well?”
Amelia caught herself fidgeting nervously and hid her hands behind her back. “I think you see me differently,” she murmured, “regardless.”
His smile flashed white in the darkness. “So if I, a stranger, can see you as a sexual creature, why would your future husband have difficulty doing the same?”
She held her breath, considering his perceptive probing. “What is it that you want me to say? It is inappropriate for me to discuss private matters.”
“Sending me a provocative image of you is appropriate?”
“If it troubles you so, return it.” She held out her hand.
“Never,” he growled. “I will never give it back.”
“Why not?” She raised one brow in challenge. “Do you seek to use it against me?”
“As if I would ever allow anyone else to see it.”
Possessiveness. Clear as day. He was possessive over her. Amelia was both startled and pleased.
“Why does Lord Ware not see you as you wish to be seen?” he asked, finally approaching.
His tall form stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, setting her heart racing. There was something so predatory, yet elegant in the way he moved, his tails swaying gently with his determined stride. Power leashed and clad in a civilized veneer. It made his allure even more seductive, made her want to see him unrestrained and free. His features were austere, his beautifully etched lips enticing her to kiss him.
That is what I want, she realized suddenly. That is why I needed to see him again.
She was willing to be honest with him in order to achieve that aim. “We are longtime companions.”
“Is it not a love match?” he asked, stopping a few feet away.
“I should not answer that.”
“And I should not be here. You should not have lured me.”
“You had me followed.”
He shook his head. “No. Jacques took it upon himself. I am leaving Town. I need distance from you, before this matter progresses any further.”
“How can you leave? Are you not haunted by our dance in the garden?” Her hand lifted to the sapphires at her throat. “Don’t you think about the kiss we shared?”
“I cannot cease thinking of it.” He pounced and caught her hard against him, as if something in him had broken free of its bonds. “Waking. Sleeping.”
She felt his gaze heating her mouth. She licked the lower curve and breathed in the scent of his skin. He smelled exotic, spicy, purely male animal. Something instinctive inside her stirred in response.
“Do it,” she goaded, her chest moving against his with rapid pants.
Montoya whispered a low curse. “You do not love him.”
“I wish I did.” Tentatively, her hands slipped beneath his coat and settled at his waist. His skin was hot, so feverish, she could feel the heat through his garments.
“Is your heart already taken?”
Her exhale was shaky. “In a fashion.”
“Why me?”
“Why the mask?” she retorted, hating the feeling of being stripped bare by his questions.
He stared down into her upturned face. “My visage is not one you would wish to see.”
She was deeply disquieted by the finality in his tone. The feeling of incertitude disturbed her to the point that she released hi
m and attempted to step back. He held fast.
“Let us settle this now,” he said, reaching up to brush callused fingertips along her cheekbones. “What do you want from me?”
“Did you approach me because of St. John?”
Montoya shook his head. “My motives were simple. I saw a beautiful woman. I lost all sense of manners and stared, which made her ill at ease. I attempted to apologize. That is all.” His hands cupped her spine and stroked downward, arching her into him.
He was so hard, so solid, Amelia wanted to cling to him and touch him without impediments. Only one man had ever held her this closely. Only a short time ago, she would have said her ability to enjoy such an embrace with every fiber of her being had passed with Colin. Now, she knew that wasn’t true.
How extraordinary to have found Montoya.
Or more aptly, how extraordinary that he had found her.
