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Something was holding him back.
“Why?” she asked softly. “You have not yet asked me to dance or flirted with me or made a casual remark about where you intend to be in the future so that we might find one another again.”
Montoya reentered the small circle. “You are too bold, Miss Benbridge,” he admonished gruffly.
“And you are a coward.”
He drew up sharply just a few inches from her.
A cool evening breeze blew across the top of her shoulder, carrying with it one of the long, artful curls that hung down her back. The count’s gaze focused on the glossy lock, then drifted over the swell of her breasts.
“You look at me as a man looks at his mistress.”
“Do I?” His voice had lowered, grown softer, the accent more pronounced. It was a lover’s tone, or a seducer’s. She felt it move over her skin like a tactile caress, and she relished the experience. It was rather like exiting a warm house on a frosty day. The sudden impact of sensation was startling and stole one’s breath.
“How would you know that look, Miss Benbridge?”
“I know a great many things. However, since you have decided not to acquaint yourself with me, you will never know what they are.”
His arms crossed his chest. It was a challenging pose, yet it made her smile, because it signaled his intent to stay. At least for a short while longer. “And what of Lord Ware?” he asked.
“What of him?”
“You are, for all intents and purposes, betrothed.”
“So I am.” She noted how his jaw tensed. “Do you have a grievance with Lord Ware?”
The count did not reply.
She began tapping her foot again. “We are having visceral reactions to one another, Count Montoya. As attractive as you are, I would venture to say that you are accustomed to snaring women’s interest. For my part, I can say with absolute certainty that a similar situation has never happened to me before. Stunning men do not follow me about—”
“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he interrupted. “A woman I cared for deeply.”
“Oh.” Try as she might, Amelia could not hide her disappointment. He had thought she was someone else. His interest was not in her, but in a woman who looked like her.
Turning away, she sank onto the small bench, absently arranging her skirts for comfort. Her hands occupied themselves with twirling her mask between gloved fingertips.
“It is my turn to apologize to you.” Her head tilted back so that their gazes met. “I have put you in an awkward position, and goaded you to stay when you wanted to go.”
The contemplative cant to his head made her wish she could see the features beneath the pearlescent mask. Despite the lack of a complete visual picture, she found him remarkably attractive—the purring rumble of his voice . . . the luscious shape of his lips . . . the unshakable confidence of his bearing . . .
But then he was not truly unshakable. She was affecting him in ways a stranger should not be able to. And he was affecting her equally.
“That was not what you wished to hear,” he noted, stepping closer.
Her gaze strayed to his boots, watching as his cape fluttered around them. Dressed as he was, he was imposing, but she was unafraid.
Amelia waved one hand in a careless affectation of dismissal, unsure of what to say. He was correct; she was too bold. But she was not brazen enough to admit outright that she found the thought of his interest gratifying. “I hope you find the woman you are looking for,” she said instead.
“I am afraid that isn’t possible.”
“Oh?”
“She was lost to me many years ago.”
Recognizing the yearning in his words, she sympathized. “I am sorry for your loss. I, too, have lost someone dear to me and know how it feels.”
Montoya took a seat beside her. The bench was small, and due to its curvature it forced them to sit near enough that her skirts touched his cape. It was improper for them to be seated so close to each other, yet she did not protest. Instead she breathed deeply and discovered he smelled like sandalwood and citrus. Crisp, earthy, and virile. Like the man himself.
“You are too young to suffer as I do,” he murmured.
“You underestimate death. It has no scruples and disregards the age of those left behind.”
The ribbons that graced the stick of her mask fluttered gently in the soft breeze and came to rest atop his gloved hand. The sight of the lavender, pink, and pale blue satin against his stark black riveted her attention.
How would they look to passersby? Her voluminous silver lace and gay multicolored flowers next to his complete lack of any color at all.
“You should not be out here alone,” he said, rubbing her ribbons between his thumb and index finger. He could not feel them through his gloves, which made the action sensual, as if the lure of fondling something that belonged to her was irresistible.
“I am accustomed to solitude.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It is familiar.”
“That is not an answer.”
Amelia looked at him, noting the many details one can see only in extreme proximity to another. Montoya had long, thick lashes surrounding almond-shaped eyes. They were beautiful. Exotic. Knowing. Accented by shadows that came from within as well as from without.
“What was she like?” she asked. “The woman you thought I was.”
The barest hint of a smile betrayed the possibility of dimples. “I asked you a question first,” he said.
She heaved a dramatic sigh just to see more of that teasing curve of his lips. He never set his smile completely free. She wondered why, and she wondered how she might see it. “Very well, Count Montoya. In answer to your query, yes, I enjoy being alone.”
“Many people find being alone intolerable.”
“They have no imagination. I, on the other hand, have too much imagination.”
“Oh?” He canted his body toward her. The pose caused his doeskin breeches to stretch tautly across the powerful muscles of his thighs. With the gray satin spread out beneath him in contrast, she co
uld see every nuance and plane, every hard length of sinew. “What do you imagine?”
Swallowing hard, Amelia found she could not look away from the view. It was a lascivious glance she was giving him, her interest completely carnal.
“Umm . . .” She tore her gaze upward, dazed by the direction of her own thoughts. “Stories. Faery tales and such.”
With the half mask hiding his features she couldn’t be certain, but she thought he might have arched a brow at her. “Do you write them down?”
“Occasionally.”
“What do you do with them?”
“You have asked far too many questions without answering my one.”
Montoya’s dark eyes glittered with warm amusement. “Are we keeping score?”
“You were,” she pointed out. “I am simply following the rules you set.”
There! A dimple. She saw it.
“She was audacious,” he murmured, “like you.”
Amelia blushed and looked away, smitten with that tiny groove in his cheek. “Did you like that about her?”
“I loved that about her.”
The intimate pitch to his voice made her shiver.
He stood and held his hand out to her. “You are cold, Miss Benbridge. You should go inside.”
She looked up at him. “Will you go inside with me?”
The count shook his head.
Extending her arm, she set her fingers within his palm and allowed him to assist her to her feet. His hand was large and warm, his grasp strong and sure. She was reluctant to release him and was pleased when he seemed to feel similarly. They stood there for a long moment, touching, the only sound their gentle inhalations and subsequent exhales . . . until the gentle, haunting strains of the minuet drifted out on the night zephyr.
Montoya’s grip tightened and his breathing faltered. She knew his thoughts traveled along the same path as hers. Lifting her mask to her face, Amelia lowered into a deep curtsy.
“One dance,” she urged softly when he did not move. “Dance with me as if I were the woman you miss.”
“No.” There was a heartbeat’s hesitation, and then he bowed over her hand. “I would rather dance with you.”
Touched, her throat tightened, cutting off any reply she might have made. She could only rise and begin the steps, approaching him and then retreating. Spinning slowly and then circling him. The crunching of the gravel beneath her feet overpowered the music, but Amelia heard it in her mind and hummed the notes. He joined her, his deep voice creating a rich accompaniment, the combination of sound enchanting her.
