“I never had one,” she admitted. “It was putty, colored to look like a beauty spot. Am I ugly without it?”
He ignored her teasing question and frowned. Clearly it had not been a real mole. The evidence was right in front of him. But why would she have been wearing a disguise before she’d been invited to her first masquerade?
“And your bodice?” he growled.
“Of course you’d notice that.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I had to bind my bosom somewhat in order to fit into this gown.”
All the rest of Julian’s questions vanished from his mind. All that filled him now was the intense desire to be the one to unbind those plump breasts, to feel them spill into his waiting palms so that he could bring her pleasure.
“Er,” said the young man who had been cut aside when Julian swooped in. “Is this an inopportune time to ask for a dance?”
Julian gave him a look so withering, it was a wonder the lad did not shrivel into a tiny speck on the spot.
“Perhaps later,” the lad blurted, and scurried away without looking back.
“That was unkind,” Miss Thorne chided Julian.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Did someone tell you I was kind?”
“Several people,” she replied. “You really must work on keeping your bad reputation.”
He glared at her.
She grinned at him.
“I’ll have you know,” he began, his tone frosty.
“Don’t worry.” She patted his arm consolingly. “They can think you generousandbe terrified of you at the same time.”
What were they talking about? Julian’s ears had stopped working. And his brain. And possibly his lungs. All he could think about was her hand on his arm.
She was touching him. Surely it would be churlish not to touch her in return. He might start by flinging her extravagant red wig aside to reveal her natural glossy black curls. He wanted to feel one of those soft ringlets looped about his finger, and assure himself it was nothewho was becoming wound around her pinkie—
Miss Thorne took her hand away.
Good. Good. He was glad for the loss.
It was ridiculous to miss her touch already. Perhaps it was not her causing this effect, but rather the simple fact of being at one of his masquerades. Heaven knew the people upstairs were engaged in far more sensual pursuits than a gentle touch upon the arm. It was the crowd’s giddy comportment that clouded his emotions. He didn’t evenhaveemotions. He’d got rid of them years ago. This reaction was sexual, and nothing more.
He would not indulge it.Hecontrolled his body, not the other way around.
“Come upstairs with me,” he commanded.
It should have sounded like a command. It did sound like a command. Sort of. A command, but also a husky, rasping plea. It would not do at all.
He cleared his throat and found his harsh, imperial tone. “Come with me.”
She arched her brows. “Upstairs, Your Grace? To the rooms dedicated to unspeakable acts of pleasure? Is this to be a… business tour?”
It occurred to Julian that he did not know if she referred to the business of managing a masquerade or to her trade as a courtesan... and in his current uncomfortable state, he did not dare to ask.
He had to gain control of the situation—and himself.
“Not like that,” he said gruffly. “We can save... tours... for another day. I want to show you something.”
This explanation clearly did not alter her perception of the invitation, but she hooked her hand through his. “I am yours to command, my lord.”
He doubted that very much.
