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Sensations skittered across Elliot’s nerve endings. His breath seized when he realized little Emma was on the prowl—for him. The knowledge filled him with stark need, and fear, and damn if it would abate. He slowly sat, needing something firmer than the ground beneath him. She reached his darkened corner and stepped between his casually splayed legs.
“They say you are the man to see when one wants to indulge in sin,” she said with a low husky voice that trembled slightly.
His heart was damned well near to bursting from his chest. What? “Do they?”
“Are you not the duke of Hartford, the gentleman dubbed for the last several seasons as a veritable rake of the first order, London’s wickedest lover, and society’s most devilish duke?”
The question caused his stomach to tighten. “Not everything printed in the scandal sheet is true.” He’d only had a few lovers, and he was quite discriminating when selecting those lovers. He did not dally with innocents, nor had he ever bedded a married or affianced lady.
“So, I’ve been misinformed. A pity,” she drawled, effortlessly captivating his interest when all the other ladies for this season had been unable to do so. But then Emma Fitzgerald had always been his weakness.
“Well, half of it is true.”
“The better part?”
“The dangerous half.”
Her lips curved in approval.
“You must tell me your name so I won't be at a disadvantage,” he said, beyond curious as to her response. Lady Waverly had designed her masquerade so only the identities of the ladies, who had far more to lose within society, were protected.
“A lady intrigued by the decadence and notorious vices a masquerade ball offers.”
The silence that stretched between them was filled with something dangerous and exciting.
He almost expired on the spot. “How intrigued?”
She made no reply. Instead, she stepped between Elliot’s splayed legs, brushing against his thighs. Bold. Oh so bold and unlike Emma. He tried to reason around the hum of need firing his brain cells. It was then he noticed the mask was not a mask at all but gold paint. Somehow, she had used makeup like the actors did on stage, and whatever else he couldn’t imagine, painting the mask onto her face. The painting covered her forehead, nose, and top half of her cheeks in dark shades of gold. Only the shape of her eyes was fitted with an elegant apple red and black mask that curved to her ears.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened, her lips parted, but she did not speak.
Unable to halt the desire, he allowed the tips of his fingers to trail along the line of her neck to the hollow of her shoulder. She did not slap his cheeks or flounce away. Good God. What else would she permit?
He lowered his hand, thinking furiously. There was no doubt it was her. Everything about Emma had been imprinted on his heart. Her scent. The shape and texture of her body. Her laugh, and that low growl she made when she was angry. Never for a moment had he doubted it. He might not have seen her often over the last two years, but everything about Emma had been indelibly seared into his mind. The smooth huskiness of her voice, her lush sensuality, the shy peeks she tended to give him from beneath her lashes, and her laugh. God, her laugh. Low, husky, yet utterly feminine. Why was she truly at this house party which was designed for sin and debauchery? A slight smile lingered on her lips, but he could see the nervousness and the impossible lust. His cock hardened on a surge of need so painful his hands trembled. He released the tight clamp on his glass, setting it on the fountain’s ledge, and stuffed his offending appendages deep in his trousers and tried to convince himself to turn her away.
She was his best friend’s younger sister. She was a lady, and she was an innocent. She was off limits to him.
“Tell me your name.”
She licked her bottom lip, a nervous habit her mother constantly scolded her for.
“No names,” she breathed huskily.
“Tell me,” he said with more force than he’d intended.
“I’m Amelia, Your Grace.” She dipped into a quick, graceful curtsy, and smiled, which wobbled at his lack of response.
Amelia? Her middle name? How could she not fathom he knew everything there was to know about her?
“A pleasure, Amelia. Let’s not be formal, please, call me Elliot,” he said slowly, wondering what the hell he was doing.
“Elliot,” she said softly as if tasting his name. “A pleasure.”
“Why are you here?” Perhaps she would think the question odd, giving the nature of the ball, and the evident reason people attended. He waited for her reply with patience that impressed him.
“I’ve always enjoyed gardens,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes, alerting him that she was deliberately obtuse.
