Chapter One
“Coincidence? I’d rather believe that the gods with their trickery guide our path, rather than mere coincidence…”
Mr Daniel Lockwood – classical scholar, philosopher and bachelor.
Rook waited…and then, waited some more.
He was not a patient man by nature, but had learnt to be out of necessity. This assignation had been months in the making, and he’d be damned if he was going to ruin all his good work on the off-chance that the lady did not have a timepiece on her. If he had been feeling particularly arrogant, he may have even considered that she was preening herself for him in the retiring room.
He looked up at the sound of faint laughter coming from the house. Even from here, in the dark, sunken garden, he could see the bright glow of candlelight spill out onto the terrace, revealing an entwined couple in the corner.
Rook turned back to gaze out at the darkness. He hoped he too would be entwined very soon. For a month now, he had slowly seduced Lady Selina Pinesdown: flirtatious comments, a tantalising caress down the arm, a teasing sweep of his lips on her wrist; he almost enjoyed the chase more than the capture. Rook, as everyone called him, wasn’t a rake by nature, and he chose his lovers with careful consideration, but he did enjoy beautiful things. The widowed Selina was, by anyone’s standards, a delectable piece. He tapped his fingers impatiently against the old, brass sundial that stood in the centre of the garden: she was late.
It was his sister, Hestia, who had ultimately given him an opportunity for the final seduction.
She wanted a house party. A goddamn week-long house party in May!
At the time, he had wondered why the hell she would consider such a thing in the middle of the Season, especially as she had wantedhimto host it at his country seat of Rookdean House. Thankfully, it wasn’t far from London, being merely a couple of hours’ carriage ride. He normally hated house parties: they made him feel trapped, a prisoner within someone else’s home, and at first, he had been highly resistant to the idea.
Hestia, however, was very persuasive. She had looked at him with ‘those’ eyes, and he knew he was doomed. She was his younger sister by seven years; their mother had died giving birth to her, and their father had followed his wife to the afterlife only nine years later. Rook had been in his sixteenth year, and too damn young for the sudden responsibilities of an earldom and a continually crying younger sister, but they’d somehow muddled through.
Still, Hestia was married and a mother now, having only given birth a little over five months earlier to a cheery babe they’d christened Harry. They were both well-looked after by her husband, Nathan, although in the past few months, his sister seemed to wear an air of sadness. Therefore, he’d reluctantly agreed to the party – perhaps, she just needed to leave the nursery awhile. For all Rook’s faults, he did love his sister.
He remembered his last mistress, who had detailed his failings when he had told her to look for a new protector. It had been over six months previously, and his defects had actually been rather numerous: arrogant, controlling, manipulative, emotionless, and an inability to be impulsive – he really didn’t see the last one as a fault.
Despite only being in his thirtieth year, suddenly Rook felt…old. Having to watch the besotted look on his brother-in-law’s face often did that to him, and for Hestia to have a babe already…
He shook himself. Everything was perfect. Once he had acquiesced with his sister’s house party plans, he realised how useful it would be. He made only two stipulations to his sister: firstly, an invitation to his friend Jack, so that at least his days would be enjoyable; secondly, the invitation to Lady Pinesdown: she could take care of his nights – and so the scene was set.
Rook wryly acknowledged to himself that his sister would also have his guts for garters if he stayed out here any longer. He hadn’t actually appeared at the opening event yet – a bloody masquerade! What a ridiculous notion!
Normally, they were the grand finale, but Hestia had insisted she wanted to be ‘different’. Well, Rook would be ‘different’, as well – he’d be late to his own masquerade. The Marquess of Lansdown had kept him busy all day discussing a parliamentary bill he wanted to address, and Rook hadn’t left London until late. He’d dressed all in black, as he really didn’t know or care, what the theme was – perhaps he’d be lucky and it would be some kind of ‘funereal’ theme. He did know, however, what the delectable Selina would be coming as, having asked her on their last meeting.
“Why, a goddess of course,” she had laughed over her shoulder, shaking her dark curls side to side.
Fitting enough, Rook thought, although a little narcissistic, but then he wasn’t with the woman for her humility. A thought occurred to him – had he actually ever ‘talked’ to Selina? Did he actuallylikeSelina? Not just her body but…
Rook spun round as he heard the sound of heeled slippers on the path, running towards him. The next moment, a lithe body dressed in a white, Grecian dress flew down the steps. She wore a simple, white mask – at bloody last – his thoughts had nearly turned morose again. He waited for the woman to enter the garden, but at the last moment, her foot slipped on the damp moss of the last step, and her body pitched forward.
Rook rushed to her before she could fall to the ground, and she careered into his chest – a bundle of female warmth. He put his arms firmly around her: one around her waist and the other on her backside.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured softly into her ear, whirling her around and pressing her against the shadowed wall of the sunken garden, hidden from prying eyes.
Yes, he certainly did! thought Clara in shock, as she felt the burning hotness of a man’s large body pin her to a cold, stone wall.
“I don’t think…” she managed to stutter, before her chin was lifted from out of a snowy-white cravat, and a pair of lips met hers.
Clara had always imagined that her first kiss would be fairly…innocuous. That, of course, was not counting young Thomas Leigh who had kissed her at twelve years, or the sloppy peck her cousin had bestowed on her once. Oh, she had read of passion and hearts pounding with desire: her uncle had been a classical scholar and that particular mythology was full of it. However, she had always thought it rather…exaggerated somehow. She could see now how she might have been wrong…
This kiss was wild and carnal.
They were the only words she could think of, and even those were obliterated from her mind, as the kisser nipped at her bottom lip. She gasped, opening her mouth at the sudden bite, and the kisser murmured his approval, soothing his tongue over the area.
“Don’t think. Just kiss me.” The voice was husky and raw, and Clara whimpered. Whimpered! She never whimpered, as she was not the whimpering type. She was –
Those lips descended again and, before they met hers, Clara caught the impression of a strong face; fair hair gleamed in the moonlight, and she felt a faint sense of recognition. She shivered as the kisser moulded his mouth to hers again. His tongue touched her lips, and she would have jumped if she had not been held so tightly.
She remembered his request about kissing him back. She really…shouldn’t.
