Page 29 of The Gilded Masquerade

“Are you here to plunder my books, again?” he seductively whispered directly into her ear, his lips grazing against her flesh.

She put her gloved fingers to her lips, but he could feel her head nod against his chin.

Footsteps drew closer and he stepped from behind Miss Dauntless, shielding her from sight with his black-clad body. She did the unthinkable, held his waist, in the same fashion she had held the chair upon discovery.

The interloper called out, disrupting his fancy, yet heightening the dangerous experience. “Fitzwilliam? We are returning to Clanswell Hall. I thought to bid good-night and leave you with an appropriate thank you for your hospitality.”

Mortified that the proper, yet passionate-natured lady hugged against his back should have to bear witness to the unfortunate woman’s advances and his awkwardness unnerved him. Hiding in the bookstacks from an inelegant woman! Verily, a reduced circumstance.

A pinch to his bicep told him the lady sought to tease him in his predicament.

Footsteps retreated.

The door unlocked, creaked, then closed.

He didn’t move, didn’t want this singular occurrence to end, but knew it would ruin them both if they lingered to the point of discovery.

“I believe the lady has left the library,” she whispered.

Turning to face her, he did not release her from captivity. Not that she struggled or appeared to want to flee, but he could not release himself from her person.

“Possibly. Although, it would be prudent to wait until we are sure it is not a ruse.”

Time halted for delirious seconds, as he hovered over her, listening to her stirred breath, enjoying the rapid rise and fall of her ample bosom against him. Temptation goaded him in breathy anticipation for what he would do next. He did not know; he was out of his mind. Discipline was only a construct, not a hard rule when in the romantic company of a bewitching woman he told himself but, if nothing else, he was an honorable man.

They waited in the tormenting silence for—something—to happen.

Blinded by the shadow, his other senses heightened. The lady drew in a ragged breath. Her dizzying perfume titillated his entire being. His thunderous heart beat in his head. His fingers delighted in the silkiness of her gown and the tiny pearls and crystals on her waist and skirt, jewels adorning a treasure.

Without forethought, he snatched the mask from his face. She unpinned hers. Their humanness bared to the other yet shrouded by velvet shadow.

“Should we not—” she whispered.

“Sshhh, she could still be about,” he replied with a husky voice, believing Miss Crossworth gone.

Silence stretched between them, more electrified now when she moved against him, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady herself. He believed he died for he did not willingly seek out this heavenly predicament.

The heated attraction between them, untampered by light, defied the laws of nature, fostering ignition, certainly not decay. Her radiance within the shadow would not allow rot or corruption of something so natural. Darkness could ruin them in the tenuous dance between heat and desire, restraint and propriety. But, for them, darkness was not where decay festered, but rather—perhaps—where the brilliance of affection blossomed.

His chest felt heavy, a pressure building like a tight coil in need of action—release. The magnetic pull was too strong to deny.

Taking her hand in his—her breath caught—and then he kissed it, not courteous and fleeting like when in the conservatory, but rather, a kiss meant to convey his admiration and respect for her. His mouth lingered longer than propriety would allow.

He had trespassed but reasoned that his mind had crossed from confusion to maddened to lunacy. Only a lunatic would equate a heated stolen moment in the concealment of his unlit library with von Liebig’s theories. Releasing her hand, they stood in the silent, electrified energy.

“Sir?” she whispered dreamily, pulling him from his private battle between Fitzwilliam Darcy and his Mr. Hyde.

“Yes?”

She released a tremulous and faint breath. “Are you going to kiss my lips, too?”

Stunned, he knit his brow. “Would you desire me to?”

“I should be most pleased,” she breathed with sensual innocence. “Surely, there is mistletoe lurking somewhere in this library.”

“I am sure there is.”

“Then propriety should not fault you. Unless, perchance, … you don’t wish … to kiss me?”