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SECRETS OF A PROPER COUNTESS
Excerpt: CHAPTER ONE
Isobel Maitland, the Countess of Ashdown, was staring at the man like a three-penny whore. She should have been ashamed of herself, since she could not afford to be caught doing something even as mildly shocking as gazing at a handsome gentleman at a ball.
But she was standing in the shadows in the corner of Evelyn Renshaw's crowded ballroom, hidden behind the mask that covered most of her face. She felt perfectly invisible, and she was most definitely enjoying the view.
The gentleman in her sights was tall, lean and handsome, with a trim athletic body built for every single one of the sins he was reputedly guilty of. Beneath his black half-mask, Isobel watched his eyes glitter as he spoke to the coterie of adoring females that surrounded him. He grinned, a flash of teeth and dimples deep enough to drown in, and she felt her heart flutter, then turn to stone as one of his admirers pressed her ample bosom against his arm.
In Isobel's opinion as a voyeuse and a woman, his mouth was the most fascinating thing about him. She watched his lips quirk and grin and ripple as he charmed the mesmerized clutch of costumed ladies, and Isobel felt her own lips twitch in response. She couldn't hear him from all the way across the room, but she could tell that the conversation was wicked. A lady's blush, a flutter of a fan against a hot cheek, a gape, the pucker of a painted mouth gave everything away. The rogue just grinned at the discomfiture he was causing, one corner of that mouth turned up irresistibly.
Isobel knew exactly who the gentleman was, despite his mask, and she'd heard all the tittle-tattle about where his sinful lips had ventured, and what that firm, smirking, thoroughly masculine mouth was capable of. She'd admired him from the shadows at other social events, even imagined flirting with him, but she'd never dared to stare at him in such a blatant fashion before tonight. She ran her finger along the stiff lace that trimmed her mask, glad for the disguise.
Phineas Archer, the Marquess of Blackwood, was notorious, titled, wealthy, and thoroughly dangerous to a lady's sense of decorum. His illustrious family name, his grandsire's vast wealth and his status as England's most eligible bachelor kept him acceptable to polite company despite his reputation. His credentials made the ton willing to turn a blind eye to Blackwood's 'adventures'. Especially now, with the London Season newly begun, and fresh crop of debutantes being herded into Town to find husbands, Blackwood was in hot demand.
Still, he was out of place in Evelyn's elegant ballroom. He had rough edges, despite his fine breeding and excellent tailoring. It was something dangerous in his eyes, Isobel decided, or perhaps the way his gaze constantly scanned the room like a predator on the hunt.
Blackwood leaned in to whisper something in a lady's ear, and she swayed in response. He caught her elbow in a practiced move to keep the chit from swooning. Isobel smiled.
He was very good at playing the rake.
If she were the kind of woman who gambled, and she most certainly was not, Isobel would wager that Blackwood's name topped every dreamy-eyed debutante's list of potential husbands. Of course, every matchmaking mama believed it would be her sweet, virginal daughter that would capture, shackle, and tame the wicked marquess at last. Realistically, the mamas, if not their starry-eyed daughters, knew that if an innocent bride failed to satisfy his wild ways, she'd at least have her husband's wealth to console her and convince her to turn a blind eye to his scandals.
From where Isobel was standing, which was well back in the shadows, she secretly thought it would be a great pity indeed if the devilish, elegant, carefree marquess was curbed.
She wondered if it was even possible.
Tales of his escapades made anything that appeared on the stage at Covent Garden seem dull by comparison. The gossip he created was a sinful pleasure to take with afternoon tea in London's finest drawing rooms. Isobel hung on every word, savored every story, though she feigned the same indignation and indifference as every other respectable lady while her toes curled in her shoes.
Beneath the cerise silk of her mask, Isobel shut her eyes and smiled, letting her deliciously wicked little thoughts have their way with her. Those shoulders, the way he moved, it was all quite—
"Have we met?"
She opened her eyes.
The Marquess of Blackwood was standing right in front of her.
Up close, he was taller, broader, more dangerously male than she'd realized. Her heart kicked into a fast trot, and a hot flush swept over her from her toes to her hairline. She looked around, but thankfully no one was looking back.
"You were staring," he added, ignoring the fact that she was too stunned to speak. His tone was playful, his voice deep and sensual. It vibrated across some tightly drawn string inside her.
She felt as if he'd caught her naked.
She stared at the curious, amused little smile on his face and the dimple in his chin. His lips curved into a deeper grin, and she knew he recognized her affliction for what it was. The knowing eyes behind his mask were fixed on her wide-open mouth, which was painted a sinful scarlet to match her costume.
She shut it with an audible snap, and drew herself together.
It wasn't possible that he could have recognized her, since they had never actually met. He had never so much as glanced in her direction at the few social events where they had both been present. As a prim and respectable widow, she was hardly his type.
There were strict rules governing her behavior, carefully noted in her husband's will, and enforced by her mother-in-law. Fortunately, Honoria despised costume balls, and was not here. Besides, while Honoria might control her life, she could hardly control Isobel's thoughts, and this wasn't the first time Isobel had let her mind roam where her hands could not go where Blackwood was concerned.
While wicked thoughts were harmless enough, he was now standing before her, grinning, waiting for her to say something.
"I—" Isobel swallowed hard and considered. She should flee without another word, but the possibilities of remaining intrigued her. What harm could there be in flirting with the handsome rogue for a few moments before someone else caught his eye?
How long had it been since she'd seen a gleam of appreciation like that in a gentleman's eyes? Her husband had been dead for two years, and even before that—she bit her lip.
This could be her only chance to flirt, to feel pretty and admired. Who would know if she enjoyed a few brief moments basking in the warm glow of such a harmless pleasure?
Dozens of ladies flirted. Why shouldn't she? She squared her shoulders, met his gaze, and let anonymity make her bold.
"No, we have not met, sir. But is that not the point of a masquerade ball? Enjoying the mystery of not knowing to whom you are speaking until the unmasking?"
He chuckled, a low, seductive sound that flicked a fingernail over her nerves, already stretched taut in awareness of him.
"Yet is unmasking not a most unfortunate exercise? At midnight, we will all congratulate each other on our clever costumes and feel naught but disappointment when Cleopatra turns out to be Lady Dalrymple, squeezed into a tight corset and wearing too much paint. Better to remain masked, I say. More tantalizing."
His eyes roamed over her, slowly taking her measure from head to toe, and forced herself to stand perfectly still. Under her silk tunic, her nipples tightened.
"Your costume is a triumph if I may say so, my lady. I don't think I've ever seen one like it before."
Isobel stroked the damask lapel of her long, form-fitting Turkish vest, which modestly covered the flowing silk of the under tunic and baggy harem pants from neck to calf. The movement made the tiny bells hidden along the hemlines ring softly. She felt pretty and even desirable in his company, rare emotions for Isobel. They coursed through her veins like champagne bubbles, intoxicating her.
"Thank you, my lord, but I must point out that your own costume is rather lacking in originality."
He wore a black domino and a plain mask over regular evening dress, though he'd at least gone to the effort of strapping on a rather ornate antique sword. The weapon lay along his hip and thigh, emphasizing his height, glittering with precious stones set into the hilt and scabbard.
He bowed. "Indeed. You are quite correct, of course, but I decided to attend this party at the last possible moment. I borrowed the mask and domino from an actress I know rather well. The sword belonged to one of my ancestors. I took it straight off the wall, strapped it on, and ordered my coach in this direction." He flashed his rogue's grin at her again. "Now I'm glad I did."
She smiled back, knowing the mask covered her blush as well as it hid her identity, and the embroidered slippers hid the way her toes curled in delight.
"I suppose I should ask you if you'd care to dance, or if you'd like a glass of lemonade, or—" he bowed low over her hand and lifted it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers, "—perhaps a stroll in the garden?" Even to a sheltered widow like Isobel, his meaning couldn't have been clearer. She read it in the hot gaze that licked over her from behind his mask, and in the slow circles his thumb was tracing over her palm as he raised her fingers to his lips once more.
She plucked her hand from his, and let herself be more brazen still. "Sir, you must have mistaken me for someone else! If you knew anything about me at all, you'd know I much prefer champagne to lemonade, and a stroll in the gardens will not offer you any opportunities to steal a kiss. Lady Evelyn keeps her gardens extremely well lit during her parties to prevent such liberties." She saw appreciation in his eyes for her wit. It warmed every silk-clad inch of her.
He offered his arm. "Then let's find some champagne, and after that-" he leaned in close to her ear, letting his voice tickle, his words excite. "After that we shall see about extinguishing a few burning brands in the garden."
The whispered suggestion sent a delicious little shiver up her spine.
She should run to the shelter of Evelyn's sane and impeccably moral company, or excuse herself and flee to the ladies' withdrawing room until she was more herself. But she didn't.
Tonight she wanted to be anyone but Isobel, the frumpy widowed Countess of Ashdown, the woman no man had ever looked at the way Blackwood was looking at her now. It was dangerous, exhilarating, and impossible to resist.
She laid her hand on the fine wool of his sleeve, gave him an alluring smile meant to suggest she did this all the time, and let him lead her astray.
© Lecia Cornwall
