C.J. paled. “Aunt—”
“Our carriage is not to arrive for another half hour at the earliest. I must return home as soon as possible so that I may loosen my stays and lie down in comfort.” C.J. bent over her “aunt” to assure her that she would do everything in her power to see her home swiftly and safely. “Here, Niece,” Lady Dalrymple exclaimed, pressing C.J.’s hand to her chest. “Feel how my heart palpitates.”
In the fuss that ensued as the other members of their party scrambled to give the countess some air, her ladyship’s hand firmly encircled her “niece’s” delicate wrist, pulling the young lady toward her. She winked at C.J.
The young woman gasped. “I beg you never to do that again! You gave me such a dreadful fright,” she whispered. The countess was embarking on another performance equal to her elaborate improvisation in Lady Wickham’s drawing room. Miss Welles was beginning to wonder which of them was the greater, or more prolific, play-actor—herself or her eccentric benefactress.
Darlington had hastily excused himself from the Digbys and now approached C.J. and the countess, a study in solicitousness. “Miss Welles, may I be of some assistance?”
C.J. looked up at him, her eyes swimming with gratitude, until something in his expression made her realize that the earl seemed somehow in on the game. What, C.J. wondered, had transpired between his lordship and Lady Dalrymple when she had repaired downstairs with Miss Fairfax?
“Lady Dalrymple, may I offer the use of my carriage? I find that I, too, must leave the assembly posthaste, and it would grieve me terribly should anything happen to you while you were waiting for your own equipage to arrive. It is but a small distance from the Royal Crescent to my town house in the Circus, so you will not be putting me to any hardship.”
The countess gratefully clasped Darlington’s hands in her own. “Oh, your lordship,” she gushed. “I am most grateful for your kind generosity. Are you absolutely certain you will not be too much incommoded by the aches and pains of an old woman?”
C.J. thought that perhaps her “aunt” might be hamming it up a tad, but the rest of their party did not seem the slightest bit suspicious, or even remotely aware, of the charade being enacted before their eyes.
The Digbys and Lady Oliver, several yards away on the opposite side of the ballroom, appeared unconcerned with Lady Dalrymple’s discomfort. Evidently, claims of bosom friendship notwithstanding, Darlington’s aunt elected not to join the others in expressing concern for the countess’s health. Whatever subject she was discussing with the Digbys evidently took precedence.
Her ladyship was graciously helped from her chair by her “niece” and Lord Darlington, who supported her on either side as they made their way to Darlington’s handsome black and burgundy barouche. His exit went unnoticed by his ordinarily hawkeyed aunt. Darlington exchanged a few words with his coachman, then handed in Lady Dalrymple and offered an assist to C.J. before ascending himself, taking the seat facing the countess and her niece.
Indeed, it was not a long ride to the Royal Crescent. The coachman halted at Lady Dalrymple’s door and rang a bell produced from a pocket in his voluminous coat. Folsom came out of the house to open the carriage door for his mistress and assist her descent, handing C.J. down as well.
C.J. looked back at Darlington, who had joined them on the pavement. “I am most grateful to your lordship for your kindness toward my aunt,” she said softly.
The night air smelled of jasmine. How wonderful to discover that it bloomed in Bath! Lady Dalrymple surveyed the young people before her. “Cassandra, it is quite musty inside the house. I have not been airing the rooms as often as is my wont, due to my condition. Perhaps you should like to take an evening constitutional before retiring. You are no doubt fatigued from dancing and enduring the crush and the heat in the Assembly Rooms; the night air will renew your spirits. I shall have Cook make a tisane for me. You may bid me a good night at your leisure.”
The coachman gave a short command, and the horses advanced several paces, creating a discreet distance between the carriage and the couple.
“Your aunt is a better actor than her brother was,” remarked Darlington slyly, as the dowager entered her town house. He gave C.J. a searching look as if to ask, “May I?” before he reached for her hand.
In an instant she was enfolded in his arms, inhaling the heady combination of the perfumed night air and the earl’s own musky scent. This was not the time to play the surprised virgin. “My lord,” she whispered, as her lips met his with the same eagerness, her tongue performing the same ardent dance as his. Yielding and pliant to his desire, she felt Darlington’s body, hard and muscular against hers, enveloping her softness.
His hands expertly roamed from the small of her back, tracing the curves of her supple torso, up through her hair, sending tingles down her spine, while he pocketed a handful of tortoiseshell pins that had secured her upswept curls. His tapered finger twirled a glossy tendril. C.J. felt no regrets about succumbing to her hunger for his touch, for the taste of his mouth on hers, or for the craving his body inspired in her. She was masquerading as the daughter of a dissolute marquess, but she didn’t also have to pretend she was coy about sex. Not now.
Darlington tenderly kissed each eyelid, allowing C.J.’s soft lashes to flutter against his lips. “Percy,” she whispered, addressing him in the most familiar way. It flouted all rules of decorum to use his nickname, but to do otherwise under the circumstances would have been ludicrous. At that moment she would have surrendered herself to him entirely without any
