He scanned the luxurious male retreat dominated by heavy wood furnishings and studded leather upholstery. A fire crackled in the stone hearth by the seating area, and a large desk sat next to floor-to-ceiling windows framed by voluminous red drapes. No sign of Livy.
He crossed the room, the thick Aubusson muting his steps. Striding behind the desk, he crouched and said sardonically, “Good evening.”
Livy stared up at him from her hiding place beneath the desk. She was wearing a sleeveless white robe, her bare arms hugging her raised knees, her eyes huge in the holes of her golden mask. She looked like a naughty nymph caught in the act of mischief.
“Hadleigh?” she breathed.
He held out a hand, hauling her from the cove. “Expecting someone else?”
“Um, no. Not really.” She averted her gaze as she straightened her costume.
He noticed the golden shears suspended around her neck and, amidst his roiling concern, wry humor twinged. It figured that she would choose not only to be one of The Three Fates but the most lethal.
“I suppose there is an excellent reason for you to be here,” he said. “Other than testing the limits of your own life span, Atropos?”
She beamed at him as if he’d paid her the greatest compliment. “You know who I am.”
“I would know you no matter your disguise,” he said sternly. “What I wish to know is what you are up to in our host’s study.”
“There’s, um, a perfectly reasonable explanation…”
She trailed off as voices sounded just outside the study.
Devil take it. Ben scanned the room, identifying the best place of concealment. He dragged Livy over to the curtains and behind the roomy folds. Pressing himself against the wall, he held her securely against him, her back to his chest.
“Don’t move,” he whispered in her ear.
He felt her shiver as the door to the study opened.
10
As male voices entered the study, Livy felt a tremor travel from head to toe. Partly the tremor had to do with the fear of discovery: she’d found the diary, now hidden in the concealed pocket of her petticoat. Mostly, though, the shivery feeling had to do with the fact that her backside was nestled against Hadleigh’s front. His arm circled her waist, holding her snugly against his muscular form.
“Don’t move,” he’d whispered in her ear.
As if I would ever want to, she thought dreamily.
The perils of the situation faded in Hadleigh’s presence; he made her feel safe. He always had. Even if they were caught, he would protect her. She knew this to the core of her soul, and her fear dissipated. In its place, a wicked excitement sparked.
Conversation filtered through the thick layers of velvet. Thankfully, the men didn’t sound too close to their hiding spot. The voices seemed to be coming from the seating area at the other end of the room.
“I say, Edgecombe,” a nasal voice said. “This is a damned fine cigar. French?”
“Undoubtedly, Stamford,” another man replied. “Edgecombe h-here is a true connoisseur, and thus likes his cigars the way he likes his t-tarts.”
As the men guffawed, Livy’s cheeks heated. I don’t think they’re talking about pastry…
“Thorne has the right of it,” Edgecombe drawled. “A good French light-skirt is the antidote to domestic drudgery.”
“An eager bit o’ muslin is a fine way to lift a man’s spirits,” a fourth man agreed.
“More than just his spirits, I daresay,” Stamford said with a snicker.
The men laughed again, and Livy shuddered with disgust. She would call these men swine, but that would be an insult to pigs. Hadleigh’s arm tightened around her.
“It will be over soon,” he murmured into her ear.
Livy realized that the moment would end soon…and she didn’t want it to. She wanted to prolong this closeness with Hadleigh. In their velvet cocoon, the tension of their recent interactions had vanished. He was holding her, whispering to her, just like she had dreamed he would.
What if she didn’t have another chance to be like this with him? She had to make the most of the opportunity. She would live up to her costume and decide her own destiny.
She relaxed further into Hadleigh’s embrace. Since her costume was cut in a classical Grecian style, she had dispensed with her usual voluminous layers. Beneath her white tunic, she wore only a chemise, single petticoat, and short stays, and she could feel every part of Hadleigh pressed up against her. Goodness, he was like a wall of muscle…with a distinctly protruding edge.
Her eyes widened. Zounds. Is that his male member?
The night she’d kissed him at her birthday ball, she’d glimpsed the bulge in his trousers. It had appeared sizable from afar. Poking into her spine, it felt like a huge fire iron. Intrigued, she wriggled against him.
“Stop that.”
His whisper smoldered with warning…and something else. That husky edge had been present in his voice when he’d issued carnal commands to Cherise Foxton in the stable. It had made Lady Foxton mewl in desperate delight and beg for more—and Livy squirm with jealousy and longing.
Because she had wanted Hadleigh to speak to her that way.
In that deliciously dictatorial tone that said, You will listen to me because you belong to me and me alone.
An impulse took hold of Livy. She could not afford to move much; to do so would disturb the curtains and give them away. Instead, she gently rocked back against Hadleigh, and his response was instantaneous: his harsh breath scalded her ear, his arm cinching tighter around her waist. His member became a thick, insistent pole lodged against her spine. The sensation of being surrounded by all the male virility that was Hadleigh made her feel light-headed.
The more she rocked against him, the more sensitive she felt. The air trapped by the curtains was a humid caress over her throat and décolletage. Her breasts ached, the tips taut and tingling against her stays. When she squeezed her thighs together, dampness trickled from her core.
The world faded away. There was only the desire raging through her like a fever.
And the cure
