interest was not in
Turning away, she sank onto the small bench, absently arranging her skirts for comfort. Her hands occupied themselves with twirling her mask between gloved fingertips.
“It is my turn to apologize to you.” Her head tilted back so that their gazes met. “I have put you in an awkward position, and goaded you to stay when you wanted to go.”
The contemplative cant to his head made her wish she could see the features beneath the pearlescent mask. Despite the lack of a complete visual picture, she found him remarkably attractive-the purring rumble of his voice… the luscious shape of his lips…the unshakable confidence of his bearing…
But then he was not truly unshakable. She was affecting him in ways a stranger should not be able to. And he was affecting her equally.
“That was not what you wished to hear,” he noted, stepping closer.
Her gaze strayed to his boots, watching as his cape fluttered around them. Dressed as he was, he was imposing, but she was unafraid.
Amelia waved one hand in a careless affectation of dismissal, unsure of what to say. He was correct; she was too bold. But she was not brazen enough to admit outright that she found the thought of his interest gratifying. “I hope you find the woman you are looking for,” she said instead.
“I am afraid that isn’t possible.”
“Oh?”
“She was lost to me many years ago.”
Recognizing the yearning in his words, she sympathized. “I am sorry for your loss. I, too, have lost someone dear to me and know how it feels.”
Montoya took a seat beside her. The bench was small, and due to its curvature it forced them to sit near enough that her skirts touched his cape. It was improper for them to be seated so close to each other, yet she did not protest. Instead she breathed deeply and discovered he smelled like sandalwood and citrus. Crisp, earthy, and virile. Like the man himself.
“You are too young to suffer as I do,” he murmured.
“You underestimate death. It has no scruples and disregards the age of those left behind.”
The ribbons that graced the stick of her mask fluttered gently in the soft breeze and came to rest atop his gloved hand. The sight of the lavender, pink, and pale blue satin against his stark black riveted her attention.
How would they look to passersby? Her voluminous silver lace and gay multicolored flowers next to his complete lack of any color at all.
“You should not be out here alone,” he said, rubbing her ribbons between his thumb and index finger. He could not feel them through his gloves, which made the action sensual, as if the lure of fondling something that belonged to her was irresistible.
“I am accustomed to solitude.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It is familiar.”
“That is not an answer.”
Amelia looked at him, noting the many details one can see only in extreme proximity to another. Montoya had long, thick lashes surrounding almond-shaped eyes. They were beautiful. Exotic. Knowing. Accented by shadows that came from within as well as from without.
“What was she like?” she asked. “The woman you thought I was.”
The barest hint of a smile betrayed the possibility of dimples. “I asked you a question first,” he said.
She heaved a dramatic sigh just to see more of that teasing curve of his lips. He never set his smile completely free. She wondered why, and she wondered how she might see it. “Very well, Count Montoya. In answer to your query, yes, I enjoy being alone.”
“Many people find being alone intolerable.”
“They have no imagination. I, on the other hand, have too much imagination.”
“Oh?” He canted his body toward her. The pose caused his doeskin breeches to stretch tautly across the powerful muscles of his thighs. With the gray satin spread out beneath him in contrast, she could see every nuance and plane, every hard length of sinew. “What do you imagine?”
Swallowing hard, Amelia found she could not look away from the view. It was a lascivious glance she was giving him, her interest completely carnal.
“Umm…” She tore her gaze upward, dazed by the direction of her own thoughts. “Stories. Faery tales and such.”
With the half mask hiding his features she couldn’t be certain, but she thought he might have arched a brow at her. “Do you write them down?”
“Occasionally.”
“What do you do with them?”
“You have asked far too many questions without answering my one.”
Montoya’s dark eyes glittered with warm amusement. “Are we keeping score?”
“You were,” she pointed out. “I am simply following the rules you set.”
“She was audacious,” he murmured, “like you.”
Amelia blushed and looked away, smitten with that tiny groove in his cheek. “Did you like that about her?”
“I loved that about her.”
The intimate pitch to his voice made her shiver.
He stood and held his hand out to her. “You are cold, Miss Benbridge. You should go inside.”
She looked up at him. “Will you go inside with me?”
The count shook his head.
Extending her arm, she set her fingers within his palm and allowed him to assist her to her feet. His hand was large and warm, his grasp strong and sure. She was reluctant to release him and was pleased when he seemed to feel similarly. They stood there for a long moment, touching, the only sound their gentle inhalations and subsequent exhales…until the gentle, haunting strains of the minuet drifted out on the night zephyr.
Montoya’s grip tightened and his breathing faltered. She knew his thoughts traveled along the same path as hers. Lifting her mask to her face, Amelia lowered into a deep curtsy.
“One dance,” she urged softly when he did not move. “Dance with me as if I were the woman you miss.”
“No.” There was a heartbeat’s hesitation, and then he bowed over her hand. “I would rather dance with you.”
Touched, her throat tightened, cutting off any reply she might have made. She could only rise and begin the steps, approaching him and then retreating. Spinning slowly and then circling him. The crunching of the gravel beneath her feet overpowered the music, but Amelia heard it in her mind and hummed the notes. He joined her, his deep voice creating a rich accompaniment, the combination of sound enchanting her.
The clouds drifted, allowing a brilliant shaft of moonlight to illuminate their small space. It turned the hedges silver and his mask into a brilliant pearl. The black satin ribbon that restrained his queue blended with the inky locks, the gloss and color so similar they were nearly one and the same. Her skirts brushed against his flowing cape, his cologne mingled with her perfume; together they were lost in a single moment. Amelia was arrested there, ensnared, and wished-briefly-never to be freed.
Then the unmistakable warble of a birdcall rent the cocoon.
A warning from St. John’s men.
Amelia stumbled, and Montoya caught her close. Her arm lowered to her side, taking her mask with it. His breath, warm and scented of brandy, drifted across her lips. The difference in their statures put her breasts at level with his upper abdomen. He would have to bend to kiss her, and she found herself wishing he would, wanting to experience the feel of those beautifully sculpted lips pressed against her own.
“Lord Ware is looking for you,” he whispered, without taking his eyes from her.
She nodded, but made no effort to free herself. Her gaze stayed locked to his. Watching. Waiting.
Just when she was certain he wouldn’t, he accepted her silent invitation and brushed his mouth across hers. Their lips clung together and he groaned. The mask fell from her nerveless fingers to clatter atop the gravel.
“Good-bye, Amelia.”
