One Night With You (The Derrings #3)(7)

If she left the room, she risked running into Desmond. Yet she could not remain here to be discovered. Her gaze landed on a pewter figurine of Lady Godiva riding naked atop a stallion with impossibly large genitalia. She glanced back to the window.

Heat flaming her cheeks, she lifted the figurine off the small lacquered table. With a growl of determination, she clenched her fingers around the cold pewter, its weight a solid comfort in her hand. Hauling back her arm, she sucked in a breath, deciding to smash her way to freedom through the window.

A voice stopped her, rumbling over the air and sliding through her to spiral in her belly like an infusion of spiced rum.

"I happen to know that there is a perfectly good door to this room."





Chapter 4


Whirling around, Jane let the figurine slide through her fingers to thud at her feet. Its heavy fall mimicked the drop of her heart to the soles of her slippers as she gaped at the shadow of the man who shared her sanctuary.

She opened her mouth to tell the stranger exactly what she thought of men who lurked in dark corners and announced themselves in a manner that only produced terror in unsuspecting ladies. But the words died on her lips as he unfolded his great length from a chair tucked in the room's corner and stepped from the shadows. Her gaze narrowed on his face.

The face of a ghost.

Her hand flew to her mouth, doing a poor job of stifling her gasp. Nerves taut as a harpsichord string, she stared. Not a ghost. A man.

He wore no domino, had donned no disguise. A white scar, stark and livid on his swarthy skin, slashed the left side of his face, cleaving his top lip and disappearing into his mouth. Even disfigured, his was a face she would never forget.

Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. She watched, horrified—elated—as he advanced on her with slow, measured steps. An invisible hand squeezed her heart at the sight of a face that had once been too beautiful for mortal man, a face left to the realm of poets and dreams. A face her memory had refused to release.

She stared at this new face of his. Scarred, hard-edged, unsmiling. A tremble snaked over her. His name whispered across her mind again. A name she had not spoken in years. A name she pushed from her thoughts daily, allowing it into her head only a night, in her dreams. Seth. He bent and picked up the figurine she had dropped. Without a word, he set it back on the table, his intense gaze never wavering from her face. The hot look in his deep-set eyes gave her a jolt. He had never looked at her in such a fashion.

Then it struck her that he did not recognize her—not masked—and the tightness in her chest lessened as relief swept through her. Her hand flew to her mask. She drew an even breath at the feel of black silk stretched over stiff brocade. Still there.

Cocking his head, he gestured behind him and repeated, "There is a perfectly good door." She managed a quick nod, drinking in the sight of him. He was taller than she remembered. His skin darker, his shock of brown hair sun-streaked. There was a hardness to his mouth and eyes that had not been there before. Yet she would remember those molten brown eyes anywhere. The same eyes invaded her dreams to this day.

Broad of shoulder and lean of hip, he towered over the room's dainty furniture, his carriage erect, rigid, as though he stood braced at the helm of a ship. His dark jacket and trousers contrasted sharply to the room's plums and lavenders, heightening his masculinity. She supposed she should have forgotten him over the years. Should not have followed news of the war in Canton so closely. Should not feel so shaken at the sight of him now.

"Can you not speak?" he inquired, his voice deeper, richer than she remembered. She nodded, forcing her lips to form a whispered reply. "Yes." Gazing at him, old feelings stirred to life in the pit of her belly. Her sister may not have wanted him—at least not within the bounds of matrimony—but Jane had. She had wanted him with every fiber of her being. Had looked at him every day for as long as she could remember and prayed that he would feel for her what he felt for her sister. She would have risked her parents' wrath, risked anything, everything, for him to love her back. Only his love had been reserved for Madeline. Not Jane. Never her.

Not then and certainly not now.

She pressed a hand to her face, her skin disturbingly hot against her palm as she commanded herself to cling to that particular reality and not get swept away by the sight of him, ambrosia to her long-starved heart.

"Yes?" he echoed, his voice low, a drag of velvet against her overheated skin. "Then you merely choose not to?" His gaze prowled her face. "A woman with no wish to speak? How singular." Her throat constricted as he neared, stepping so close the smell of him filled her nose. Leather and some unidentifiable cologne, earthy and wild, reminding her faintly of nutmeg. Her eyes drifted shut.

A thousand images flashed through her mind. A youth spent with Seth. Riding, swimming, apple picking in the fall, holly gathering in the winter. He had been her life's one pleasure. More constant than the parents who preferred her sister to her—and who reminded her of the fact daily.

The moment everything changed revived itself in her mind, fresh and crisp as yesterday. Over the years she had wondered if she could have done something, anything, to prevent it. Madeline did not usually accompany them on their jaunts, preferring the indoors, but for some reason she had joined Jane and Seth as they wove through apple trees in full bloom, honeybees zipping amid the white, frothy blossoms, the kiss of spring on the air. Seth and Madeline had lagged behind and Jane had glanced back, her heart surging to her throat at the sight of Seth climbing an apple tree with exceptional vigor, a foolish grin on his face, her younger sister giggling below.