One Night With You (The Derrings #3)(27)

"Perhaps," she returned, her heart beating harder at that total impossibility. Hoping that he took her vague response for playfulness, she ran her hand over his arm, grasping his fingers and pulling them away from her mask.

Eyes smoldering like embers in the gloom, his voice flowed over her, "Come. Let us finish out the night elsewhere." With a hand on her elbow, he pulled her along, back to the dimly lit path. His fingers burned her flesh, a brand that she would forever bear. One she never wanted to be rid.

Unbelievably, the fire in her blood flickered to life again at his words. A part of her longed to go with him, to continue his sensual onslaught somewhere comfortable and private, where they could devote time and attention to one another, where he could stoke her newfound passions to life again. But that could never be. Her chest constricted and the backs of her eyes burned. This would be all she would ever have from him. One stolen night in a dark garden. She could expect no more. Could risk no more.

She allowed him to lead her from the shadows, her mind working feverishly, wondering how she might escape him before he discovered that it was she who hid behind the mask.

"Come," he murmured near her ear, guiding her back into the crowd of revelers with his hand at the small of her back.

A troupe of performers wove through the crowd, drawing upon them. A pair of jugglers led the way, tossing flaming batons. Dancers in flowing garments whirled around them. The crowd thickened, noisy and lively, jostling Jane as they swarmed for a better look at the performers. Seth tightened his hold on her. Nevertheless, one tug and she knew she could be free. Pressing herself to him, she crushed her mouth to his in a final searing kiss. For a moment, the noise vanished, the crowd disappeared and it was only her mouth on his—needing, taking, giving. Before she became too lost in the moment, in the kiss, in him, she broke away. Her lips still clinging to his, she stared into his eyes and whispered, "Thank you."

"For what?" His eyes smoldered fire in the dark night.

"One night with you."

Dragging in a deep breath, she wrenched herself free and dove into the crowd.

"Aurora," he called after her, his voice clawing the air, terrible in its anger. She plunged deeper into the mass of bodies as he again called that name she had come to love. And hate.

Pushing ahead, she forbade herself to look over her shoulder, to see if he followed, too afraid that if she saw his face she would freeze, give in and run back to his arms. The sound of his shouts faded, merging with the noise of Vauxhall—the laughing crowd, the cries of the performers, the steady song of the orchestra.

She pushed ahead, down the wide lane crowded with both oncoming and departing revelers, until her lungs threatened to burst.

Faces blurred before her eyes. Wind lashed her face, colder where tears streamed her cheeks, but still she ran. Holding her skirts high, she shoved through bodies with no thought to courtesy, no thought to the burning pain deep in her soul.

A dull pain throbbed behind her breastbone. She pressed a hand to the spot, convinced that the sensation had nothing to do with shortness of breath… and everything to do with never having another night with Seth.





Chapter 13


Seth stopped short of shoving a pair of dandies weaving unsteadily before him to the ground. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to keep sight of Aurora in the crowd. The throng parted and he pressed forward scanning the many faces, trying to catch glimpse of a gold dress, of dark brown hair trailing like a banner in the wind. Only nothing. No sight of her. He cursed fiercely, earning himself a few glances. Dragging a hand through his hair, he knew, deep in his gut, he would never see her again, that she did not wish for him to find her. That kiss had been the last—her enigmatic words the final good-bye.

For whatever reason, she had sought him out tonight. But tonight it ended. He knew he would never see her again. Just as he knew he would never fully be free of her, that he would look especially hard at every lady to cross his path, measuring the rich brown of her hair, the slope of her throat, the generous swell of her breasts against her bodice… hoping against hope that it was his Aurora.

Jane took a deep breath and tried to still her trembling. It did no good. She stretched her hands out before her. They shook like the last leaf of fall.

"Well? What happened?" Lucy demanded.

"Nothing," she lied.

Lucy frowned. "Well, did you see him or not?"

"Lord St. Claire?" she asked with deliberate vagueness, unsure what to say, unsure of her friend's reaction.

"Of course. Who else? Isn't he who you wanted to see?"

Jane nodded jerkily, biting her lip. Lucy had asked nothing. Not when Jane requested to borrow her gold dress a second time. Nor when she asked for use of her carriage and driver. No questions, no judgments. Lucy had simply acquiesced, and Jane knew she deserved some sort of explanation.

"Yes. I found him," she confessed, cheeks stinging at the thought of what had transpired when she had.

"And?"

Jane turned her attention to removing the gown, straining to reach the buttons at the back.

"Here, let me help." Lucy brushed her trembling fingers aside. "You talked to him, I assume," she said, probing further as she attacked the tiny satin covered buttons. "What did you say? Did you tell him who you—" A sharp gasp ripped from Lucy's throat. "Dear Heavens! Your sleeve's torn, and some of the buttons are missing!"