One Night With You (The Derrings #3)(6)

"You are certain we have not met before?" her brother-in-law asked. Did he know? Did he toy with her?

She swallowed hard and fast, heart hammering wildly in her chest, a caged bird desperate for escape.

Her voice emerged, strained and hoarse, thankfully still unrecognizable. "One's identity is secret at a masquerade."

"Ah, torment me then," he said in a pouting voice that reminded her very much of any one of his daughters when they did not get their way.

"I'm sure I'll work it out." He maneuvered her more snugly against him, fitting her to him and rocking her against his pelvis, his reed thin legs sliding between hers. She closed her eyes in a long-suffering blink.

The irony of her situation left an acrid taste in her mouth. For over a year, she had managed to stay out of Desmond's clutches, knowing he saw her as some sort of trophy to be won—his late brother's wife to be bedded and conquered. And here she found herself, trapped in his arms at a courtesan's ball. Instead of freedom, she suddenly felt caged.

With surprising nimbleness for a man who spent most of his time at cards and drinking, Desmond swept her from the dance floor and down a long corridor. Her feet slid over the slick marble, unable to gain purchase as he dragged her. She tried to peel his fingers from her wrist, but they clung like a creeping vine.

Her voice squeaked with indignation. "What are you—"

He pushed her against a wall, the bulge of his belly crushing her, his skinny knee shoving between her thighs through the many folds of her skirts.

His fingers traced her lips and the stink of fish and onions wafted to her nose. With a cringe, she recalled his penchant for using his hands while eating.

His touch changed, became urgent, fierce. He pinched her mouth, silencing her save for her hiss of pain.

"Enough. No more maidenly protests. Only one kind of woman would come here. I'm not going to do anything that hasn't already been done to you." His lips twisted into a semblance of a grin.

"Only I'll likely do it better."

Releasing her face, he grasped her wrists and forced them over her head, thrusting his hips against hers in an emulation of sex.

Tugging fiercely on her hands, she bit out, "Why don't you release me and find someone who appreciates your efforts?"

His features twisted. "You've quite the mouth on you. Perhaps I'll put it to better use." His hands tightened on her wrists until her hands grew numb and bloodless. She whimpered as he lowered his mouth to hers. Panic rose, swirling hotly in her blood. Recognizing that her protests weren't getting her anywhere, she decided to try another course. However much it turned her stomach.

Meekly, she submitted to his kiss, suffering his fishy tongue in her mouth, allowing him to think he had won her over. After a moment, she broke free and murmured coyly, "You cannot mean for us to engage in a liaison here in the corridor?"

With a slow satisfied smile, he dragged her down the corridor. "I know a room."

"Why not fetch us drinks?" she coaxed. "A bit of cheese? Fruit?" He paused, blinking small, feral eyes at her.

"I find"—he swallowed to stop herself from choking on the words—"love play makes me famished." Forcing her voice into a low, seductive pitch, she tempted him further. "And nothing loosens my inhibitions more than spirits."

He stared at her lips for a long moment before blurting, "Rum punch, then?"

"Yes," she agreed, nodding hastily, so relieved that she had convinced him to leave. "I'll wait right here."

With an obliging dip of his head, and one final lascivious look, he spun on his heels. She was on the verge of moving when he spun back around.

"Don't move from that spot," he admonished. "I shall be watching to see if you return to the ballroom."

Then he was gone, swallowed up by the throng of revelers edging the mouth of the corridor. She had only a moment. Not enough time to plan a solid escape. With his warning ringing in her ears, she darted into the nearest room as if the soles of her slippers were afire, hoping to find a way out through a terrace door.

Once within the room, she shut the door and leaned against it, inhaling deeply as she attempted to still the wild beating of her heart. The door's firm length at her back—a much-needed barrier to Desmond and the revelry beyond—offered some measure of solace, but she knew she couldn't tarry.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the room's gloom. Once they did, it was to behold a scene primed for seduction.

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting entrancing shadows on the plum papered walls. Pillows were scattered about the room on the chaises and sofas. A great lambskin rug lay invitingly before the hearth. The brilliant fabrics gleamed enticingly in the firelight, the colors more vibrant than anything that decorated her home. Home. For all the years she had lived at the Guthrie townhouse, she had never felt she belonged, had never felt permitted to make her own mark. Shaking off her thoughts, she looked to the far wall—and her heart plummeted. There was no terrace door. A single large window looked out at the dark night.

Hurrying forward she fumbled with the latch, only to find it wouldn't budge. With a small cry, she slapped her palms against the window, pushing against the thick panes of glass as if she could somehow will the night to open to her.

"Blast!" Biting her lip, she considered her options.