These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(32)
He was infuriating. “Can we please go back to the full, honest answers?” I asked.
“They can wait till we have the time.”
Knowing I would learn nothing further, I gulped the champagne, the delicious fizzle traveling down my throat, warming my chest, settling in my stomach, and hopefully steadying my nerves for the night.
Leaning on the railing, I glanced up at Mr. Braddock. He stood perfectly still while his eyes swiveled left and right, inspecting the crowd and inspecting them again. Between the tightness of his set, determined jaw and the hint of dark stubble under his chin, he looked like an intense gambler with too many cards to watch. The veins in his neck seemed to be under constant duress, and I had the childish impulse to poke at them.
Once he deemed our angle insufficient, Mr. Braddock took me on a slow lap around the room along the balcony path, checking for his mysterious contact from several vantage points. Eventually, the exciting odyssey led us back to where we started at the stairs connecting the two floors, and—
An extremely familiar voice floated upstairs, step by step:
“. . . so I told him the reason Paris is cleaner is their minds take up all the filth!”
Hoping I had made a mistake, I peeked my head around the corner for a look. Smart suit, birch cane, sardonic smirk. It was most decidedly Mr. Kent.
I didn’t know whether to feel ashamed for being here, angry about his being here, or guilty for lying to him. None of those feelings seemed particularly pleasant, so instinctively, I pushed Mr. Braddock into a nook just around the corner of the stairs to hide.
“You are aware that you have a mask?” Mr. Braddock asked in a strangled voice, as his back hit the wall.
“And you’re aware you neglected to bring one?” I snapped back. “It’s my—it’s Mr. Kent. You may not remember him from the ball, but he will certainly recognize you immediately. Stop being tall. Put your head down.”
At a loss, I burrowed further into the shallow space, mind whirring angrily as I tried to hide him. This was entirely his fault. We were trapped. Even if I was well disguised, once Mr. Kent saw Mr. Braddock, he’d see me, dressed like this, with Mr. Braddock instead of him, and he would not be happy. All my plans would fall down around our heads.
A warm, ragged breath disturbed the hairs on my forehead, and my blood began pricking as I realized where exactly I had retreated: right into Mr. Braddock, our strange connection humming through the hairsbreadth of distance between our bodies, our faces. I froze, forcing myself to stop shoving against him further. Before I understood anything, a rough, large hand brushed my chin, my face tipped upwards, and his mouth caught mine, and suddenly my entire body was on fire. Whatever odd sensation had thrummed between us before was just the stroke of a violin bow to this clash of an orchestra. I felt the world pass between our lips, tasting champagne, hunger, and something indefinably darker, while his hand ignited sparks down my cheek to the nape of my neck. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me closer, forcing that elusive essence to run deeper than my skin, deeper than my veins, until my very bones vibrated.
I stumbled back. My lips had never been so alive, and I was absurdly aware that my body both shivered from his touch and burned with embarrassment. My brain refused to work, and all my mouth could form was, “Mr. Braddock, w-w-why—”
“Why would you do that to avoid your suitor?” His voice was grave, breath broken, and . . . and he could not be serious. I looked up and found his nostrils flaring, brow bent disapprovingly, shadowing eyes flooded with reproach . . . for me. My stomach dropped to the floor, and it was all I could do not to let my entire body follow suit. “What—he is not my—and you are the one who kissed me—”
“Your masterful plan of leaning in and closing your eyes didn’t present me with much of a choice.”
“There was the choice of not kiss—”
“There she is,” he interrupted, peering over my head at the lower level. “Wait here. Do not move.”
“What? No. Stop!”
He brushed by, and the thumps of his steps faded down the stairs. Mr. Kent was nowhere to be seen, but I felt not a bit of relief. Damn them both! Mr. Kent here while he was supposed to be helping me—much like he accused Mr. Braddock of earlier! And Mr. Braddock pretending to be concerned about my reputation, kissing me in a brothel, and then suggesting that I forced him? Ridiculous. And where did he go? He had slipped around the outskirts and vanished behind the mob of dancers, drinkers, and dandies. Lovely. He had abandoned me. I rushed along the railing, circling around and searching from other angles to see the hidden spaces in the corners and behind columns.
A large, boisterous laugh erupted above all the other noise, and I traced it to a plump, extravagantly dressed woman who looked to be the center of attention. There was a matronly air about her. She looked like one of those older women in society who simply must have everyone around them married off at any cost. With a wave of her hand, she introduced a woman to a man, and the couple disappeared together through a side door. Ah, a brothel owner, conducting her business here. And next in line was Mr. Braddock.
She did not pair him up like the others, though. Instead, he somehow compelled the matron to send the other clients and girls away so they could have a private conversation. I tried futilely to get a more intimate look when a smooth voice to my left uttered a greeting, and I nearly threw myself over the railing right there.