Miss Weston's Masquerade

Instinctively he stepped forward, drawn by the sensuality of the still, silent figure. Then he saw who it was.

‘Cassandra.’ He stopped, scandalised as much by his own arousal as her appearance. With an effort he got his reactions under control. ‘What are you doing out of your room dressed like that?’

‘How else should I be dressed?’ she demanded. ‘It is bedtime, after all.’ Her chin came up defiantly. Those expressive blue eyes sparked with anger, of all things. ‘You promised you’d be home for supper.’

She looked… beautiful. Cassie, the girl, Cass, the valet… this desirable woman. Arousal flared through him along with guilt for even feeling it. ‘You stupid girl! Get back to bed this instant. If anyone were to see you…’

She shrugged dismissively, sending the gown slithering down the other white shoulder as she took a step forward. ‘They’d only wonder who that brat was, the one who should have been in bed hours ago.’

In bed? That was where she should be, where he wanted her. ‘Not dressed like that, they won’t.’ Before he realised what he was doing Nicholas took the one stride forward that closed the gap between them, seized her by the shoulders and brought his mouth down on hers.

Nicholas held her crushed hard against him as he deepened the kiss. Fireworks exploded behind his closed lids, her bare skin where the gown had slipped from her shoulders seemed to burn through the fabric of his shirt as his hands on her back insistently moulded her body to his.

Cassandra made no resistance. Her fingers sought the curls at his nape, twining and inciting as a little moan of wanting began in her throat.

What am I doing? Nicholas freed her as sharply as he had taken her and she staggered, her eyes on his face, as if trying to understand this new Nicholas, trying to fathom why he had broken the embrace so brutally. Or why he had begun it in the first place. Fifteen, he told himself, guilt lashing at him. Legally Quite old enough to marry – but this was Cassie, and he was responsible for her.

‘Nicholas?’ she whispered.

‘Let that be a lesson to you.’ He was not certain whether the harsh words were for her or for him. ‘You must learn that if you provoke gentlemen, they will respond to what you have offered.’

‘I was not offering…’ Her eyes were huge in her white face, the hurt in them shaming him even more than he was already, even as his rebellious body hardened and ached.

‘What do you call that?’ He reached put and pulled up the silken ruffles to cover her bare shoulders, fighting the urge to push them back, send the robe to the floor, leave her naked in front of him. ‘If you come into a man’s room dressed like a whore, you must expect to be treated like one. I taught you a lesson for your own good. Now go to bed.’

He strode past her and out of the room, ran down the stairs, forced a smile on his face and made his voice light and careless. ‘Have you drinks, mes amis? Dice or cards?’

Cassandra threw herself across her bed and pummelled the pillows until her clenched fists ached and the memory of Nicholas’s contemptuous face blurred.

How could he treat her like that? Gradually her fury subsided, leaving her feeling sick with humiliation at the way Nicholas had spoken to her, the way she had responded to him. She hadn’t intended to provoke him, she told herself, then felt her cheeks burn at the way she’d responded to that kiss and the strength of his arms as he’d crushed her body to his.

Cassandra had had no experience of men, but she knew now that this was exactly what she had been wanting him to do ever since she’d walked into his bedchamber in Grosvenor Square. She lifted her hot face from the pillows and sat up. Well, however attracted she felt to Nicholas, his contemptuous dismissal proved he felt nothing for her. As far as he was concerned, she was an embarrassing girl and tonight’s incident would only make him more determined to leave her safely chaperoned in Paris while he continued his Grand Tour unencumbered.

The sound of laughter from the salon below sent her to the open casement. Light streamed from the long windows across the paved courtyard painting the shadows of the miniature orange trees against the walls of the hôtel.

It isn’t fair, Cassandra fumed to her reflection in the panes. All along Nicholas had misunderstood her, had treated her like a boy even when she didn’t have to act the part, then when all she’d wanted was to be noticed, talked to, treated like a young woman, he’d called her a… She couldn’t say it.

She was just another possession as far as he was concerned, like his servants and his house and his carriages, something he didn’t notice until it discommoded him. Well, it was about time the Earl of Lydford did notice her.

Cassandra looked at herself again, but this time with more calculation. The shock had left her pinched and white about the face, her hair damp and flattened on her head. The soft femininity of the afternoon had gone and the boy Cass stared back at her through resentful eyes.

Ten minutes later Cassandra peered silently through the balusters as a footman deposited a tray of glasses on a side table in the hall. Before he could return, she ran lightly down the stairs and picked up the salver. Her heart was thudding against her ribs, b

ut no-one looked up as she slipped through the door into the salon.

Four men lounged around a card table throwing dice. Beside them, flushed with excitement and wine, four women were egging them on with sharp little cries of encouragement. The light from the mass of candles glinted off jewels and bullion lace, cut crystal and silverware.

Cassandra’s hands shook, setting the wine glasses tinkling, and she put the tray down hastily just as the footman brought in the decanters. His eyes widened at the sight of her, but she took them from him and shut the door in his startled face.

The gamesters still paid her no attention. The women were laughing, teasing one of the men whose luck seemed to be out.

‘Throw a double six, my dear Comte, and I will give you the rose from my cleavage,’ the redhead said throatily, leaning towards him to show off the prize nestling between her scarcely-covered breasts.

The Count, a dark, sardonic man with a beak of a nose, smiled lazily at her. ‘I shall want more than the rose if I score high, my dear Juliette.’

His voice, as warm as honey, did nothing to disguise his meaning, even from Cassandra. Her small gasp of outrage was audible. Several heads turned towards the dark-suited figure but Nicholas, without looking up, ordered, ‘Pour the wine and go. We will serve ourselves after that.’

Cassandra lifted the heavy decanter with both hands and began to pour the red wine gingerly, one eye on Nicholas’s dark head. This wasn’t what she’d planned when she’d scrambled into the valet’s clothes. She had wanted to give him the shock of his life by appearing as a boy, pay him back by forcing him to playact in front of his sophisticated friends.