The whisper-thin fabric of her togalike gown gathered over one shoulder with a wide silver clasp, leaving the other bare. Her skirt, made of the same material, fell in many deep folds to the floor, but wrapped around in such a manner that it split to well above her knee, just below a vee-shaped girdle of silver studded with cabochons. The slit gave her ease of movement when she walked, yet the yards of fabric camouflaged the opening when she was standing, as now. And Verbena, in a moment of brilliance, had created two separate skirts with the frothy fabric. The overskirt could be removed easily—for it was tucked into the belt—to reveal a shorter, less voluminous skirt in the event that Victoria needed more freedom of movement, which happened more often than not, it seemed.
“You have the advantage of me. I can’t place your costume. Cupid perhaps? Odysseus?”
“Adonis, of course.” His chuckle tickled her ear; he was standing much closer than was proper, and she did not move away. Under the cover of shadow, his arm slid around her from behind, tugging her gently back against him. Her heel stepped between his feet, and her light, silky gown gusted around his legs. The metal fastening on his toga was cold against her bare shoulder.
Victoria couldn’t hold back a smile at Sebastian’s boastfulness. Of course the man would dress as a perfect specimen of the male species—he certainly considered himself such. And from what she’d seen, he had the right to do so. She couldn’t help a little flutter in the pit of her belly, and focused her attention strictly on George. He had bowed to Gwen and was leading her to the center of the ballroom for what looked to be the first dance of the evening—a short, traditional line dance. The orchestra slid into the opening notes, led by two violins.
“Why does that not surprise me. But what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Same as you, my dear. Enjoying wearing a mask, and anonymously keeping a watch over our acquaintances Romeo and Juliet. I missed you last evening,” he murmured into her ear.
“Did you?” she asked, remembering that, according to Max, he’d been in Vauxhall Gardens on a false trail. “I returned early after the dinner party at the Hungreaths’.”
“No hunting of vampires?” he asked casually.
“No, indeed.” She hadn’t yet had a chance to tell him about the events at the dinner party, and at this moment she felt rather like keeping them to herself. As if she would have an assignation with another man in the gardens when she and Sebastian were . . . well, what? She hadn’t allowed Sebastian into her bed for months, and his frustration was becoming evident.
And truth to tell, she’d begun to wonder exactly why she’d been holding him off. Even now, his strong body eased up behind her and his firm arm around her waist reminded her of their intimacies . . . and of how she missed the touch and affection of a man who understood her. And now that he had joined the Venators, she thought she knew where his loyalties lay.
There in the shadowy corner behind the clump of fake seaweed, he brushed his lips and then the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin behind her ear. She shuddered lightly, and felt warmth flush through her. Perhaps tonight . . .
Sebastian smoothed his hand over the silk of her gown, murmuring, “Might I say, your gown is quite—”
“Drafty.”
Victoria started and turned to find dark eyes looking down at her from behind her right shoulder. Max was dressed as a highwayman; there was no mistaking his garb, from the black cape and high black boots to the white shirt and red leather jerkin. A wide-brimmed black hat covered his thick hair, and a mask completely obscured the top half of his face, stopping just above his upper lip. He hadn’t shaved, and his chin and jaw were dark with stubble. Despite his height, she might not have recognized him immediately if he hadn’t spoken.
“That wasn’t quite the word I had in mind,” Sebastian replied, his arm tightening ever so slightly against Victoria’s belly as he shifted to the right, behind her. “Convenient. That’s more what I was thinking.”
“Regardless, I’m disappointed.”
Victoria adjusted her mask and looked at Max. “What do you mean?”
“Diana? I expected something less . . . obvious. Scheherazade, perhaps? Or even Zenobia.”
Victoria drew herself up, moving slightly away from Sebastian and aware that her neck was moist from his ministrations. “It was Verbena’s doing, not mine.”
“Blame it on the maid, shall we.”
“And who chose your flowing black cape? Surely you wouldn’t have made such an unfortunate choice. Besides, I rather like my costume,” she added.
“As do I,” said Sebastian. His voice was as easy and smooth as the thin fabric, and to her shock and surprise, she felt his hands smooth along the sides of her hips and . . . down. . . .
“Sebastian,” she breathed, and stepped away, her silk-stockinged leg lunging out from the slit. She turned to face the two men, who were standing at angles to each other.
“Perhaps you could save it for later,” Max said agreeably. “There’s not a carriage in sight.”
Victoria glared at him from behind her mask. He’d never missed an opportunity to comment on the fact that Sebastian had seduced her in a carriage—although how he had ever found out that bit of information, she’d never been able to learn. “It’s more than a bit risky for you to be here. Do you think that even though you wear a mask and hat, Sara wouldn’t recognize you?”
“Ah, that. No disguise can obscure true love.” He was laughing now, sardonically but also with real humor. It was a rare sight, and one that made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Your theory is wrong, Victoria, for I passed directly next to Sara, and she flickered not an eyelash.” He turned to Sebastian. “And how did you find Vauxhall? Such a convenient place for an assignation.”
Sebastian looked at him, and then his mouth tightened. “I was not the one engaged in an assignation.”
“Ah.” Max inclined his head in full mockery. “A case of mistaken identity, perhaps. I was fairly certain—but never mind. Victoria and I had a pleasant chat in your absence.”
“I do hope I’m not intruding.”
Victoria was both grateful for the interruption and startled as she realized that James Lacy, the Marquess of Rockley, had somehow approached, unnoticed. Unerringly, he’d found her—despite the fancy mask and her solitary arrival. Unfortunately, she knew just who to blame for that happenstance. She considered—and immediately rejected—the option of prevaricating, but knew it was useless. Her mother would find another way to manipulate them together. Thank God Lady Melly hadn’t planned to attend tonight, although she’d obviously found a way to communicate with James about Victoria’s costume.