Page 39 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Beyond the curtain, danced a world she’d not known existed. Oh, she’d known, she supposed, in an intellectual sort of way, but she would never have been able to guess, when she’d teased Posey about sneaking into ton balls, that they would be like this—all golden candlelight and champagne dizziness, all garland-hanging fairy tale and shadow-shivering danger.
Danger only because of the man who had ordered her to stay put.
Orderedher—and with a glare to show he meant business. She rolled her eyes.
Made her want to leave, that did. She knew her own stubborn nature well. Stubborn. Not foolish. She knew the risks, and she would not further them with pointless stubbornness. So she turned in the small space, found her breath, and tried to find out the nature of her surroundings in the dim light. A sconce on one wall provided a feeble, flickering light, and a narrow couch that could likely seat no more than two snuggled close together rested against the wall opposite the curtain. She sat and kicked her feet, craning her neck to see through the small cracks on either side of the curtain and out into the whirling ballroom beyond.
He’d held her close, touched her like he intended to start a scandal, and made mad promises into the shell of her ear she would not let him forget.
He’d kiss her tonight, and every nerve in her buzzing body told her it would be more than Daniel’s quick buss, more even than the dance that had buzzed her blood and pooled liquid low and warm between her legs.
Why did he want to kiss her, though? That was what she could not understand. Was it merely some misplaced jealousy over Daniel? She should not care about the answer. Knowing it would serve no purpose. Kissing and alcoves, come to think of it, also served no purpose, not at an auction like this where the object of their pursuit might be hiding. If they found the dowager tonight, if they discovered someone else with information on the missing paintings, they would find themselves closer. Closer to the end of their association. Perhaps at the very end of their association. It all might end tonight.
A consummation devoutly to be wished. The dowager, the paintings, the maddening mystery—all put right. Her family’s livelihood and reputation as well as her own fool neck—saved.
She did not devoutly wish it. Not as much as she should. Not, at least, for a few more magic hours. What had she so recently been thinking aboutnotbeing a fool?
Wrong there. She was proving quite foolish indeed, particularly over one man.
Her fingers wrapped tight around the front edge of the couch, fingernails digging into upholstery and padding.
Ah. There—the reason for dancing and kissing. She would not find such excitement with Daniel, and no man until Lord Lysander had roused her curiosity so. Did not bode well for it ever being roused again. On the one hand, she should be grateful if her entire life was uneventful as long as she was not hanged for her crimes. But she’d become greedy since meeting him, wanting more each time he grinned at her, willing to do what she must to take it like the little thief she was.
Perhaps thief was too strong a word and not quite the right one. She’d never stolen anything, though she would not deny forgery often allowed others to steal… She shook her head, thereby shaking her unfocused fancies away.
What had she been considering? Dancing? Kissing? Ah, yes.Lysander. Zander.
If this were to be their last night together, she would certainly make the most of it. She was innocent but not blind. She knew the men beyond the curtain wooed women who were not their wives. She saw the way they’d been holding those women. It was the same way Zander had held her—close, intimate, promising. When men and women wore masks, they dared more than usual, dreamed out loud instead of silently.
So would she.
The curtain brushed back, and the light of the ballroom fell prey to the shadow of a large, male body before the curtain returned to its place, almost kissing the doorframe.
Kissing. She hoped so.
Zander held a glass of champagne out to her. “Drink slowly.”
She took the cool glass and rubbed it to her forehead then against her lips, assuaging the need of her hot skin.
He groaned.
“Sit,” she said, patting the couch behind her with her free hand.
“I don’t think I should.” He sipped the champagne and angled his body away from her.
She summoned bravery. Not hard to do. It usually skimmed right beneath her skin. “Zander.”
Another groan.
“You made a promise, and I would like you to make good on it now. Seems a perfect opportunity, as we’re hidden and all. The auction has not yet begun, and—”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Not very sporting of you.” She sipped her own drink, using the burn to focus her brain, which wanted to flit away as if it drifted on a champagne bubble.
He rubbed his temples. “I’ve been conflicted all evening. We have a purpose for being here tonight, Fiona, and it is not this, butdamn”—a hissed curse, almost silent—“do I wantthis.” He downed his drink and slammed the sweating, empty glass on a long, thin table that ran the length of one side of the alcove.
The knock of the glass against wood popped Fiona to her feet, and she gasped as he moved quickly, so quickly, to stand directly before her. The fingers of one hand trailed up her arm, over the satin of her glove, and onto the bare skin above it, then down again, then up as his gaze did the same, raking over her, devouring every inch.
