Page 63 of Some Like It Wild
Crispin shot the portrait gallery a wary glance, but except for generations of glowering Warricks, it appeared to be deserted.
Connor added his glower to theirs. “So what’s it to be this time—a duel of words or swords? I’m afraid I didn’t bring my volume of Burns, but I’m sure we could scare up a sword or two if watching you get your fool head cut off will entertain the guests.”
“Please.” Crispin drew closer to them, his voice low and urgent. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a collective gasp went up from the crowd.
All three of them turned as one to discover a golden-haired goddess garbed all in blue framed by the arched doorway. The Venetian half mask she wore only added to her irresistible aura of mystery.
As they watched, she rose up on the toes of her dainty little slippers and cupped her hand around the footman’s ear to whisper something in it.
The footman cleared his throat uneasily before announcing, “Le Comtesse d’Arby.”
Chapter 25
It appears that someone is trying to upstage you,” Connor murmured, chuckling beneath his breath.
Pamela’s amber eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Someone has been trying to upstage me since the day she was born. Why, the little vixen is wearing my new dress!”
Within seconds everyone was whispering and pointing and gawking at the mysterious beauty who had been bold enough to wear a mask to a ball that didn’t require one.
Crispin’s jaw had gone slack, along with the jaws of most of the men in the ballroom. He seemed to have forgotten all about his errand and its urgency.
“If you’ll excuse me…” he murmured, drifting away from them and toward the ravishing creature in the doorway like a man sleepwalking through a beautiful dream.
Pamela started to follow, but Connor seized her by the elbow and hauled her back. “There’s no harm in it. Let the lass have her fun.”
A throng of admirers quickly gathered in the middle of the ballroom floor to gape at the new arrival. Before Crispin could even elbow his way through their ranks, rumors had begun to ripple through the crowd.
The mysterious comtesse with the velvet choker fastened around her slender throat was a French orphan whose parents had been taken by the guillotine. She was an infamous courtesan who hoped to secure a position as the marquess’s mistress. She was a French spy who had been sent to wrangle secrets from the militia by seducing their commanding officers.
Crispin didn’t hear a single person guess that she might be a common maidservant masquerading as a comtesse in her mistress’s pilfered clothes.
When an eager young fellow tried to cut in front of him so he could reach her first, Crispin neatly hooked his foot around the man’s ankle, sending him sprawling to the parquet floor.
“Forgive my clumsiness. So terribly sorry,” he murmured, stepping right over the man without breaking his stride.
She had been expecting him. She didn’t even bat an eyelash when he caught her elbow in a possessive grip and urged her into the crush. “So is your mistress going to send you packing for pulling this reckless little stunt?”
She bit her bottom lip, looking more coy than worried. “No, but she might very well spank me.”
“She beats you?” Crispin was incredulous. As far as he was concerned, it would be criminal to leave any mark on such exquisite flesh.
“Not even when I deserve it,” she admitted with a sigh. “But she has been known to send me to bed without my tea and biscuits when I’ve been exceptionally naughty.”
As several provocative images of her being “exceptionally naughty” in his bed flashed through his mind, Crispin tightened his grip on her elbow, shepherding her into a curtained alcove and away from the prying eyes of his uncle’s guests.
“Who are you?” he demanded, urging her around to face him.
Now that they were all alone she didn’t seem nearly so bold. As he began to back her toward the wall, the feathers on her mask began to tremble ever so slightly. “You know who I am. I’m Miss Darby’s—”
“—maidservant,” he finished for her. “And I’m the Prince Regent.” He planted his hands against the wall on either side of her head, making it impossible for her to escape his piercing gaze. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sophie,” she whispered.
“Sophie,” he echoed and somehow in that heartbeat of time before his lips descended on hers, it was enough for the both of them.
Crispin felt a surge of triumph when he felt her clutch the back of his coat, not to pull him away but to urge him closer.
