The Governess Was Wanton (7 page)

“Lady Laughlin, may I present Miss Falsum. She's a dear friend of Miss Bigelow,” her charge said in a smooth lie.

“A pleasure, I'm sure,” said Lady Laughlin, casting a critical eye over her. Mary didn't like how long the woman's eyes lingered over her face.

“Lady Eleanora, I presume?” a low male voice rose up over the din of the ballroom and mercifully pulled everyone's attention away from Mary.

A tall, handsome man with a head of blond curls bowed low to her charge.

Lady Eleanora flushed a pleasant shade of pink. “I thought everyone was supposed to be anonymous tonight, sir.”

The man, who was dressed as a musketeer sans the long wig, smiled. “I could never mistake you for anyone else.”

“Lord Blakeney, how smart of you to recognize us,” Lady Laughlin broke in. “You, of course, are acquainted with my daughters, Una and Cordelia.”

“It is a pleasure as always, Lady Laughlin.” The man made a short, polite bow.

“What a crush it is,” said Miss Laughlin with a flip of her fan. “The marquis is too generous with his invitations.”

“And I think I saw a thrice-turned dress by the punch,” said Miss Cordelia.

Miss Laughlin nodded. “I do wonder if it's kind to allow those ladies who can't afford a new dress to attend. It must be so difficult for them.”

Mary felt her heartbeat kick up with indignation.
She
was one of those ladies, and she knew that if she'd had the chance to secure a legitimate invitation to a masque such as this it would have been the highlight of her year.

“I think some of the costumes are quite ingenious,” Lady Eleanora ventured, her eyes sliding over until they connected with Mary's. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod of encouragement.

“Well, not all of us can have a keen eye for what's à la mode,” said Miss Laughlin haughtily.

“Girls,” said Lady Laughlin with a laugh. “I'm certain Lord Blakeney doesn't wish to hear prattle about gowns all night long.”

“Not at all,” said Lord Blakeney.

“You haven't guessed who we are yet, sir,” said Miss Cordelia.

The handsome man turned his attention to Lady Eleanora. “You're Diana, if I'm not mistaken. I see your bow, but where is your quiver of arrows?”

“I left it off for fear it would impede any chance I might have to dance this evening,” Lady Eleanora said with a blush. “It was my friend Miss Falsum's idea.”

Lord Blakeney bowed over Mary's hand. “It's a pleasure, madam.”

She curtsied, examining the young man who'd clearly singled out her charge. So far, he showed excellent taste.

Lord Blakeney turned his attention to Lady Eleanora once again. “Do you think Diana would approve of your accepting a dance?”

“I'm certain she would if I were asked,” said Lady Eleanora softly.

“My daughters were just saying how much they enjoy dancing, Lord Blakeney,” Lady Laughlin cut in. “Una is so accomplished at the waltz, and Cordelia favors the mazurka.”

“I'm continually amazed at the mastery of the young ladies I meet,” said the young man politely. “If there is a dance free on your card, Lady Eleanora, I would be honored.”

Her charge picked up the card that hung from a ribbon on her dress and showed it to him just as the orchestra on the opposite end of the room played the last bars of a polka with relish. “It appears I have the next waltz free.”

He smiled and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

Mary watched the pair glide to the floor and prepare for the waltz, his arm solidly around Lady Eleanora's waist and her hand nestled in his. They looked beautiful together—the young woman's masses of dark hair against his golden curls—but more important was the adoration in Lord Blakeney's eyes as he swept the girl off.

When Mary turned back, she found both of the Laughlin girls pouting.

“They make a lovely pair,” she said, unable to resist pointing out her charge's triumph.

“It's incredible how a competent partner can mask the deficiencies in a girl's dancing,” said Lady Laughlin.

“Deficiencies?” She laughed. “If she has any, I can't see them. It seems that Lord Blakeney is certainly enjoying himself. Do you see how he leans down to whisper in her ear?”

The baroness raised her fan and began to flick at the air. “It's such a shame that Lady Eleanora didn't get a chance to elaborate on our introduction. I could have sworn I knew every unmarried lady of your age in London.”

Mary let the jab at her spinsterhood glance off her. “And what do you presume my age to be, Lady Laughlin? I'm so curious to know.”

Lady Laughlin's eyes narrowed. “I'm not fond of games, Miss Falsum. As Lady Eleanora's chaperone, I must insist that you make your identity known to me.”

“Her chaperone?” she asked, snapping open her own silver fan as though she didn't have a care in the world. “How very exciting for you to have three young ladies to guide through the season, although of course your daughters have already done it once, isn't that right?”

Lady Laughlin bristled at the implication that her daughters had not succeeded in snaring a husband on their first go-round, but before the baroness could say anything something caught her attention over Mary's right shoulder.

Curious, Mary turned around. Her breath hitched. Standing before her was Lord Asten in all his costumed glory.

Asten had spotted his daughter across the crowd, speaking to Lord Blakeney—a tall man with a passion for the study of archaeology. He'd watched as Eleanora placed her hand in his and allowed herself to be led off for a waltz. She looked happy—thrilled even—and he wondered if he should begin to prepare himself for a courtship.

He decided it'd be best if he were there when Lord Blakeney returned Eleanora to her party. That way he might have a word with the man while taking the measure of him.

Lady Laughlin was speaking to another woman as he approached, but a coy smile spread over her lips nonetheless. “Lord Asten, I presume?”

He gave a shallow bow. “You are, as always, a picture of grace and beauty, madam.”

The pretty words more rakish men used never quite tripped off his lips with ease. Not that it mattered much. The only woman who really intrigued him recently was tucked away safely on the third floor of his home, well away from his amorous thoughts.

“I must introduce you to my new acquaintance,” said Lady Laughlin. “But perhaps you already know her since she's your daughter's friend. This is Miss Falsum.”

His gaze passed over to the lady standing with Lady Laughlin, and a lightning bolt hit him square between the eyes. She was perfect—or as near to perfect as any woman could get—with curling brown hair that glinted fiery red in the candlelight of the chandeliers overhead. A silver half mask covered her nose and cheekbones up to her forehead, but he could make out a pair of lush red lips and a chin that came to a point like the bottom of a heart. A sparkle lit her chocolate eyes with mischief, as though she was sharing a joke he wasn't privy to.

Lust reared up in him, nearly matching the way his body reacted to the untouchable Miss Woodward.

The lady dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Asten, it's a pleasure.”

Her voice wasn't the light, lilting thing that fashionable ladies affected these days. Oh, it was proper and correct to be sure, but there was a slight huskiness to her tone that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wondered what she sounded like in the throes of passion.

Her. If you can't have Miss Woodward, pick her.

“Miss Falsum was just about to tell me the story of how she knows dear Lady Eleanora,” said Lady Laughlin, pulling him back from the whorl of desire that his brain had become. “I'm surprised you two haven't made each other's acquaintance yet either.”

“The night is full of mysteries,” said Miss Falsum. “But an introduction isn't necessary. I know a great deal about Lord Asten.”

Asten practically leapt on the opportunity that had presented itself. “How is it you know me?”

“By reputation. I'm a devoted reader of the broadsheets.”

The thought that somewhere in London a woman might be sitting in her drawing room looking for his name in the papers flattered him.

“And a listener of gossip no doubt,” Lady Laughlin said with a laugh. “It's the best way to gather information in London, don't you think?”

Miss Falsum stopped fluttering her fan long enough to deliver the baroness an icy look. “I'll have to take your word for it, ma'am. I'm not often idle enough to indulge in the pleasure.”

Asten knew it was disloyal to feel such satisfaction at watching someone needle Lady Laughlin, but he couldn't help it. He was beginning to suspect that Miss Woodward was right. Lady Laughlin was asserting herself and her opinion into his life too much. It was beginning to grate on him.

“I must confess, I came over to find out what transpired before Lord Blakeney danced off with my daughter,” he said.

“Lord Blakeney was so kind to think of Eleanora before he asked Una and Cordelia to dance,” said Lady Laughlin. “One never likes to see the wallflowers overlooked.”

Wallflower? His daughter might by shy, but she didn't cling to the fringes of the ballroom. She wasn't a charity case who could only get a dance by relying on a man's pity.

“I don't suppose you'd engage in something as frivolous as dancing, Miss Falsum,” said Lady Laughlin. “Since you are so little idle.”

“I don't dance as often as I would like to, but I enjoy it when I have a skilled partner,” said Miss Falsum.

“I'm surprised your hand isn't in great demand,” he said, knowing it would irk Lady Laughlin to see him pay attention to a woman she clearly saw as nothing more than an upstart. It wasn't the most earl-like behavior, but the dig against his daughter still smarted.

No mask could hide the startled look in Miss Falsum's eyes. “You mustn't jest, sir. I'm far too old to fill up a dance card.”

“Even more reason to make up for lost time and lost dances, then.”

The once-bold woman hesitated as though wondering whether she should entrust herself to him. There was something vulnerable about her, as though his words had opened up an old wound. A powerful urge to take her up in his arms and soothe her gripped him.

“Trust me,” he said.

Whatever it was about those words, the mysterious woman nodded once and slid her hand into his. Sure enough, a bolt of white-hot desire shot through him. It was, he realized, the same sensation he'd felt every time he touched Miss Woodward, and for a moment he wondered about the slight gravel of the woman's voice and the glint of chestnut in her hair . . .

It was impossible. Miss Woodward was a governess, and she'd made it very clear she respected the barriers that stood between his world and hers. He'd been transfixed by her, and she'd pulled back, throwing up all the walls of propriety and common sense between them. It had taken every ounce of logic he had not to go scaling those walls just so he could touch her a little longer.

No, the more he looked the less this woman resembled Miss Woodward. She shared her beautiful hair and the appeal of her voice, but no doubt so did dozens, if not hundreds, of women in London. This woman was more mysterious than he could imagine Miss Woodward's frank nature ever allowing herself to be. Besides, Miss Falsum was luxuriously attired. He knew the sums he sent off to settle his daughter's modiste's bills and he knew Miss Woodward's salary. The two simply did not match.

“As I said, it's been a long time since I've waltzed,” said the lady as he led her out to the floor that was rapidly emptying as couples changed partners during a break between songs. “I can't promise that your toes will survive the encounter.”

“I'm sure they'll be just fine,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “I'm honored to be the man to bring you back to the dance floor after such a long drought. A woman as beautiful as you should dance as often as she pleases.”

That made her blush a light pink right on the apples of her cheeks, sending a smile to his lips. He hoped it wouldn't be his last opportunity to make her blush that evening.

Chapter Seven

Mary wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but she didn't want it to stop. How could she when it felt so good to be wrapped up in a man's arms and swept into the gentle one-two-three rise and fall of a waltz?

But this isn't just any man,
a little voice in the back of her head reminded her. This was Lord Asten, and if he were to find out who she was, there'd be dire consequences. She knew this and yet it was still impossible to break away from him because she didn't
want
to. This was her chance to enjoy a fantasy with a man who was decidedly delicious and completely out of reach.

He let go of her waist and swept her into a turn perfectly timed with the music. Then he caught her again and murmured in her ear, “You never told me your name.”

“But I did.”

He smiled down at her. “Miss Falsum? ‘Falsum' is the Latin word for deceit.”

She could've kicked herself for letting Lady Eleanora give her a name that was so obvious, but she hadn't thought that anyone would notice. The entire night—from the masks to the elaborate costumes—was about the fun of anonymity.

“How am I supposed to properly thank the lovely lady I'm dancing with when the music ends if I don't know her name?” Lord Asten asked.

“A simple thank-you would suffice,” she said.

He shook his head, his green eyes flashing with amusement. “Not after this dance. You waltz beautifully.”

“Some things you never forget.”

“I feel as though I know you,” he said.

“Perhaps we danced together once,” she said, knowing that not even in her wildest dreams would she have stood up with a man like Lord Asten. His bachelor years had been spent taking long visits to landed estates and Asten House in Belgrave Square. Her debutante years were spent miserable at school, the forgotten daughter of a mother who chose a new life.

Perhaps if things had been different . . .

But there was no use in wondering what might have happened. She couldn't change the past.

“Tell me your real name,” the earl said, an edge of want in his voice. “I need to know the real identity of the lady who's captivated me.”

Mary couldn't help but shiver with delight at his words. So this was what it felt like to hold a man in her sway. After fourteen years of carefully considering her every move and stomping out every desire, she felt powerful for the first time.

She opened her lips to answer, but the music stopped and their fellow dancers began to separate. However, Lord Asten's grip on her waist only tightened. He scanned the room and shot her a conspiratorial look. “Do you need to be returned to your party?”

She was about to respond that she didn't have a party, but quickly caught herself. That would look too suspicious. Instead she glanced over to where Lady Eleanora laughed merrily with Lord Blakeney. Lady Laughlin and her daughters stood just a few feet off, their lips puckered up as though they'd just eaten lemons.

Good for Lady Eleanora
.

With her charge in the capable—but still chaperoned—hands of Lord Blakeney, she took a breath and jumped into the temptation he offered. “No.”

“Walk with me?” asked Lord Asten, holding his arm out so she could place her hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Do you know, if you'd told me I'd be dancing a waltz tonight, I'd have laughed,” she said with a smile.

“Why?” he asked as they moved to the colonnade that wrapped around the ballroom's edge.

She shrugged. “No one's asked me to in a very long time.”

He glanced down at her. “Are you married to a neglectful husband?”

“I'm
Miss
Falsum, remember?”

“A name we've already established is false,” he teased.

She could make this all go away. If she told Lord Asten she was married—even living separately from her husband—he would let her go without a fight. This was a man who believed in duty and family above all else. He'd never encroach upon that.

She couldn't bring herself to tell the lie.

“No, I'm not married,” she said.

He couldn't completely hide his relief. “Widowed?”

She shook her head.

“But surely you're not—”

“A spinster? I suppose some would call me that, although I prefer to think of myself as a woman who's been busy doing other things with her life.”

“And you still won't tell me your name?”

“No,” she said, laughing. “I've had years of experience resisting even the most persistent people.”

They'd reached the wide double doors leading out to the veranda from where she'd made her entrance. A thought gripped her—something else she'd never done. Something daring and scandalous and just too tempting to ignore, especially on that night when she'd already broken so many rules. Perhaps she was drunk on the earl's attention, or maybe it was the sultry excitement of so many hidden identities wafting through the air like perfume. Either way, she leaned close to Lord Asten and said in a low whisper, “I think I should like a breath of fresh air.”

It was tantamount to an invitation to kiss her right there in the middle of the ballroom, but wasn't the risk a part of the fun she'd denied herself for so long? She craved the rush of skirting the rules, and the only man she wanted to be dangerous with was Lord Asten.

“I think that'd be just the thing,” he said with a little conspiratorial smile. He glanced over his shoulder, placed a hand on the small of her back, and led her through the open door.

It had just rained, and the scent of it mingled with freshly cut grass and the early roses that were just beginning to bloom. Her slippers hardly made a sound as she crossed the damp stone of the veranda to a spot where she was well out of the line of sight of any windows. The moon that had guided her path into the ball was now hidden behind clouds, making it even darker in the garden. All the better to do sinful things with a man she wanted but would never be able to have.

“Do you know what they call this time of night?” she asked, trailing her gloved hand along a marble banister.

“Tell me.”

He stood very close behind her. Even though he wasn't touching her yet, his breath stirred the little curls on the back of her neck. She tipped her head just enough so that she could watch him from the corner of her eye.

“The witching hour,” she said.

The earl raised a hand and drew a finger along the line of her shoulder, down to the little scraps of fabric that hugged the top of her arms. “That's fitting.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Because you've cast a spell over me.”

The words sounded as sweet as honey. Intoxicating, seductively simple words. She turned and found herself caged between his strong arms, mere inches of space between the two of them. She sucked in a breath, knowing that something was about to happen. The earl was so focused on her. So intent.

“You still won't give me your real name?” he asked.

Anticipation raced through her veins and pooled between her legs. “No.”

“Then I'll have to be more persuasive.” The words were low and gravelly, as though he was holding himself back from the edge of the depths. Once he plunged in, taking her with him, there would be no coming back.

Mary tilted her chin up, perfectly positioning her lips and hoping against all hope that the earl—a man of great character and duty—would decide to be just a little bad this night.

When his lips touched hers, she forgot everything except the sensation of him on her. All at once his hands were around her waist, pulling her to him. Even through her skirts she could feel the hard length of his athletic body against hers, and yet it wasn't enough. She wanted all of him pressed up against her, skin to skin, with no fabric separating them. She needed him to bend her over the banister and ravage her in ways that a governess wasn't supposed to know about.

He was a man—raw and primal—casting off the bounds of duty and restraint and taking exactly what he wanted without excuse. Didn't she owe it to herself to do the same?

She opened herself to him almost without understanding what she was doing. All she knew was that when she parted her lips, he traced them with his tongue and it felt good. Better than good. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced before, driving all common sense out of her head and with it, every concern about being caught. It didn't matter who he was or who she was or where they were. The only thing that mattered was that he not stop.

Too soon, Lord Asten broke their kiss. She whimpered in protest, but then his lips were on her neck and desire blanked her mind once again. The sensation of his soft, needy lips on her neck was delicious. Her entire body seemed to tingle with the delight of him playing over her skin, licking, sucking, and biting at the sensitive spots that made her knees buckle and her stomach flip. He slid his lips over her collarbone and the broad sweep of her chest exposed by the off-the-shoulder style she wore. When he kissed her dress's neckline, she gasped.

“Too much?” he asked, lifting his head but not relinquishing his grip on her waist.

“Not enough,” she breathed. “Don't stop. Don't ever stop.”

She gripped his biceps, holding on with everything she had as he slipped a finger under each of her delicate sleeves and slid them farther down her arms. She looked down and saw that he'd exposed the top of her corset. It was plain and serviceable against the richness of her dress, but the earl didn't seem to notice. Instead he skimmed his fingers along the edge and yanked the garment down in one smooth movement. The tops of her breasts—already straining to be free—sprang out of their confinement.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, pressing a kiss to the cleft between her breasts.

His hand slid up, molding to the shape of her. His thumb skimmed over one of her exposed nipples, teasing it so that her hips canted up and pressed against his hard cock.

“What I want,” he said, casting his eyes up her half-bare body, “is to take you in my mouth and tease you until you can't stand it any longer. Do you want me to do that?”

“God, yes,” she begged.

And he did exactly as he promised. He slid her peaked nipple between his lips and sucked hard. A bolt of desire rocked her. Her fingers dug into his arms as she pushed her breast farther into his mouth. She'd been a fool when she thought she'd be able to resist this. She was a fool now if she believed that she'd be able to do this only once. He was opening up her world, unleashing her pent-up passion that she'd never be able to forget. But none of that really mattered—not while this sensation rolled through her body. Not while he was sucking and teasing and taunting her nipple until she felt as though she might expire on the spot.

He sucked hard one last time and let go, pulling a mewling sound from the back of her throat. But instead of moving back, he merely sought out her other breast, sharing the sensation that spread through her body, consuming her.

The flick of Lord Asten's tongue over her nipple was almost enough to distract her from the feeling of his fingers creeping down her legs and under her skirts. Almost.

“My lord,” she gasped out as his inquisitive fingers reached her knees—knees that had never been touched by a man before.

He jerked his head back as though he'd been pulled from a daze. “You're right.”

But before she could protest that he'd stopped, he swept her up in his arms. She yelped in a most undignified manner and clung to his neck as he strode for the stairs and carried her farther into the garden.

“I wouldn't want anyone else to enjoy the sight of you. That's just for me,” he murmured against her ear.

Lord Asten carried her to a marble bench and sat her down carefully. But if she thought they might resume kissing and a little touching, she was sorely mistaken. Instead the earl dropped to his knees on the damp paving stones.

“Let me taste you, my lady. Please.”

She stared at him. The fourth Earl of Asten, one of the most powerful men in England, was begging to kiss her. It was unfathomable, and yet it was happening.

All she could do was nod.

His deft fingers lifted her skirts and circled her ankles. She trembled at his touch, bracing her hands behind her on the bench as she watched. His hands skimmed up her calves. She hoped he didn't notice her stockings were plain cotton rather than silk, but as soon as his fingers reached the simple scalloped edging of her garters, she found she didn't care any longer. Her head fell back as his touch played up the inside of her thighs, tempting her. She whimpered and tried to scoot closer to the edge of the bench.

The earl chuckled. “Eager?”

“Yes,” she managed to say. The desire he stoked in her burned so hot she could barely utter one word, let alone an entire sentence.

He rucked up her skirts so they bunched around her waist and drew down her drawers. Then he spread her legs wide. “So am I.”

Mary's head fell back as the earl's tongue touched her there. Her hips would've bucked except that his arm lay firmly across her waist, holding her down so that he had full access to her. He ran his tongue along her, outlining her lips only to come back to the sensitive bud and flick his tongue across it. Then he sucked and didn't stop.

Her breath came in fast, shallow pants now. She could hardly think except to focus on the extreme pleasure of whatever it was the earl was doing to her. With every stroke of his tongue, every murmur of pleasure from the back of his throat, he pushed her higher, higher into the moon-drenched clouds.

She almost couldn't stand it and yet she wanted more. She wanted to yank him up and wrap her legs around his waist, inviting him into her with such wanton fervor that even she would never have imagined she had in her. Every fiber of her being screamed that there could be more—she could have more pleasure than this.