A Masked Deception (12 page)

But he gave her no chance to reply. One hand reached up and pulled firmly at the wig. The pins that had held up her own hair came away with it. Margaret heard Brampton draw in his breath sharply as her heavy long hair cascaded down over his arm. The strings of the mask had also come untied with that one tug at the wig. She felt it fall away to the floor.

Brampton’s body was still not touching hers. He reached up both hands now and let light fingertips roam over her face—over her forehead and cheekbones, down the length of her nose, over her mouth and her jawline. He pushed his fingertips lightly into the hair at her temples and let gentle thumbs follow the line of her eyebrows and then the lids of her closed eyes. His fingers slid deeper into the warmth of her hair.

Then his lips were on hers, gently, without demand, tasting the sweetness of her. They moved on to her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes, her ears. He paused at her right ear to take the lobe between his teeth and bite it gently as he licked at the tip. Margaret felt herself move away from a world of soft dreams into one of raw desire.

His mouth was back on hers, but open this time, hot, demanding, hard. His tongue penetrated the soft moistness of her mouth and explored and teased its interior. Their bodies were still not touching.

Finally Brampton’s hand moved down through her hair to her waist and brought her against him. Margaret felt the blood rush in a surge of heat to her cheeks.

His mouth moved to her ear again. “Angel, you are driving me crazy, you know that?”

“I think I am a little not quite sane too, monsieur,” Margaret managed to gasp out.

Both his hands now were at the fastenings of her dress, working the buttons slowly, one by one, through the loops. While his hands were thus busy, he kissed and teased with his tongue and teeth her a neck and her shoulders.

Finally the back of her gown was opened to the hips. Brampton drew it down off her shoulders and arms and moved back from her as it fell rustling to the floor. He knew immediately as he reached for her again that she was now naked to the waist. His hands found the small, firm breasts and kneaded them gently as his head came down to take the nipples, one by one, into his mouth. They were soon taut and a aching with a throb of desire that trickled downward to her womb. She moaned and arched her hips against him.

“I must have you on the bed, angel,” Brampton was whispering against her lips again. He wrapped his arms around her and moved her backward as he kissed her again, until she felt the edge of the bed against the back of her knees. She allowed him to lay her back against the crisp, cool sheets, and moved up so that her head lay on the pillow. She lay still while his hands carefully and knowledgeably removed her shift, her silk stockings, and her undergarments. Finally she lay naked—but unseen—before him for the first time.

He did not join her on the bed immediately. Margaret could hear that he was removing his own clothing. She savored the moment. Her body was singing with awareness of him, already throbbing and aching for fulfillment, more than she had ever experienced in her erotic dreams of him. But she knew there was no need for anxiety. This time he would satisfy her. She would know what it was like to be loved.

Brampton joined her on the bed. He lay beside her, turned toward her but not touching her for the moment. His hand began tracing a light pattern down her body, beginning at her throat and shoulders, moving down over her breasts and rib cage, over her hips and stomach and down the inside of her thighs to her knees. Margaret’s breathing quickened and the throbbing of her body became more insistent.

His fingertips came back up the leg closest to him until they reached her stomach again. Then he brought the palm of his hand down on her and began slow, circular movements around her navel.

Margaret half-turned to him, desperate for closer contact.

“Patience, little angel,” he said softly, raising himself on one elbow and leaning over her to kiss her slowly and deeply again on the mouth. “Let us make this a loving to remember.”

Oh, yes, she would remember this loving, Margaret thought. It would have to last her a lifetime.

His hand moved again until she gasped and pulled away in fright. His fingers had reached down to stroke and caress the warm, moist place between her thighs.

“Do not be frightened, sweet,” he murmured against her lips. “I want only to love you.” One of his legs hooked around one of hers and drew it toward him; his hand resumed its caresses with greater freedom, his fingernails scratching lightly until Margaret’s body was writhing in an agony of throbbing, spiraling longing. She turned and reached for him, blindly.

“Ah, yes, I knew you would be good to love,” he said exultantly, firm hands pressing her back down on to the bed again. He moved across her and lowered his weight onto her still-twisting body.

“Oh, please, monsieur. Please. Please!” she gasped, her brain somehow holding on to the deception of the husky French accent.

“Yes, my sweet. Oh yes,” he answered, his own voice not quite steady. And then the world stood still as he slid deeply into the soft heat of her. He lay heavily on her for a moment while they both savored the exquisite delight of being joined at last.

Then he raised himself on his forearms, his body a little away from hers, so that he could withdraw himself almost entirely from her before thrusting deeply inside again. Margaret wrapped her legs around his and fit herself to his rhythm as she had in a different way when they had danced earlier. Soon he was driving passionately into her while her desire tightened and tightened and, ultimately, became more and more frightening. She dared not let go. She might lose herself forever.

Brampton felt her inability to climax. He imposed an iron hold on his own almost uncontrollable need to release into her. He slowed his rhythm, let his weight down onto her again, and eased his hands beneath her body.

“What is it, little one?” he murmured.

“I can’t. I can’t,” she gasped, panic-stricken.

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he soothed. “I shall hold you safe. Like this, you see? Trust me, sweet. I shall not hurt you.”

He coaxed her with deep, slow strokes until she knew she must allow him into the center of her world and she would never be free again.

“I want all of you, angel. Everything you have to give. As I give you my all,” he said in a new, harsher, more urgent tone of voice. “Now, darling. Now!”

And he was coming and coming and did not stop coming. Margaret opened the final barrier and exploded against him with shudder after shudder. She was not aware either of her own abandoned cry or of his groan of fulfillment as he followed her into a world of shattering release.

Brampton drew himself out of her and moved his weight away almost immediately, but his arms locked behind her back and took her with him, so that the comforting rock-hardness of his body held her secure for the several minutes during which she could not stop from shaking.

“It was good for you, little one,” he said finally, his voice husky with emotion, “as I intended it to be. Sleep now. I shall hold you safe.”

Margaret obediently slipped into a sleep of total, delicious relaxation, heedless of the need for caution or the need to leave before dawn should make her face visible.

Brampton lay holding her awhile, before drifting into sleep himself. Now that passion was satisfied, he delighted in the feel of her lovely, firm little body in his arms. Her hair was thick and silky over his arm and against his chest. He wished he could see it, know its color. It reached to her waist.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes. God, but he wanted this little angel for his own. He had never known such joy as he had just experienced in her arms and still felt in his satiety.

He had had one of his earlier questions answered, at any rate. She was no coquette. He had noticed as soon as he entered her that she was not a virgin. But she certainly lacked experience. Her body had hummed with passion and she had wanted him every bit as much as he had wanted her, but she had made no attempt to make love to him. She had kept her hands to herself, and though she had returned his kisses, she had not initiated any of her own. And at the end she had been terrified of her own response. Obviously, no man had ever taken her to a climax before.

Brampton was glad of that. He had felt momentarily disappointed that she was not a virgin. He would have liked to be her first—and only—man. But that was absurd, of course. Even if she had been a girl when he had first met her, six years would have made her into a woman. And it was inconceivable that such a beautiful, passionate little creature could have remained untouched. Had she had lovers? Was she married? Her fear of revealing her identity suggested that she was. She was probably married to some old fool, he decided with bitter contempt. No real man could have taken this woman’s body without awakening it to all the joys of unleashed love and passion. But maybe her husband thought she wanted it that way. And maybe he was right!

But she was made for him. Brampton vowed that he would teach this little angel all the numerous arts and delights of lovemaking that he had learned in his many and varied experiences. He must have her for a long time yet.

Margaret awakened, feeling disoriented. She felt warm, comfortable, safe. She knew immediately that she was not alone. Her cheek was resting against the hard muscles of an arm. The hand belonging to the same arm clasped her shoulder. A heart was beating steadily close to her ear. Richard had not returned to his own room tonight. How delightfully unusual! She snuggled closer to the warmth of his body.

His lips found hers in the darkness and she was suddenly fully awake. She was with Richard, but in an unknown place, and he believed himself to be with a stranger. She sat up in panic. What time was it? How close to daybreak was it?

“I did not mean to sleep, monsieur,” she said. “I must go.”

He grasped her shoulder and tried to force her back down beside him. “Don’t worry, my sweet,” he said. “I shall take you home soon. Let me love you once more first.”

“Oh, no, no, I must go,” she replied, resisting the persuasion of his hand and voice.

“Will you be missed?” he asked with gentle concern.

“I must go,” was all she would say.

“Then we will dress and leave,” he said soothingly. “It is all right, angel. You will be safe with me.”

“Ah, but you must not come with me, monsieur,” she said in alarm.

“I shall certainly not allow you out alone in the streets of London at this hour of the night,” Brampton declared firmly.

“I have my own carriage, monsieur,” Margaret said with far more confidence than she felt. What if Jem had not been able to follow? Or what if he had got tired of waiting and had driven home long before? How would she get home?

“Do you mean that you had my coachman followed?” he asked in amusement. “I begin to see, little minx, how it came about that you escaped Madame Guillotine.”

Margaret scrambled off the bed and began the difficult task of gathering her scattered belongings in the darkness. She dressed hastily, wig, mask, and all.

“Angel, when shall I see you again?” Brampton asked from the bed.

Margaret paused.

“I must see you again!” he said urgently.

“I think it would be better not, monsieur,” Margaret said sadly. “Nothing can come of this affair.”

“But we can love each other, give each other delight—perhaps for a long, long time,” he argued.

“You are married, monsieur,” she said, heart pounding, “and I do not wish to be any man’s mistress.”

“And you, angel,” he prompted, “are you too married?”

Margaret paused again. “I must leave, monsieur,” she said.

“Elusive wretch,” he chuckled. “But tell me when I can see you, angel, or I shall get out of this bed and stand before the door until you give me an answer.”

“I shall be in the place we met tonight at the same time next week,” Margaret replied.

“In Vauxhall?”

“
Oui,
monsieur.”

“I shall be there, angel. You will not let me down?”

“You must trust me, monsieur.”

He sighed. “I wish you would trust me with your identity.”

“Will you promise me,” she asked, “not to leave this room for ‘alf an hour after I leave?”

“I will promise you the moon and all the stars, angel, if you will just feel your way across to this bed and kiss me again,” he replied with another chuckle. Her theatrical air of mystery both intrigued and amused him.

She found her way to his side and bent over him. His arms came viselike around her, toppling her down on top of him. His mouth found hers hungrily and kissed her deeply.

“Ah, you have that glorious hair hidden again,” he commented as their lips drew apart. “What color is it, angel?”

“
Au revoir,
monsieur,” she said, rising from the bed and feeling her way to the doorway.

Margaret felt terrible fright as she emerged from the house onto the dark, silent street. She knew she would have to go back upstairs to Richard if Jem were not there. She did not even know where in London she was.