Linda Skye – The Debutante's Ruse (страница 2)

He stared at her in open shock, his moist lips parted in surprise and his fingers still lingering on the lower buttons of his open shirt. Dark hair mussed and breathing heavy, he seemed to have just finished some strenuous—and perhaps, lewd—activity. Involuntarily, Isabella’s eyes dropped from his strong jaw to the bared plane of his chest, where his taut muscles were chiselled in sharp relief. Frozen, the two stared at each other until the startling creak of a floorboard forced them back to the present.

Hemmed in on both sides, Isabella felt her chest tighten in panic. And when her unsuspecting pursuers showed no sign of slowing their approach, she decided to make a mad dash past the stranger. Before she could even tense to spring forward, she felt strong fingers wrap around her upper arm. A firm tug pulled her off balance and she tumbled to the side, quickly finding herself ensconced in the heavy damask curtains adorning a window—and encircled tightly by the stranger’s strong arms. Isabella furtively glanced up into the stranger’s face and met slate-gray eyes which clearly communicated his intentions. To further impress the warning upon her, he leaned in and lightly placed two fingers against her lips. She nodded slightly, bowed her head and fought to quell her slight trembling at being so suddenly pressed to a man.

Isabella had never been so near a man in her life, and she felt her cheeks burn at the proximity. With every short breath that she took, she inhaled the scent of his sweat and cedar musk. She could feel every line of his hard body against her own: thigh against thigh and chest to chest. She could even feel the pounding of his heart under her open palms.

Isabella stilled. The men were about to pass, and the stranger’s shoulders still moved with heavy panting from his prior exertions, rustling the curtains with every exhale. Moving with painful slowness so as not to disturb the fabric concealing them, Isabella reached up to cup his cheek in one hand to draw his attention downward. His eyes widened fractionally as she pressed her bosom against his chest, her small fingers splayed across his collar bone. And then, she took one deep breath and exhaled slowly. Her green eyes, bright even in the dim light, begged him to understand as her breathing grew soft, still and silent. He followed her lead, mimicking her rhythm and following the rise and fall of her breast with his own.

The footsteps passed them but did not fade away into the corridor. Instead they paused. Three sharp raps on a door followed.

“Lord James?” The governor called, knocking again.

The stranger’s hands tightened around her waist as the governor called out again. Isabella twisted her fingers in the material of his loosened shirt, wordlessly urging him to stay silent.

“Maybe he’s already left for the ball?” Arthur muttered.

“Most likely,” The governor replied, “Shall we meet him there?”

“I shall join you presently,” Arthur said, “Allow me to fetch my sister from her rooms. I did not see her at the beginning of the ball, and it would not do for her to miss his lordship’s eye.”

Their footfalls faded from earshot as they went back the way they came, and Isabella breathed a sigh of relief. She tried to step away, only to find the stranger’s arms as bands of steel around her, his gray eyes alight with interest. His hand went for the thin cloth covering her face, but she caught his wrist with nimble fingers. To her surprise, he did not seem perturbed at her scandalous disguise, nor by the fact that he had a possible criminal locked in his arms. Instead, his expression was only curious. How strange, Isabella thought as her eyes traced the outline of his attractive lips, how intriguing.

“Who are you?” He asked, searching her gaze.

“Do not ask questions you do not wish to answer yourself,” she hissed, twisting in his grip, remembering her mission.

“Come now,” the man whispered, drawing her even closer, “Surely I am entitled to some morsel of information for hiding you from the lord of this manor?”

“Must I remind you that you were hiding as well?” Isabella murmured against his ear, letting her hands slide down his arms.

“True,” he acquiesced, “But I simply must know who you are.”

The stranger’s arms tightened as he spun her around, pressing her back against the cool window pane. He gently pushed his hips into hers, pinning her in place with his weight. Isabella gasped at the new sensation and pressed her palms against his bare chest. The man pressed his face into her neck and inhaled deeply, his hands skimming the shapely contours of her sides. As his fingers trailed from her ribs to her hips, Isabella lost the ability to think. A slow-burning heat began in the pit of her stomach, spreading like syrup through her limbs. When he tugged at her earlobe with his teeth, she almost forgot herself. Almost.

“That will have to wait until another time, good sir.”

The words had barely left her mouth when she twisted from his grasp, dropped to the floor and pushed his arms away. She spun out her leg as forcefully as she could, knocking his shins. As he fumbled for balance in the heavy fabric, she slipped from the curtains and raced away, ducking into the servants’ stairwell. She took the narrow steps two at a time, only skidding to a stop when she saw a slightly off-color wall panel. She pushed, and the secret door swung inward. She crawled through the passageway as quickly as she could, emerging into a lavishly appointed boudoir just in time to see a Chinese maid wringing her hands in worry—and to hear impatient knocking at her door.

“Isabella, dear sister,” Arthur called through the ornate doors to her rooms, “Aren’t you ready yet?”

Isabella fought to school her ragged breathing. “Brother, please. One mustn’t rush a lady. Give me but a moment.”

“A moment, then.” There was a dull thud as he leaned against the closed doors. “I shall escort you to the ball. Do not make me stand here overly long, sister.”

“Miss Isabella,” the maid whispered in heavily accented English, “Your honored father and brother are not pleased by your absence at the ball.”

“And I am even less pleased with them, Jia Li,” she huffed, “They plan to sell me off through marriage.”

At her maid’s horrified expression, Isabella dropped her eyes and began to carefully unroll her precious cargo. The silk robe spilled out in a gleaming cascade of gold, and she held it up for her maid to see. Jia-Li approached slowly with upturned palms that fluttered just inches from the lustrous fabric. She sighed.

“The robe of the ancient Emperor of the Sun is as beautiful as they say,” she breathed in awe.

“And it would have been completely wasted on the likes of our dear Miss Wilkinson, don’t you think, Jia-Li?”

Isabella handed the robe to her maid, who reverently folded it and tucked it out of sight.

“What will you do with it?” Jia-Li asked as she began to pull other fabrics from drawers.

“I will go into Wan Chai tomorrow to sell it,” Isabella replied with a shrug. “Now, what have you picked for tonight’s ball?”

Jia-Li pulled a dress from its resting place in her boudoir and held it up for Isabella’s approval. The scarlet dress was made of Chinese silk, and there was a depth to the shine that could not be imitated by western fabrics. Isabella nodded approvingly; it was a bold choice, just barely conforming to the fashionable silhouette of the day while completely rejecting the traditional assortment of pastel tulle ruffles that usually adorned the sleeves and bustles of summer evening gowns.

She smiled as she shrugged off her clingy silk jumpsuit and tugged her long, black curls free. If they had all been waiting on her arrival at the party, she had better make it a spectacular sight.

Chapter Three

Lord Henry James was restless, and the lingering memory of the strange encounter in the corridor wasn’t helping. Who was she? The question plagued his mind as he scanned the crowded ballroom.

Earlier, he had instinctively pulled the mysterious woman behind the curtains to hide the evidence of his latest indiscretion from prying eyes—but the mere memory of her jasmine perfume was more intoxicating than any fleeting pleasure he’d ever known. If he closed his eyes, he swore he could still feel the curve of her waist under his hands and the swell of her breast against his. And those green eyes…

A soft, feminine giggle reminded him that he was already in the midst of a conversation.

Henry looked down and smiled indulgently at the small group of blushing debutantes fluttering around him like naive butterflies. This first set of hopeful husband-hunters had been the bravest at the governor’s summer ball, flocking to his side immediately. A cursory glance around the crowded ballroom had revealed the thoughts of every aspiring colonial socialite: that the fourth son of the Duke of Exeter would be an excellent catch indeed.

The bitter thought tightened his throat as his father’s stern warning echoed through his mind. Find a wife, he tells me. Henry almost sighed, and glanced in the direction of his host, the Governor of Hong Kong. He was rumored to have a daughter—and Henry knew nothing would please his father more than having connections to eastern trade.