A Masked Deception by Mary Balogh Page B

clothes he had worn the night before. It was hard for Margaret to believe that he did not know her.
    But if she had any doubt on that point, the look in his eyes would have undeceived her. He had certainly never looked at the Countess of Brampton with such smoldering desire.
    Brampton held out his hand for hers and led her, without prelude, to a bedchamber. He took the candlestick with him. The light from the candles lit up a large room with heavy, stately furniture, including a big four-poster bed, its blue velvet curtains drawn back, bedclothes turned down to reveal snowy-white sheets and pillowcases. Darker-blue velvet curtains were drawn back from the four windows, so that moonlight helped illuminate the room.
    Margaret felt panic growing. This was the point of no return, then. She could not possibly now turn the evening away from its inevitable conclusion. And soon, surely, he would know with whom he was dealing.
    Brampton set the candlestick down on the dressing table so that the light from the candles was doubled by the reflections from the mirror.
    “Come here, angel,” he said, holding out his arms to her.
    Margaret was still standing uncertainly just inside the door. She went into his arms and felt them close around her.
    “And now,” he murmured, smiling into her eyes, “finally, let us get rid of this mask and this wig, my angel. Let me see you.”
    “Ah, no, monsieur,” she said anxiously, pushing against his chest. “Please, I cannot do that.”
    Brampton tightened his hold on her. “What is it, my sweet?” he coaxed, puzzled. “Do you not trust me? I shall not hurt you or betray you to anyone else, even if you turn out to be Princess Caroline herself.” He paused and grinned wickedly. “You are not Princess Caroline, are you, angel? It would be tiresome to have to call you ‘Your Highness’ while I make love to you.”
    Margaret laughed at the absurd look on his face. “I shall not answer yes or no, monsieur,” she said archly. “But I insist that you must not see me.”
    He sighed in exasperation. “Angel, will you compromise?” he asked. “If I extinguish the candles and pull the curtains across the windows so that we cannot see a hand before our faces, will you unmask for me? Please, my sweet?” he begged as she hesitated. “I cannot make love to you if I cannot at least feel your face and your hair.”
    “How do you know that I wish you to make love to me, monsieur?” she asked, tapping him briskly on the shoulder with the fan that she still clutched.
    “I assume, little wretch,” he replied, “that when you step willingly into a bedchamber with a man, you do not do so in order to discuss the weather or the state of the nation!”
    “Snuff the candles, monsieur, and draw the curtains,” Margaret said. “Then I shall give you my answer.”
    He did as he was bid. The result was everything Margaret could have wished. She could see nothing whatsoever. Neither could he, apparently. She heard a thud, followed by an oath, as he found his way back to her.
    “You owe me a ‘yes’ angel,” he said close to her ear as he reached out to take her arm, “to make up for the crushed ankle I just acquired.”
    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