Page 11 of Cocky August Rake
They walked in silence through the moonlit garden, though the air between them seemed to hum with what had just happened.
At the terrace, he stopped. He was looking at her with an expression she didn’t quite understand.
Not regret. Not quite.
His gaze lingered on her masked face, then dropped briefly to her mouth. He seemed on the verge of speaking. Of asking something… Her name, perhaps.
The thought jolted her into action. Before he could speak, Rose slipped past him and into the ballroom.
She moved quickly through the crush of guests, keeping her head lowered as music and laughter folded around her. Somewhere between the dancers and the nearest exit, she felt the ribbon at the back of her mask loosen.
A moment later, it fell.
Rose did not stop for it.
She kept going, through the doors, down the steps, and out into the cool night, where the waiting carriage stood beyond the sweep of lantern light.
Only once she had climbed inside and shut the door behind her did she allow herself to breathe.
The carriage rolled away toward The Domus.
In the weeks that followed, the memory barely faded—the moonlight, the rasp of his breath, the fierce and unexpected pleasure of his touch.
Somehow, Rose knew she would never forget the masked stranger beneath the stars.
NOTHING ALL SUMMER
The Rake Review
July 31st, 1822
HAS HE LANDED FOR GOOD THIS TIME?
My Dear Readers,
Lord Reginald Preston made quite the impression at the final masquerade of the Season.
And then vanished.
How very rude.
A little bird tells this columnist that the Duke of Malum’s younger brother took to sea almost immediately after the ball. But now his ship has been spotted once again, moored off Blackwall Yard for repairs.
Which means our mysterious sailor may be staying in London awhile.
But why has he returned?
For a woman?
For trouble?
Or to take the reins of London’s most exclusive—and most notorious—establishment, the Domus Emporium?
This columnist intends to find out.
Preferably before he disappears again.
—The Brazen Belle
