Lady Em's Indiscretion by Elena Greene Page B

Recklessly, she stretched upward,
on tiptoes and raised her face to him. Another tortured breath, and
he lowered his face to hers.
    His kiss was shockingly sweet: shy,
hesitant, as he pressed his lips almost chastely against hers and
stilled his body. As if he guessed what she wanted when she herself
had not known. Dreamily, she succumbed to pleasure; she parted her
lips and kissed him back, relishing the firm roundness of his lips,
the taste of him, the merest hint of wine on his breath.
    She gasped as the stranger’s tongue curled
around hers. Shocked, she submitted to his slow, tentative
exploration, sensing she had but to say the word and he would stop.
But she didn’t wish to stop him. She lifted her arms to embrace
him, ventured to flick her tongue against his. A shudder ran
through his body; he let out a low groan, yet did nothing but kiss
her.
    Walter had never kissed her like this; she
had not known that anyone could kiss so.
    Then thoughts of Walter fled. The stranger
deepened his kiss; she let out a little moan of pleasure. He
pressed against her more closely and she tightened her embrace,
whimpering, returning each flutter of his tongue. She felt safe yet
lost, feasting yet hungry, helpless with longing for more.
    A chill came over her. She froze, then
pulled her face away.
    She had vowed never to be helpless
again.
    “I cannot . . . I am sorry. Let me go,” she
whispered.
    For a moment Death continued to press her
against the pillar, the rhythm of his breath harsh, his body
hard.
    “Please,” she begged, terror constricting
her throat. “Let me go. I should never have come!”
    Then he backed away, slowly releasing her.
As she slid out from under his cloak, she nearly wept with relief.
He was a gentleman after all.
    “Forgive me,” he said in one shuddering
breath. “Please don’t be frightened. I won’t touch you again if you
don’t wish, but please let me—”
    His eyes were dark, full of desire and
remorse; his voice low and caressing. She was touched, but it was
wrong to stay. It was terribly wrong of her to have encouraged
him.
    “I must go,” she interrupted before she
changed her mind. “Please don’t follow me!”
    Legs shaking, she ran along the side of the
room, vaguely aware of curious glances as she dodged groups of
people in garish costumes, bumping into some. She rushed into the
sparsely filled entrance hall. Thank God! There was Charles, solid
and reliable, coming forward and holding her dark blue evening
cloak.
    “Is someone causing you trouble, ma’am?” he
asked worriedly.
    “No, no, but I must leave now.” Frantically,
she pulled on her cloak and lifted the hood over her head.
    Then a mad indecision came over her. She
glanced back toward the ballroom. Had the stranger followed her, to
make sure she left safely?
    “There you are! Promised myself I’d see your
face, and more, before the night’s through!”
    She began to tremble. The Turk was
approaching. She’d forgotten him, but now there was no choice but
to leave.
    “You’ll not touch my mistress,” said
Charles, interposing his formidable mass between Livvy and the
oncoming man.
    “Leave the lady be!” Death’s resonant voice
rang through the entrance hall. Livvy peered around Charles and saw
the Turk turn to face his antagonist.
    “Who the devil are you and how are you going
to stop me?” the Turk asked, with all the bravado of a
drunkard.
    In two swift strides, Death closed the
distance between them; in another heartbeat, his fist swung into
the Turk’s jaw, knocking him to the floor.
    A woman screamed. Several persons started
toward them.
    “We must go, my lady!” said Charles.
    Death stood over the Turk’s rolling and
cursing form, eyes blazing grimly through the holes in his
mask.
    The Turk staggered to his feet. “Damn you,
you doxy!” he shouted, staring at Livvy, then at Charles, then back
to Livvy. “I’ve a notion who you are, and once—”
    He lunged toward Death, only to be