The Wedding Chase by Rebecca Kelley Page B

masquerade as Madame Pompadour real, or was he so accustomed to taking what he wanted that he never considered she would refuse? She pulled the torn nightgown tight around her neck.
    A little flirtation! Lord, she was miles out of her league. Northcliffe made an assignation with her, but she had been too naive to recognize it. Now he had ruined everything. Her magic, fairy-tale night lay in shreds. Her fairy-tale prince was a frog at best, more likely an ogre.
    Zel pulled the bedclothes up to her chin, tucking them around her shoulders. He was a villain. She twisted onto her side, curling her feet up in her night rail. But in all honesty, she had allowed him unimaginable liberties. He kissed her, touched her, as only a husband should, and she enjoyed it, encouraged it. He must have thought her completely brazen and behaved toward her exactly as she deserved.
    Northcliffe would have no interest in her now. He probablythought she was an escapee from Bedlam, kissing him one minute, punching him the next. With the crowds diminished by so many still in Paris, it was inevitable that she would see him in London. But she must find a way to avoid him, as he would surely wish to avoid her. If or when they did meet, she would never let on how his embrace had shaken her.
    Wolfgang rolled onto his side, tangling the cover as he gently stroked his aching eye and massaged his tender stomach. Bloody horns of Satan! If he couldn’t have her as a lover, maybe she’d agree to hire on as his sparring partner. His pugilistic skills would improve drastically, but would he survive?
    He needed a good, hot soak. Lifting himself gingerly out of bed, he fumbled for the bell pull. Within seconds a timid knock was followed by a wrinkled face peering around the door.
    “Fetch me a hot bath, and quickly,” Wolfgang barked.
    He surveyed the damage in the glass. Oh, she’d certainly done fine work last night. Luring him like a siren and dashing his head on the rocks. Leaving him with a lovely shiner for remembrance.
    He scratched at his hand. Scratched at it again and raised it before his face. Laced tightly through his fingers were several long, dark strands of hair, Zel’s hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Hair, soft and thick, velvet to the touch, suffused with that faint scent of spice. Until last night always pulled back in that disordered but maidenly chignon.
    Had he misread that pause, as they faced each other, kneeling on her bed? When her slumberous eyes and full, lustrous breast had beckoned. Had he misread her soft “later” in response to his suggestions earlier in the evening? Had she misread his suggestion, not realizing it was a request for much more than a few kisses on the terrace?
    From the first he had been intrigued by her contrasts. Who was Zel Fleetwood? Bold reformer or shy girl, passionate pianist or naive bluestocking, dashing courtesan or frightened virgin? Wolfgang yanked a dark green jacket, striped waistcoat, and buff breeches from the armoire. Where were his damn linens?
    By all the denizens of hell! A gnawing in the pit of his stomach told him he had made a mistake of gigantic proportions. The passionate responses to his kisses and touch were certainly real, but they were not the schooled rejoinders of an experienced woman. The dashing courtesan was a role performed for the masquerade with naive enthusiasm. Zel pretended at flirtation, having no inkling what the stakes were. Wolfgang knew this, had known it from the beginning, but had chosen to ignore it last night. He had chosen instead to believe that as a radical thinker and avowed fortune hunter, she must also be a fallen or eager-to-fall woman.
    Finding a clean neckcloth and shirt stuffed in the bottom drawer, he shook out the worst of the wrinkles and laid them on the bed. Jenkins would refuse to take another holiday if the efficient valet ever saw the condition of his wardrobe.
    Walking to the window, he parted the curtains a sliver. The sun rode high