And all the while, her eyes remained locked on his.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
“Everything!” she said, laughing.
“What do you hear?”
“The music.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “I hear the music as I’ve never heard it before.”
His hands tightened, and the space between them diminished by several inches. “What do you see?” he asked.
Sophie stumbled, but she never took her eyes off his. “My soul,” she whispered. “I see my very soul.”
He stopped dancing. “What did you say?” he whispered.
She held silent. The moment seemed too charged, too meaningful, and she was afraid she’d spoil it.
No, that wasn’t true. She was afraid she’d make it even better, and that would make it hurt all the more when she returned to reality at midnight.
How on earth was she going to go back to polishing Araminta’s shoes after this?
“I know what you said,” Benedict said hoarsely. “I heard you, and—”
“Don’t say anything,” Sophie cut in. She didn’t want him to tell her that he felt the same way, didn’t want to hear anything that would leave her pining for this man forever.
But it was probably already too late for that.
He stared at her for an agonizingly long moment, then murmured, “I won’t speak. I won’t say a word.” And then, before she even had a second to breathe, his lips were on hers, exquisitely gentle and achingly tender.
With deliberate slowness, he brushed his lips back and forth across hers, the bare hint of friction sending shivers and tingles spiraling through her body.
He touched her lips and she felt it in her toes. It was a singularly odd—and singularly wonderful—sensation.
Then his hand at the small of her back—the one that had guided her so effortlessly in their waltz—started to pull her toward him. The pressure was slow but inexorable, and Sophie grew hot as their bodies grew closer, then positively burned when she suddenly felt the length of him pressing against her.
He seemed very large, and very powerful, and in his arms she felt like she must be the most beautiful woman in the world.
Suddenly anything seemed possible, maybe even a life free of servitude and stigma.
His mouth grew more insistent, and his tongue darted out to tickle the corner of her mouth. His hand, which had still been holding hers in a waltz-pose, slid down the length of her arm and then up her back until it rested at the nape of her neck, his fingers tugging her hair loose from its coiffure.
“Your hair is like silk,” he whispered, and Sophie actually giggled, because he was wearing gloves.
He pulled away. “What,” he asked with an amused expression, “are you laughing about?”
“How can you know what my hair feels like? You’re wearing gloves.”
He smiled, a crooked, boyish sort of a smile that sent her stomach into flips and melted her heart. “I don’t know how I know,” he said, “but I do.” His grin grew even more lopsided, and then he added, “But just to be sure, perhaps I’d better test with my bare skin.”
He held out his hand before her. “Will you do the honors?”
Sophie stared at his hand for a few seconds before she realized what he meant. With a shaky, nervous breath, she took a step back and brought both of her hands to his. Slowly she pinched the end of each of the glove’s fingertips and gave it a little tug, loosening the fine fabric until she could slide the entire glove from his hand.
Glove still dangling from her fingers, she looked up. He had the oddest expression in his eyes. Hunger . . . and something else. Something almost spiritual.
“I want to touch you,” he whispered, and then his bare hand cupped her cheek, the pads of his fingers lightly stroking her skin, whispering upward until they touched the hair near her ear. He tugged gently until he pulled one lock loose. Freed from the coiffure, her hair sprang into a light curl, and Sophie could not take her eyes off it, wrapped golden around his index finger.
“I was wrong,” he murmured. “It’s softer than silk.”
Sophie was suddenly gripped by a fierce urge touch him in the same way, and she held out her hand. “It’s my turn,” she said softly.
His eyes flared, and then he went to work on her glove, loosening it at the fingers the same way she had done. But then, rather than pulling it off, he brought his lips to the edge of the long glove, all the way above her elbow, and kissed the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. “Also softer than silk,” he murmured.
Sophie used her free hand to grip his shoulder, no longer confident of her ability to stand.
He tugged at the glove, allowing it to slide off her arm with agonizing slowness, his lips following its progress until they reached the inside of her elbow. Barely breaking the kiss, he looked up and said, “You don’t mind if I stay here for a bit.”
Helplessly, Sophie shook her head.
His tongue darted out and traced the bend of her arm.
“Oh, my,” she moaned.
“I thought you might like that,” he said, his words hot against her skin.
She nodded. Or rather, she meant to nod. She wasn’t sure if she actually did.
His lips continued their trail, sliding sensuously down her forearm until they reached the inside of her wrist. They remained there for a moment before finally coming to rest in the absolute center of her palm.
“Who are you?” he asked, lifting his head but not letting go of her hand.
She shook her head.
“I have to know.”
“I can’t say.” And then, when she saw that he would not take no for an answer, she lied and added, “Yet.”
He took one of her fingers and rubbed it gently against his lips. “I want to see you tomorrow,” he said softly. “I want to call on you and see where you live.”
She said nothing, just held herself steady, trying not to cry.
“I want to meet your parents and pet your damned dog,” he continued, somewhat unsteadily. “Do you understand what I mean?”
Music and conversation still drifted up from below, but the only sound on the terrace was the harsh rasp of their breath.
“I want—” His voice dropped to a whisper, and his eyes looked vaguely surprised, as if he couldn’t quite believe the truth of his own words. “I want your future. I want every little piece of you.”
“Don’t say anything more,” she begged him. “Please. Not another word.”
“Then tell me your name. Tell me how to find you tomorrow.”
“I—” But then she heard a strange sound, exotic and ringing. “What is that?”
“A gong,” he replied. “To signal the unmasking.”
Panic rose within her. “What?”
“It must be midnight.”
“Midnight?” she gasped.
He nodded. “Time to remove your mask.”
One of Sophie’s hands flew up to her temple, pressing the mask harshly against her skin, as if she could somehow glue it onto her face through sheer force of will.
“Are you all right?” Benedict asked.
“I have to go,” she blurted out, and then, with no further warning, she hitched up her skirts and ran from the terrace.