Free Black Silk by Sharon Page

innocent of contact, would become acquainted with foxed men.

    “You are very intriguing, Verity. Most women would be wondering what they could obtain from me. We made love, after all. What did that mean to you?”

    Everything. But she knew it meant nothing to him. It had been merely an amusement.

    A rattle behind sent her heart hammering. She spun around as a curricle drew up and two grays tossed their heads. Long white plumes waved on a lady’s bonnet, and Maryanne felt both hope and fear. The lady was clad entirely in silver and white. Georgiana did that on occasion. Who was the gentleman driving the carriage—was he a threat?

    But as the tall gentleman, attired in a heavy, three-tiered greatcoat, jumped down, Swansborough murmured, “Lady Yardley and the Duke of Ashton.”

    Lady Yardley waved a greeting at Swansborough. “Dear Lancelot! Have you completed the task?”

    Lancelot?

    Maryanne gaped as he released her waist and swept a bow for the Countess of Yardley. “Not yet, my dear Sophia.”

    The countess smiled wickedly and toyed with a silvery blond curl. Though she was not young, she was exquisitely lovely, and her lines gave fascinating character to a charming face. She was compelling, seductive, alluring.

    Her soft, melodic laughter was enticingly feminine. “It looks treacherous.”

    “Only for the intrepid,” Swansborough agreed, and Maryanne felt him direct her toward the balloon with a gentle push on her bottom. She swallowed shock—they’d made love. How could she be startled by a caress on her clothed derriere?

    Maryanne’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, remembering the feel of Swansborough’s hot, wide back as her hands had skimmed over it. Remembering the scent of his skin, the taste of his neck…

    Her heart ached at the thought of other women touching him that way. It had been everything to her. It hadn’t mattered to him.

    “Are you all right, love?” Deep and concerned, Swansborough’s voice cut through her horrified thoughts.

    She fought for calm. “Lancelot?” she asked. A pet name from a lover, perhaps? How could she, untutored and country bred, compete with such a beautiful woman? Of course, she couldn’t—and she wouldn’t be. She was his partner for this night—this one night.

    Swallowing hard, she realized the truth. That might have been her one chance to make love. She couldn’t marry now—which was what she’d wanted, of course—but now the realization stunned her. She couldn’t take lovers—that could cause scandal, and she didn’t dare hurt her mother, her sisters, and Venetia’s coming child with scandal.

    Her heart was pounding into the silence. He didn’t answer, so she pressed. “Why Lancelot? Confide.”

    “Verity wants truth, of course.” They’d reached the circle of torches, where the smoke was thick and sweet, and the light showed his wry grin.

    What woman could resist that slightly self-mocking smile? It made Maryanne’s legs turn to treacle.

    “It’s my name,” he admitted. “Dashiel Lancelot Blackmore. Dashiel was my father’s choice, a family name, to him a sign of longevity. Lancelot was my mother’s flighty wish.”

    She nodded in understanding. Rodesson had bestowed Venetia’s name upon her, but her mother had named both her and Grace, determined not to give in to romantic fancy.

    Though she couldn’t explain any of that, he smiled. “My father gritted his teeth every time he heard it,” his lordship continued. “It amuses Sophia—Lady Yardley—to use it. She pretends I am a noble knight, which, of course, I am not. My sister’s name is Anne Persephone—once again, my parents came to an odd compromise.”

    “Aren’t you a noble knight?” she teased and marveled at her bravery. The few times she’d met Lord Swansborough, she’d managed an awkward curtsy but almost no conversation.

    “No, sweetheart, don’t fancy me to be Lancelot, because I’m not. I wish I could charge in and rescue