Free Masquerade (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 1) by Victoria Vale Page A

leaving him without so much as a good-bye.
    Was it all a game for you, sweetheart? Did it amuse you to give me your maidenhead so you could go back to your friends and whisper that you’ve been ruined by Avonleah?
    Or, he realized with a feeling of nausea rising in his gut, perhaps she’d set out to trap him into marriage. He scowled at the notion. No, that could not have been it. There had been no witnesses to their encounter, no one to hold him accountable for ruining her.
    What, then?
    He was driving himself mad for lack of answers. If that didn’t do the trick, his want of her would. Despite his many attempts at curbing his lust, he’d been unsuccessful since the night he’d met Maggie. A visit to The White House three nights ago had gone sour when none of the offered whores had succeeded in capturing and holding his attention. He hadn’t so much as touched a single one.
    A walk down to Convent Garden the following night hadn’t worked, either. The doxy he’d chosen had tried, and he’d paid her for her effort, but it had taken all of five seconds for him to decide hers wasn’t the mouth he wanted to feel around his cock. Angry and unsatisfied, he’d gone home and drowned himself in brandy. The spirits had dampened his desires for one night, but would not work the next.
    Instead of attempting to find a woman to take succor in, he’d taken care of the matter himself—something he hadn’t done since he was a young man at Oxford, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he hadn’t eased the erection that had persisted for the past three days, he would have gone insane or killed someone. Closing his eyes and thinking of Maggie’s parted lips, spread legs, and bouncing tits had done the trick, and a few minutes later, he’d come with a flick of his wrist and a small amount of relief.
    However, now that he’d gone and opened the bloody drawer again and read her letter, he was right back where he’d started. He needed to find her. He had to know the motive behind her behavior, if nothing else. Perhaps he could tempt her back to his bed for another night or two. That would be enough to cleanse his palate of her for good, and he could move on with his life.
    He did not have a surname or title to go on. He could not very well ask anyone about a girl named Maggie. If he showed the slightest interest in any lady, the gossips would spread the word like wildfire and every eligible girl named Maggie in London would set his cap for him. The notion caused a shudder to roll down his spine.
    He would have to start paying better attention to his surroundings. While she’d said they didn’t run in the same circles, there remained a chance he could encounter her. Once he found her again, he would not let her go until he’d slaked his want of her once and for all.
     

Chapter Twelve
     
    Margaret followed her mother over the threshold of the townhouse belonging to the Marquess and Marchioness of Whenhold. The butler greeted them before ushering them up to a beautiful drawing room done in shades of blue and silver, where their hosts waited with the guests who’d been first to arrive.
    Sheridan Cranfield was present, looking quite dapper in his black evening attire and white linen. He gave Margaret a bright smile as he came forward to greet her. The tousled curls arranged artfully about his head fell over his forehead as he acknowledged her and her parents with a polite bow.
    “Lisbroke, how wonderful it is to see you this evening,” he said. “Lady Seymour, that hairstyle is quite becoming.”
    “Why, thank you,” the baroness simpered, preening proudly as she dipped into an elegant curtsy. Of all the suitors who had expressed interested in Margaret, the baroness liked Mr. Cranfield the best of all.
    Her father acknowledged Sheridan with a silent nod, and the young swain turned his attention on her, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe.
    “My, Miss Seymour, aren’t you a vision this evening?” he