velvet pressure of his. And none of those men had ever moved his mouth against her, opening her lips to his questing tongue, startling her and sending a wave of intense pleasure through her.
She made a low noise of surprise and eagerness, and her hands slid up instinctively around his neck, holding on to him as his arms wrapped fiercely around her, squeezing her against his long, hard body. The elegant plume of his hat brushed against her cheek, and that touch, too, aroused the sensitive nerves of her skin. He made a noise of hunger and frustration, reaching up to jerk the hat from his head and toss it aside as his lips pressed harder against hers.
Callie’s fingers dug into the rich material of his doublet. She felt as if she were falling, tumbling into some wild maelstrom of hunger and desire, and she was all at once eager and frightened and more vibratingly alive than she had ever been before. She could feel his body surge with heat through the material of his clothes, enveloping her with his warmth.
Suddenly he lifted his head, sucking in a deep breath and staring down at her. Reaching down, he took her half mask between his fingers and pushed it up, revealing her face.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed. Then he reached up and took off his own mask, holding it dangling in his hand.
Callie gazed up at him, realizing with some surprise that his face was even more arresting without the dramatic mask. Sharp, high cheekbones balanced the strong jaw, and the straight dark slashes of his brows accented his wide gray eyes. It was the face of an angel, she thought with a poeticism uncommon to her—not an angel of harps and fluffy clouds, but the fierce sort, standing guard at the gates of heaven with a fiery sword.
“So are you,” she answered him candidly, then blushed at the naive candor of her words.
Something flared in his eyes, and he let out a shaky little chuckle. “My dear Calandra…it is much too dangerous for you to be out here alone with me.”
“Do you think I cannot trust you?” she asked, the tone of her voice making clear her own belief.
“I think ’tis dangerous to trust any man when you look as you look…and feel as you feel.” His voice turned husky on his last words, and he ran his palm down her arm slowly, reluctantly, and pulled his hand away, taking a step backward. “We should go inside.”
He returned her mask, and Callie took it. She hated to turn away from him, away from this moment and the new feelings that were surging through her. Yet at the same time, his urging her to do so only strengthened what she felt for him. She smiled at him.
“Perhaps you would like the rest of my name.”
“’Twould make it easier,” he admitted, grinning. “But, believe me, I will find you anyway.”
“Then you should come to—” Callie broke off, turning, as her brother’s voice sounded from the terrace behind them.
“Callie? Calandra!”
She whirled and looked back up the long terrace. The duke stood just outside the door, looking around. He started forward, scowling, once again calling her name.
“The devil take it!” Callie said under her breath, and her companion’s brows shot up at the unladylike curse.
He smothered a laugh. “Not whom you wanted to see?”
“My brother,” Callie said. “He is sure to fuss. Ah, well, there is no use in waiting. We might as well get it over with.” She started forward with the confidence of one who had never received anything stronger than a scolding.
Her companion shrugged and strode after her, catching up to Callie as she called out, “Here! It is all right, Sinclair. Pray do not bellow.”
Rochford hurried toward them, his face relaxing in relief. “What the devil are you doing out here? Are you all right?”
Beside Callie, as they came forward into the light, she heard her companion suck in a sharp breath and stop dead still. She half turned toward him questioningly, then glanced back at her brother, realizing that he, too, had come to a sudden halt.
Rochford stared at the man standing beside Callie, a black scowl drawing up his features. “You!” he snarled at the Cavalier. “Get away from my sister!”
CHAPTER THREE
CALLIE GAPED at her brother, amazed at his uncustomary rudeness. “Sinclair!” She went forward, reaching out a hand to her brother in a calming gesture. “Please, no. You misunderstand the situation.”
“I understand it perfectly well,” Rochford retorted, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face.
“No, you do not,” Callie retorted sharply. “This man did nothing to harm me. He helped me.”
She turned back to her companion, who was gazing at the duke with an expression as stony as Rochford’s. Suppressing a sigh at such masculine behavior, Callie said, “Sir, allow me to introduce you to my brother, the Duke of Rochford.”
“Yes,” the Cavalier said coldly. “I know the duke.”
“Oh.” Callie looked from one man to the other, realizing that some other, stronger, undercurrent of feeling lay here, something unrelated to her being on the terrace with a man.
“Lord Bromwell,” Sinclair responded, his manner, if possible, even stiffer than before. Without looking at Callie, he said, “Calandra, go inside.”
“No,” Callie answered. “Sinclair, be reasonable. Let me explain.”
“Callie!” Sinclair’s voice lashed out, sharp as a whip. “You heard me. Go back inside.”
Callie flushed, stung by his peremptory tone. He had spoken to her as if she were a child being sent off to bed.
“Sinclair!” she shot back. “Don’t speak to me that—”
He swung to face her. “I told you—go back inside. Now.”
Callie drew a breath, hurt and anger piercing her with equal sharpness. She started to protest, to take her brother to task for treating her this way, but she realized even as the thought came to her that she simply could not create a scene at Aunt Odelia’s party. Someone might step out of the door at any moment; there could even be someone in the garden now, listening. She had no desire to be caught in a blazing argument with her brother. She was embarrassed enough as it was, having been taken to task in front of this man, whom she barely knew.
Her eyes flashed, but she swallowed her words. She gave a short nod to Lord Bromwell, then whirled and stalked past her brother without a word.
The duke stood, watching the other man in silence, until Calandra had disappeared inside the ballroom. Then he said in a quiet voice as hard as iron, “Leave my sister alone.”
Bromwell looked amused as he crossed his arms and considered the man before him. “How deliciously ironic…to hear the Duke of Rochford so concerned over the honor of a young woman. But, then, I suppose, it is different when the young woman is the duke’s sister, is it not?”
With a sardonic look at Rochford, he started to walk around him, but the duke reached out and caught his arm. Bromwell went still,
