Her stomach gave an excited flip. She didn’t need to find Ravenimmediately.A few extra minutes wouldn’t make any difference.There was such a delicious freedom in being masked and anonymous. No one was who they appeared. That gilded lady over there could be a duchess or courtesan, actress or spy. That silver-masked satyr could be a diplomat or a prince.
Heloise shivered, despite the stifling heat. The possibilities of the evening shimmered in the air like a summer haze, magical and dangerous. She could be anyone she wanted. Not someone’s unmarriageable little sister. Not the bookish code breaker. She could be flighty and irresponsible, the secret, daring girl she’d been before her face was scarred. The beautiful one, for once, instead of the clever one. Anticipation tingled through her body as if she were poised at the top of a steep, smooth slope. Just one small nudge would send her hurtling down, toward adventure.
She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing servant and took a few fortifying sips as her skin prickled with the unpleasant conviction that she was being watched. That was foolish. Neither of her brothers was here to curtail her enjoyment and the only other person who could potentially unmask her—tonight’s host, their neighbor and most irritating man on the planet, William Ravenwood—wouldn’t be expecting to see her. She was going to have the devil of a time finding him in this crowd.
As if the very thought had summoned him, all the fine hairs on her arms lifted in warning and Heloise glanced around with a sense of impending doom. The crowd parted obligingly, and there he was. The god of the Underworld, staring at her.
Oh, hell and damnation.
He stood motionless, a pillar of darkness amid the colored gaiety, his tall frame somehow managing to radiate a barely leashed tension, as if he was poised to attack. Heloise repressed the instinct to cross herself.
His mask was black like hers, only far more elaborate. The long muzzle of a jackal, ears pricked and alert, eyes rimmed with thick lines of gold, covered the top half of his face. Only his jaw was visible; hard and male, with unfashionably tanned skin shadowed by the hint of a beard. Dark hair curled out from beneath the mask to brush his snowy cravat and pitch-black evening jacket.
The tiny part of her brain not frozen into immobility—and inexplicably concerned with historical accuracy—whispered that to betotally authentic,Anubis should be bare-chested. Her mouth went dry as she imagined the broad shoulders and well-defined chest concealed beneath all that black silk.
The role of Anubis fitted him to perfection. The jackal guardian of the Underworld, a creature of the night, perfectly at home in darkness and shadows. She shivered as he turned and looked directly at her. He tilted his head to one side, the mannerism exactly like that of a dog—a hint of interest, a silent question.
Her first instinct was to run, but her feet seemed glued to the floor. She took another gulp of champagne and when she looked up again he’d disappeared, swallowed up by the swirling mass of dancers. Her heart hammered unpleasantly against her rib cage. Surely he hadn’t recognized her from all the way across the room?
You recognized him.
She shook herself. It didn’t matter. She’d run from William Ravenwood far too often. Tonight she would stand her ground.
—
Speak of the devil.
Raven narrowed his eyes at the slim, white-clad figure slinking around his ballroom and cursed. She was supposed to be tucked up safe in bed. What the hell was she doing here? The debauched, cynical world he inhabited was no place for someone like her.
His heart pounded in anticipation as he weaved through the excited throng, keeping to the shadows out of habit. There. Black mask near the door. It was definitely her. He’d know her from half the world away, in a crowd of a hundred thousand. It was a simple enough matter to spot her in a room of two hundred. She alone made his blood sing in his veins, made his body vibrate with awareness, as if he were a tuning fork that responded only to her pitch.
Bloody woman.
She was dressed as a cat. He almost laughed at the irony. And here he was, a dog. How utterly appropriate. Bastet and Anubis. Both Egyptian gods of the Underworld. Both black as midnight. As different as night from day. Opposite, and yet at the same time oddly connected. It had been like this between them since they were children. It was a bloody curse.
At this distance the tilted cutout eyes of her mask hid her face but he already knew the astonishing color of her eyes: lavender-gray, the exact hue of a thunderstorm-ready sky.
He circled the room and approached her from the back. She turned, an elegant sweep of shoulder and throat, and he clenched his fists against the insanely erotic urge to press his mouth to her nape and bite her. He shook his head. Such a perverse attraction. She was light. He was darkness. Not for him. Never for him.
She’d tried to tame her dark blond hair into some kind of elaborate twist, but stray tendrils curled down the graceful line of her neck, refusing to conform. He leaned one shoulder against a marble pillar. To all outward appearances the creature in front of him was a respectable member of the ton; cool and poised and infinitely alluring. It was a lie. The rebellious nature she tried so hard to suppress was like those little wisps of hair—always trying to escape.
It amazed him that no one else could see it, even her own brothers. They thought she’d outgrown her childish yearnings for adventure and equality, but he knew better. No doubt that was why she’d come here tonight; she simply could not resist an adventure.
The devil in him relished the idea of coaxing all that repressed mayhem into breaking free. Heloise Hampden needed to let her hair down, both literallyandfiguratively. Except God only knew what would happen if she did.
She placed her empty glass on the tray offered by a passing servant. She was so small he could tuck the top of her head under his chin and pull her into his side. His hip would fit neatly into the curve of her waist. Her breasts would press perfectly into his chest. His mouth would fit precisely—
Raven banged his head against the pillar. Insane. Which was ironic, really. He’d managed to remain compos mentis despite spending eight weeks of his life locked up in a cell expecting to be executed. He’d witnessed some of the worst sights a decade of warfare could inflict upon a man and stayed sane. Yet Hellcat Hampden made him crazy. And, idiot that he was, he enjoyed it.
He stepped up behind her and caught a hint of her midnight-and-roses scent. It tightened his gut and turned his knees to water, but he composed his features into their usual expression of cynical boredom. The day she discovered the effect she had on him was the day he’d cut his own wrists. Not. For. Him.
“All alone, mademoiselle?” he murmured dryly. “Who are you waiting for?”
Chapter 2
Heloise jumped at that low, achingly familiar voice. “Oh no, I—”
She stopped and frowned. Why had Raven called her “mademoiselle” instead of “Hellcat”? Henevermissed the chance to use his taunting nickname for her. The fact that he hadn’t was…odd. Her heart stuttered. Perhaps he really hadn’t recognized her?