He took a step backward, into a dark alcove. He lifted a hand to her. “Come.”
The strains of the music lingered in the air, its sensual notes tempting her to take his hand again. He beguiled her. She worried he could see it, and she agonized over what to do. “And if I refuse?”
“I will discreetly escort you back inside.”
God help her, but she believed him. Without allowing herself to think, she grasped his hand, and the smile that curved his lips heated her inside. He slid his arm around her waist, drawing her closer yet. The open strains of the waltz drifted into the garden.
He drew her deeper into the shadows. A gate stood open to a secret, hidden, tall-hedged garden, and her heart slammed painfully as he led her in and closed the gate. Its hinges creaked and she jumped, betraying her nervousness.
She looked around with a false calm at the stone benches and the walls adorned with vines. They ran riot and covered a long stretch of wooden trellises. A fountain stood in the middle of the inner garden. The darkness cocooned them, and the moonlight barely glinted off his golden locks.
She took a deep breath, her nerves tingling.
He shrugged out of his jacket and splayed it on a cold stone bench. “Sit.”
For some reason she could hardly fathom, she did as he asked. The satin skirt of her gown crinkled in the quiet night.
Slowly, he untied his cravat.
Uncertainty made her surge to her feet. “What are you doing?”
“Sit down, Phillipa.”
Her heart thundered, and she sat back down, half terrified, half thrilled.
“Are you ready for an adventure that will make you forget the banality of life, if only for a few fleeting moments?” he drawled.
The humor in his tone relaxed her, and she knew instinctively that if she said no, he would stop whatever he had in mind.
“Yes.”
She did not resist when he circled her wrists and tied them together with his silken cravat. The way he studied her, it seemed as if he was testing her reaction. She shivered as he arranged her so she reclined on the stone bench, placing her bound hands above her head, tying them to the vines that hung from the walls. A disconcerting surge of excitement whipped through her at the wicked heat gleaming in his gaze.
He sat on the other end of the bench, and she desperately wanted to see his face. She could feel the heat of his regard, as it seared through her. Yet, she trusted him.
She bit her lips hard until they stung. She’d trusted Orwell, as well, and look where that had gotten her. They were both lords, belonging to the same set of social values and perceptions.
“What adventure is there to be found with me tied to a trellis?” She could not disguise the tremor in her voice. What was she doing?
Anthony leaned over her, his body almost blanketing hers. His eyes glittered with something she could not identify. “I will not take your maidenhead. I swear to you,” he whispered against her lips, then claimed them in a brief but alarmingly pleasurable kiss.
She froze. Her muscles locked. My maidenhead?
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Adventure?” He gave her a lazy, roguish smile. He kissed her again, sharp and brief.
Oh, God. Was this what she wanted? Adventure, yes. To be free, yes. But could she trust his word?
She believed with all her heart he was nothing like Orwell, or even Lord Hoyt. But what if she was wrong?
“If you are uncomfortable, I will release you,” Anthony said, “and I will ensure you arrive back inside without being seen.”
His promise and lack of pressure reassured her as nothing else could. She prayed she wouldn’t regret her impulsiveness…but she wanted to experience this with him. Whatever he had planned for her.
Her voice was husky when she spoke. “Take me on your adventure, Anthony.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, searching her face. When it appeared he found what he probed for, a smile touched his lips, and he eased back into the darkness. She waited in an agony of anticipation and need for his touch. It came on her ankles. She groaned, melting with desire. The soft, satiny feel of her gown slid sensually against her skin accompanied by the crackle of petticoats as he pushed them to her waist.
His rough chuckle rolled over her. “It seems you have already started on your adventure. No bloomers, Miss Peppiwell?”
She laughed shakily. “Not wearing any is my way of thumbing my nose at the haughty ladies of Society.”
The quirk of his lips was pure, heated sensuality. She gazed at him, enthralled by her own nakedness. And by the way he looked at her. The cool night air kissed her skin, but it did little to calm the fire that burned inside her. She was painfully aroused and gripped by emotions she had never felt before. Her skin was fevered. She pulsed with wetness, though he had not touched her intimately as yet.