Ilya strolled around the edges of the crush, past the glossy pine Christmas tree that reached the ceiling. The tree was decorated in masks and small red and white candles, filling a third of the wall as it sat alongside the orchestra, yet it was still smaller than anything ever shown at the court at St Petersburg. Violins sang out Vivaldi’s Four Seasons creating a festive verve in the crowd as the piece grew in momentum. A lovely touch Ilya had to admit was the staff, dressed in white satin, who sported hats like pieces of cake, colorful jellies, or meat pies with birds breaking through the crusts. They appeared like a floating buffet as they wove through the throng with drink-laden trays.
‘Renowned epicureans’, Marsden had called their hosts while they raced around in Ilya’s new motorcar. Ilya knew about events where the dining was exquisite. It made for a night of decadent pleasures as food and wine warmed and seduced, opening the door to other delicious pleasures the body and its senses had to offer.
The event couldn’t be more perfect for what he planned for Seraphina.
Ilya had opted to go as a courtier, all in black. He wore the wolf mask, enjoying each step as he stalked around the throng seeking her out, thinking about what the night would hold. Around him the room was a sea of white breasts sporting little beauty spots here and there over the exposed flesh as they were pressed up and plumped out in low cut renaissance gowns. Every red-blooded man in the room wanted to press his face against them.
Oddly, he wasn’t as interested in the sight as he usually was, nor the prospect of pressing his face into random breasts. A strangely liberating state.
And then there were the wide panniers which he knew for a fact a man could crawl beneath. Like himself, men wore formfitting tights and satin knee length britches, coverings that would sport many an aroused cock before the night was out.
It was a good fifteen minutes before he saw her arrive. She glided into the room, her bearing heralding her before her face was visible. Yet there was not a moment of doubt as her form greeted those around her, it was as if the whole room changed as she crossed the threshold and he felt the shift in air currents that traveled in front of her. In that moment, all the frustration of peering over and around bobbing wigs and navigating panniers evaporated.
Seraphina sported the same lowcut court dress with panniers in a sumptuous salmon pink, and for him it was as if she was the only exotic woman in the room. The towering pink wig was filled with little birds which she wore along with the mask he’d sent her, a small kingfisher with wings outstretched to cover her eyes.
A ripple ran through him. Oddly not lust, although he felt that too. The dominant sensation was something else, something new. He had an inkling of what it meant, and he should be running like the wind.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t even want to.
No, he wanted what that feeling promised. More days like yesterday in the motorcar. Laughing, a sense of belonging. Just being with her made him think the plans and ideas he had were a real possibility. The very same ideas his family said were nothing but ill-conceived, bourgeois and a waste of funds. Seraphina had been enthusiastic, asking astute questions and encouraging him to deepen his investigations.
Ilya watched as Seraphina scanned the crowd, searching for him.
That new feeling, the one he was not ready to name, moved through him again.
He stood still in the crush, people talking and laughing, milling around him. It seemed natural that he imagined his face pressed against her plump breasts. And yes, he had immediately assessed whether her panniers were large enough for him to crawl under. This woman gave him a singularity of focus and interest which he’d not experienced before. And he liked it.
Ilya knew the moment she picked him out in the crowd. Her luscious mouth beamed a smile of recognition and his heart tumbled.
Ilya wove through the crowd toward her as Seraphina waited. It was a claiming march. Any man watching would know the walk, the communication emanating from him – she is mine, interfere and face my wrath.
“Little Bird.”
He bowed over her hand. Gave her palm a soft kiss as he looked at her through his mask and she through hers at him. Delicious.
“Wolf.” She smiled, ending with her even white teeth biting her lip.
Delectable.
Devourable.
He stepped away. Then, purposefully letting anyone who watched know yet again the focus of his interest, he slowly, step by step, stalked around her. Seraphina’s fan fluttered and her eyes held his. He didn’t care what others thought. Masquerade balls were designed for the theatrical. He circumambulated her, admired how her beautiful body was clasped and pressed into shapes that appealed to the eye as he rumbled appreciative words in Russian.
Around them people stopped and watched; fans beat faster.
It was the last time he would look at her and wonder how she would feel in his hands, on his fingers, against his body, under his mouth. By the end of the night he would know what she tasted like. What if felt like to have her sex pulse on his lips and tongue. What her satin sheath felt like around his fingers, perhaps even around his cock.
Ilya presented his arm and she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow to rest on his forearm.
Ilya leaned down and whispered. “Before the night is out, along with your sweet words of poetry, you are going to scream my name, pant it, and fill my ears with it.”
He wanted dampness to pool between her legs at his words. He wanted her skin to feel too tight across her body. Her eyes glanced at his lips and he smiled. She knew what those lips were planning to do. Lips that would press against her sex before the night was out. She was wondering, wondering what it would feel like. It made his cock pulse, but tonight would be just for her.
Next time she looked at his lips she would be looking with knowledge and the hope he’d do it again…soon. The tension between them was electric, the unspoken words of seduction pounding in the air around them and would be tantalizing even those who simply watched.
More people turned to look at them.
The papers’ gossip columns would have their fodder for the night, Prince Vladimir Petroski stalks the delectable widow. But that’s not why he did what he did, it just meant that if he courted and flirted with her more openly he could do away with some of the more overt flirtations with others and thus keep both his family and Seraphina happy. If she were comfortable with the attention and the gossip, it would solve many a problem.
Ilya stopped in front of her and dipped into another deep courtly bow. “If I could have this dance.”
“I’ll have to check my card.” Little minx. The twitters of laughter around them indicated their audience approved.
She lifted an empty dance card and scanned it. Peered over it at him, her head moving up and down as she seemingly sized him up, causing more enjoyment from those around them.
“Well.” Her eyes mischievous behind the mask. “I usually only dance with handsome men.” Some laughter, a few more turned to listen. “But you seem to be in luck, I have an empty spot.”
“I will forever count my blessing,” he said, hand on heart, and she laughed, holding out her hand.
Ilya guided them through the crowd to the dance floor, a sea of pastels and towering wigs.
“Well played, little bird.”
“Who said I was playing?” she murmured.
“Careful, I have sharp teeth. You wouldn’t want me to use them later.”