Black Silk. Sharon Page

behind her head, she stumbled into Lord Swansborough, who was now in low conversation with the man.

      “Sorry, milord. I can’t tell you naught unless you go up and perform. It’s the rules, and they’d ’ave me hide if I cheat.”

      “All I need is information. I’m looking for a courtesan.”

      With a lecherous laugh, the man pointed to the basket. “Only enough room fer you and the one tart, milord. Along with our man Tanner who sees to the balloon. Threesome pleasures won’t do in the basket.”

      “I’m seeking a blonde named Georgiana Watson. Brazen and voluptuous.”

      The man inclined his head—his hair was as dark as his lordship’s beneath a brown cap, his skin swarthy, and he wore a red kerchief at his neck. “Ye’ll have to go up, milord.”

      “And make love with my lady up there?”

      A chortle was the answer, and Maryanne took a deep breath. The sky was a blend of deep cobalt blue and rich violet, and pink touched the edge of the trees. “The balloon goes up in the dark?”

      “Aye, lass, it can.” The balloon tender’s baritone was gentle and respectful as he spoke to her, which surprised. But then Lady Yardley was taking part in this event. Perhaps, as Maryanne was masked, the balloon man thought she was a lady, like Lady Yardley. “You’ll be tethered. We let it rise, you complete yer task, and ye’re brought down.”

      Swansborough drew something from his pocket—a pouch, and from that he drew notes. “For your information.”

      But the balloon tender shook his head, with a look of pained regret.

      A young man with bronzed skin and gleaming white teeth, doffed his cap, winked, and bowed. He must be the man who controlled the balloon. Maryanne swallowed hard. How could she make love in front of a stranger?

      But what if Georgiana was in danger?

      “Then we’ll go up now.”

      “I can’t!” She backed away, staring at the bright balloon, trim fluttering in the breeze, and the flame beneath, stark and golden against the dark.

      Swansborough swept his arm about her shoulders and turned her away from the sight. “Why not? Afraid of heights?”

      “I can’t…Not in front of…” She faltered. A courtesan wouldn’t mind—in the stories she edited, courtesans delighted in having two men at once, for most men preferred a lady to make a threesome and not a competitive cock. Had she revealed herself?

      Dark and searching, his eyes captured hers. “You truly are a novice, aren’t you?”

      An escape! She nodded so hard her curls struck her cheeks.

      “Then we go up alone.”

      The man scratched his dark-stubbled cheek. “Tanner’s needed to fire the flame and to vent the balloon to bring it down—”

      Lord Swansborough silenced him with a wave of his black-gloved hand. “I’ve seen balloon ascensions and have an idea how it works. Have Tanner explain it.”

      “Aye, milord, but we have to witness that the couple carries out the act.”

      Swansborough gave a jaded shrug. “You’ll know.”

      As he strolled over to Tanner and then followed the young man’s directions, his lordship’s eyes gleamed with boyish enthusiasm. He tugged at ropes, fiddled with the fire, chatting amiably to Tanner all the while. Maryanne crossed her arms before her chest. He seemed more fascinated by the art of ballooning than with the thought of making love.

      She strained to see into the dark—but saw no sign of Georgiana.

      Suddenly his lordship was at her side. “All right, love. We’re ready.”

      Maryanne watched her raven-haired Lancelot elegantly climb into the basket. Of course, he could do it easily—he had endless legs and wore trousers. Just as she stared helplessly at it, he scooped her effortlessly into his arms. In a froth of hems and petticoats, she was hoisted over the wicker wall and into the basket. As her feet touched the floor of the basket, it came up to meet her. “Ooh!”

      The flame illuminated the sculpted planes of his face, his wicked grin as the balloon went up. The basket tilted to the right. She clutched the side. “Goodness.”

      Swansborough laughed. “But as you each take on orgasmic flight, you must remember to hold on tight,” he quoted. He wrapped a hand around the stays that secured their small basket to the enormous balloon and kept the other near the fire box and the ropes that worked the vents. Below, illuminated by the torches, she saw the men gripping the tether ropes, feeding them through gloved hands.

      A lurch to the left, and she tumbled back against his lordship. His large body pressed against her, his arm locked around her waist, and she felt safe—though if the basket tipped, they’d both fall. Why should the thought of falling to their deaths together, sharing disaster, make her feel better?

      “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

      With her hands gripping the basket, she stared down.

      Far below, the torches looked like tiny candle flames, and she could no longer see the men. Men who thought she was going to rut with a viscount here. Men who thought her a courtesan.

      Don’t think of that.

      The Serpentine caught the moonlight, water rippling in the sweet breeze. Dark trees bobbed and swayed, the leaves silver, and the park was a stretch of dark velvet.

      She gazed up. Stars dotted the violet skies above the park. And London’s lights were spread out before her. “It’s beautiful.” The basket swayed. “And terrifying.”

      His mouth touched her neck, a brush of heat, and she squealed in surprise. Her giggle made her blush—girlish and thoughtless. His hand skimmed up to her breasts as his lips skated over her nape. Delicious sensation rushed over her skin.

      This was truly flying. She felt as though she floated on air—weightless. But she didn’t dare let go of the basket.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tug a rope, and the basket dropped a startling few inches.

      “The clue will be won if lovers find the position that lets them soar,” he whispered.

      “I know.” She spoke to the whole of London, laid out before her, and to the stars that seemed so close she could gather them if she dared to reach. “I don’t dare move.”

      He curled his long, elegant fingers around her left breast, lazily stroking the curve beneath, where her heart hammered.

      “I won’t let you fall.”

      “Lord Swansborough, that is a promise you cannot make.”

      His thumb, gently stroking her nipple, stilled.

      “We will hold on together,” she whispered, half turning. He stood so close her cheek brushed his, his stubble rasped lightly against her skin.

      He let go long enough to sweep his arm across Hyde Park, and Mayfair, and London’s vistas. The balloon basket jerked, and she swallowed another squeal.

      His voice growled beside her ear. “Verity, you are more magnificent than all of that.”

      In an instant her skirts were up, her legs bared in front of London, but they were in their private world, far above Mayfair. She loved the thought of being in public yet being utterly private and free. Her skirts spilled down in the front, pooling on the rim of the basket. His hands caressed her thighs, her bottom, coaxed her to take tiny steps to part her legs. “We cannot.”

      “But you want to, don’t you?”

      How she did.

      Magic coursed through her skin, a spell of desire cast by his powerful fingers crooking into her wet cunny, by his harsh, heated breath coasting over