One

I have no use for whey-faced widows or limp-boned virgins.

She recalled the biting words with acidic clarity. Moments after she'd met a man who had made her heart come alive with desire, and made her wonder if all the years of longing had ended, that very same man, Julian Clay, the Earl of Westleigh, had quietly spoken those words to a nearby companion. Unaware of the devastating blast he'd delivered to the trembling soul on the other side of the column, he had chuckled at his friend's mumbled reply and set the wheels of Fate in motion.

That the words referenced her own slight impact on the notorious rake was not in doubt. Or at least that was what Merriam told herself with the cruel precision of long years of practice.

Merriam the Mouse. It was a nickname her father had given her that had lingered throughout her youth, and even into the lonely nightmare of her marriage to an older and indifferent man. Her husband had teased her with the pet name, using it when he wanted to dismiss his quiet wife and return to more important and pressing matters: matters that included his business interests, endless correspondences, and sleeping with her maidservants.

But the mouse had survived him. And tonight Merriam was determined to taste the forbidden pleasures whey-faced widows and limp-boned virgins only dreamt of—lust and vengeance. Julian Clay would be hers, and she would show him just what a mouse was made of, then leave him wanting and aching—the satisfaction hers alone to savor. She would bring London's most notorious rake to his knees, and then… she would walk away.

Lord Milbank's Grand Costume and Masked Ball was notorious for its decadent and outrageous delights. No self-respecting member of London's high society would ever admit to attending it, which of course meant no one who received an invitation would dream of missing it. It was the most coveted invitation of the Season.

Merriam handed over her own gilt envelope tied with red ribbons, amazed at the steadiness of her fingers. For her, weeks of preparation would culminate in this one night. After days of careful study and nights of restless need, the mouse was transformed. Tonight, she would be the cat.

"Has Merlin arrived?" she asked.

"Yes, m'lady," the butler responded.

"Could you have one of the servers find him and tell him that his familiar is here?" She ignored the twist of the heated knot in her stomach at her brazen request.

He nodded. "As you wish, m'lady."

Merriam smiled. Oh, yes, the lady wishes to teach the sorcerer a new kind of magic.

In black silk and draped velvet, she entered the crowded room. Amidst costumes of blinding color and opulent flashes of jewelry, Merriam knew she would stand out. Her costume made a mockery of modesty, a widow's darkest weeds turned into a sensual invitation. Her black velvet mask and cat's ears were simple, but the black ties that held them on and laced through her hair were deliberately too long, draping over her collarbone, accenting her bare shoulders and the curved flesh above her bodice. Her figure of bold curves was displayed in simple lines, finished with a shocking glimpse of red satin beneath the black velvet, drawing the eye down to the flash of color that hinted at the shape of her legs and slim ankles through the strategically placed slits in her skirt.

She had even gone so far as to dye her brown hair to jet-black with one crimson streak to match her costume.

Madame DeBourcier's last bit of advice echoed in her mind: You must feel sexual, invincible. It will emanate from you like heat, the scent of a woman who is ready, accessible, and willing. You must feel this power, then draw him to you.

She circled the room, avoiding small talk and ignoring the subtle bids for her attention from some of the bolder male guests. With every silky step, she felt a well of electricity start to pool between her legs and along the column of her spine. But several anxious minutes passed, and her confidence began to falter. She'd confirmed the layout of the house and even where the tryst would take place but…. What if her information about his costume had been incorrect? What if he wasn't even there? What if—

"You should be more careful." His voice came from behind her, the deep, masculine growl sending a delicious chill across her skin. "I thought familiars were supposed to stay close to their masters."

She turned to face him. "Ah, but then I am close, am I not?" He was taller than she remembered, but fear could color one's perception, and even as a cat, she knew this game could take many turns. He was masked, with his hair pulled back and powdered silver to match the gray silks of his beaded overcoat, embroidered with symbols of ancient magic and power. He was a strikingly handsome Merlin, and she made no effort to hide her appraisal, measuring him from head to toe as if Julian Clay were already hers.

At last, her eyes met the glittering heat of his through the barriers of mask and costume, and she felt the first hint of victory. Mine.

He watched her, fascinated by the open challenge in her eyes. Who was this woman who presented herself, a sensual offering from gods he couldn't remember praying to? "You could not be close enough for complaint, my dear familiar," he countered softly, trying to recall that, no matter who she was, the rules of "polite engagement" would still apply.

She took a slow step closer, her face tilting up to look at him, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She was like a magnificent panther, and his hands itched to stroke every sleek line of her body.

Copyright © 2006 by R. Renee Bernard.