‘Quite the contrary, Your Grace. Shooting a man only requires the twitch of a finger. Exiting a carriage is infinitely more treacherous in these blasted skirts.’ Miss Simmons kept her eyes downcast as she took his hand.
Her grip was firm and steadying in the oddest of ways, as though she supported him. A ridiculous notion. He didn’t need support from anyone.
‘That dress is treacherous in a multitude of ways, least of all to my concentration,’ Killian whispered, his lips scandalously close to her ear. He was rewarded with the fascinating transformation of her skin warming from pale pearl to shell pink.
‘Do not tease me, Your Grace.’ Her voice lowered.
‘I would never tease you, Miss Simmons.’
Her lips twitched, and she tilted her head to glance at him as they followed Lady Winterbourne up the massive, stone staircase leading to the front doors of the Somerset’s gothic mansion. Columns rose like giants on either side of them. Footmen lined the walk holding lamps.
A vast array of women in beautiful dresses surrounded them. Bright orange, dew pink, deep purple, blood red. None of them compared to Miss Simmons in shades of moonlight. She had ascended from the shadows to sparkle in the heavens. He could feel her nerves thrumming through her fingertips as she gripped his arm. But Miss Simmons was a brave woman in battle or at a ball, both of which often felt similar to Killian. She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders even as her fingers dug deeper into his skin.
Courageous warrior, readying for combat.
But he didn’t want to fight. They were opposing forces seekingthe same goal, yet he wished they could put down their weapons tonight and just be a man and a woman.
Which was impossible, of course.
The eyes of the beau monde were upon them as they passed through the front doors and were announced. The crush of lords and ladies made it almost impossible to slowly circulate through the ballroom.
A novel feeling was growing within Killian. He had pursued women before who inspired a sense of possessiveness, but not like this. Every gentleman who stared at Miss Simmons’s décolletage, every lord who gave him a wink of approval, every pompous ass who hovered near her inspired a frightening rage within him.
‘Your Grace, if you continue to clench your jaw so tightly, I’m worried you might crack a molar. It’s not often you find a gentleman with such nicely arranged teeth. It would be a shame to ruin yours. Unless you’re overly fond of soup, I suppose.’ Miss Simmons turned to face him.
He forced himself to relax. ‘Doesn’t it bother you? The way all these buffoons are leering?’
She smiled, wit sparkling in her blue eyes. ‘What bothers me more are the ladies staring daggers at me. Men are easily distracted by the next shiny thing. But these society mothers and their daughters will never forget the night the Duke of Covington lowered himself to escort a dowdy lady’s companion to a ball. You’ll be drowning in cards from all the dregs of the peerage who never thought to reach so high as a duke.’
Killian was momentarily distracted by her argument. ‘Dear God, surely not?’
Hannah’s laughter was low and pleasant. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame. I have no sympathy for you. Suddenly our deal doesn’t look so wonderful, does it, Your Grace?’
The orchestra began to play the opening waltz. If she wasgoing to hold his feet to the flame, he might as well enjoy the moment. ‘May I have this dance?’ Killian extended his hand.
Miss Simmons’s eyes widened, and her mouth parted. It was a look he never imagined seeing on her face. Sheer terror.
‘I don’t… that is, I’ve never… I think perhaps some punch instead?’
Of course!
Miss Simmons had never danced at a ball.
But does shewantto dance?
The question burned in his mind.
Her gaze flicked to the couples gathering on the dance floor, and Killian had the distinct impression she did.
‘I think some fresh air would be welcome.’ Killian took her arm and steered her to the back of the ballroom where French doors opened onto a terrace.
This early in the evening, everyone was still desperate to see and be seen. The terrace was deserted and would not be in use until later when the women had drunk enough ratafia to be coerced into making bad decisions. The sickeningly sweet liquor was a favourite of most ladies. As its alcohol content was high enough to souse a lush, the men were happy to provide it, even if most would not be caught dead drinking the mixture.
Killian escorted Miss Simmons to the edge of the terrace. She pulled free of him and took several steps away before spinning back, her silver dress swirling in a perfect circle of decadent silk. ‘I don’t think we should be out here alone.’ Miss Simmons raised a hand to her throat as if suddenly aware of how much her dress revealed.
‘You’re afraid.’ Killian wanted to provoke her with his words. A spitting mad Miss Simmons was far preferable than this frightened one.
‘I am not.’ Miss Simmons dropped her hand to her skirts, reaching into a pocket that doubtless held some kind of weapon.
