A pretty evasion... Cain wondered why she felt it necessary. “I was born on the Isle of Mull, but I’ve now been in England more years than I lived in Scotland.”
Her attention returned to his face. “Is it beautiful? Your home, I mean?”
He smiled despite the pain in his heart. “Very. Have you never had the opportunity to visit?”
She shook her head.
“You ought to, if you get the chance.” It occurred to him she might not have the means for extensive travel; then he discarded the thought as nonsense. Country ball or not, a body was not invited to rub noses with this set if the guest was not of means. “Have you traveled much?”
“More than I prefer to have done.” An expression flashed across her face too quickly to decipher. Anger? Distaste? Regret? “Are you afflicted with wanderlust, my lord?”
“To lust,” he said with a wicked smile, “and not the slightest inclination to wander.”
As hoped, the blush once again rose to her porcelain cheeks. Miss Ramsay was by far the most fetching female in the entire region.
No doubt their dancing together after having stepped behind the folding screens would add a new page to the betting books on the morrow. After having treated himself to a pretty neck, Cain refrained from further dalliance—meaning Lord Lovenip had never continued to dance attendance upon anyone he’d sequestered for a quick bite.
Yet here he was—swirling a young lady about the room long after, with not a hope of disguising his enjoyment of her company.
“You’re shameless,” she admonished.
He grinned. “Guilty as charged.”
“And highly inappropriate,” she added.
He pulled her closer and dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “You wound my sensibilities, madam.”
She shook her head in consternation and amusement. Not the reaction he usually effected, but then, Miss Ramsay was not the usual sort of victim. He was having far more fun than he’d had on his previous dances added together.
“I doubt you have any sensibilities,” she said tartly.
Rather than reply, he allowed his gaze to settle on her lips. He’d whisked a thousand English roses into gardens for a quick nip, and for the first time, he’d rather kiss one senseless.
Miss Ramsay gazed at him with sharp intelligence, rather than mindless flirtation. She kept her secrets to herself and turned his questions back upon him rather than prattle endlessly about nonsense.
After centuries of witnessing human interaction, this was the first time he honestly couldn’t fathom what a mortal would say or do next.
He only hoped it involved kissing.
The melody closed on a crescendo. The musicians set down their instruments for a brief intermission. Propriety demanded he release Miss Ramsay from his embrace. Cain did so, blaming his distraction for not having Compelled the orchestra to keep playing. He bowed. She dipped in the briefest of curtseys and slipped away amongst the milling nobility.
The moment the musicians returned, he would secure her hand for another dance. Cain would purloin her at the first opportunity, abduct her back out to the gardens, and tempt a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.
He yearned to taste her, to feel her breath on his skin, the warmth of her flesh, the flutter of her heart beating against his chest.
But when the music resumed, she was gone.
Cain searched the ballroom, then the peripheral rooms, then the entire grounds. Nothing. She had disappeared without a word. Without letting him know how to reach her, should he wish to do so.
He wished for much more than that.
Luckily, a lass like her could hardly escape notice. Perhaps she had come with Miss Breckenridge. Cain sent his gaze about the ballroom. Miss Breckenridge was no longer in it.
No matter. The upper circles were woven so close that he was undoubtedly the only person present who’d never had the pleasure of receiving her card. Cain would uncover her direction in a trice.
“My apologies.” He paused before a clump of florid peacocks. “Could any of you tell me Miss Ramsay’s direction?”
The gentlemen screwed up their faces at him as if he’d spoken Gaelic. “Who?”
