At last, a sliver of good sense came to her rescue, and she was able to say, “Let us finish this waltz and go our separate ways.”
He gave a curt nod of assent, and the arctic chill returned to his eyes. A sigh might have escaped him, even as they waltzed on, narrowly avoiding another couple.
What was happening to her? Not an hour ago, she’d been an ice queen, untouchable. Now rational thought was abandoning her, and all she could do wasfeel. . . The pressure of his fingers against her flesh, even through several layers of cloth . . . the rumble of his words from deep within his chest, even as his soft Dutch accent lent them a clipped quality . . . and, oh, the content of those words . . .
This wouldn’t do. She knew next to nothing about this man. Which didn’t matter, not in the least. She knew herself. She didn’t need, or desire, an entanglement with a man, particularly not with a man she met on a ballroom floor. She’d done that once, and it hadn’t ended well.
She hadn’t divorced one husband only to find another.
Her eyebrows crinkled together. Why had that conclusion come to her? She’d barely had ten minutes of conversation with this man.
But she knew why. The Right Honourable Jakob Radclyffe, Fifth Viscount St. Alban, was the sort of man a woman could marry.
But she wasn’t the sort of woman a gentleman married, not anymore. Not that she would; it was simple fact. Besides, she would never be wife to any man again. The bloom was off that particular rose.
With a sudden contraction of hardened muscle, he pulled her body into him to avoid yet another couple. The touch of his breath along the exposed line of her clavicle sent tiny bolts of lightning through her. Her gaze flew up to meet his, to see if he felt them, too. But his countenance remained aloof and stoic, giving nothing away.
Lord St. Alban aroused in her a reaction unlike any she’d ever experienced, not even with Percy. This feeling was dark and complex and mysterious like an underground cavern that wound round and round far below the surface. It insisted that he alone could illuminate its dark depths and satisfy this nascent ache . . .
She planted her feet, halting their swirling momentum and eliciting a few murmurs of displeasure from the couples who had to swerve to avoid them. Scandal be damned, she needed to leave this room. “My day begins quite early, my lord,” she said, her eyes refusing to meet his.
His hands dropped from her body as if singed, yet he made no other movement. No move to hold her in place or insist that she finish this waltz with him.
She inhaled the sigh of disappointment that wanted release and whirled around. Her feet kept pace with the rapid tattoo of her heart, leading her away from him . . . away from this room . . . away from this night. Lately, it felt as if she was ever fleeing one thing or another.
Well, in this case, there was no help for it. It was an absolute imperative that she flee Lord St. Alban. The man made her feel . . .
Well, he made herfeel. And she had no use for feelings elicited by any man.
Determination steeled her as a pair of words swirled through her head:freedom,independence. No man would ever make her forget them again.
She must find a Mayfair townhouse posthaste. She couldn’t abide the possibility of Lord St. Alban arriving at the Duke’s manse for hisviscount lessons. It was all too much, too fast.
Her footsteps trilled down the Dowager’s front door stoop and crisp night air hit her lungs. She snugged her shawl secure about her shoulders and allowed a footman to hand her up into her waiting carriage.
Tonight, she would lay her head on her pillow and dream this night away.
Tomorrow, she would awake clear-headed and her real life would proceed. That marriageable man and the unsettling confusions of emotion he provoked would be part of a future left behind and better unbegun.
Chapter 4
Next day
Some days were born perfect.
On the bridge of an East Indiaman, with the open sea beneath his feet, the clear sky above his head, and a crew to command, the outside world didn’t stand a chance of touching Jake.
His head snapped around and another command issued forth. “You there, haul that crate to the foc’sle.” A cooling breeze lifted off the water and caressed the back of his neck. “And you, see to it the mainsail is trimmed and secured.”
On a trading vessel as well-run as theFortuyn, every man understood his task and set about it with utmost efficiency. There were times when the deck of a ship resembled nothing so much as a hive of bees in springtime. It was a joy to behold.
Deep within him settled a feeling of peace. This was where he belonged. This was home.
A pair of watchful eyes drew his attention. In them, he saw the truth of the current situation reflected back at him. They reminded him that today wasn’t a perfect day.
The open sea didn’t roil beneath his feet, only a thin layer of muddy Thames kept the moored ship afloat.
The sky above wasn’t clear. In fact, above his head hung a sky oppressive with London fog.
