“Would you rather I ask how you find the weather?”
Yes!she ached to shout at the dratted man. She wanted simple, and he wasn’t having it.
Further complicating the matter was an unruly desire to have the firm hand piously fixed to the middle of her ribcage slide down and settle on the curve of her hip. A simple contraction of muscle would close the remaining gap between them, and he could . . . what?
That wouldn’t do. It was possible his words—body,essence—had awakened a dormant desire within her. A desire so long unused she’d thought it entirely disappeared. Her mutinous body yearned to hear such words again.
“What is your scent, Lady Olivia? I detect lavender and . . . is that sandalwood?” She nodded, and he continued, “In my experience English ladies don’t smell of exotic spice. Rather they smell of—”
“Stale rosewater?” she finished for him.
A too-charming look of abashment crossed his features. “My apologies, it was intended as a compliment. You are a most unexpected Englishwoman.”
A surprising wave of pleasure unbalanced her, and she stumbled over her own feet. His fingers tightened protectively around her waist, holding her steady while she recovered herself. Lord St. Alban wasn’t the sort of man who let a woman fall.
She gave herself a mental shake and searched for the words that would right this dance before it went completely topsy-turvy on her. “Have you never heard of idle chit-chat, my lord?”
“I’ve never had much use for it,” he replied, the tilt to his mouth more wry than remorseful.
“Surely you can locate a middle ground somewhere. Here, let me help. I shall ask you a perfectly innocuous question that pertains to nothing personal in your life, and you will answer in kind.” Oh, why was she doing this? All this talk of the impersonal felt oddly personal. “Is this your first foray into theton?”
He nodded. “My newfound duties as viscount have prevented me from enjoying the frivolities of Society until now.”
“We are nothing if not frivolous, my lord.” That was better,bodies,essences, andscentsbanished from the conversation. A pang of regret for their loss hadn’t flashed through her. Not at all. She almost believed it.
Lord St. Alban cocked his head. “Do I detect irony in your tone?”
“Irony? Careful, you’re skirting the edge of the personal again.” She pointed her gaze over his shoulder. The sooner this dance was done, the better.
“Could you tell me about the school the Dowager spoke of? It happens that my daughter is in need of a good one.”
“My sister and I founded a school for girls a few years ago. The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds.”
“A mouthful.”
“Yes, well, our headmistress, Mrs. Bloomquist, was adamant that the school’s mission be evident in its name.”
“So you aren’t involved in the daily running of the school?”
“No, but I am on the board of directors.”
“Ah, that makes more sense.”
“And what is that?” Olivia asked in her best imitation of Mrs. Bloomquist. Something in his tone told her she wasn’t going to appreciate the direction of this conversation.
“You don’t exactly strike me as the schoolmarm sort.”
“And why is that?” she shot back.
Slowly, with the heat of a thousand suns, his gaze raked over the curved length of her arm, across her clavicle, down toward the gently rounded mounds of her décolletage. A blush spread across her skin like wildfire. She tried to tell herself that it burned so hot due to justifiable outrage, but she suspected a different cause at its root, one it would do no good to dig up and examine.
From the last stronghold of her composure, she summoned a limp measure of righteous indignation. “And here I thought,” she croaked. She cleared her throat and began again. “I thought you were less of a nitwit than the others occupying this room. Appearances can, indeed, be deceiving.”
He pulled her close, and his lips feathered against her ear. “My apologies, if I implied your physical beauty and mental acumen are mutually exclusive entities. You might be the rare lady who possesses both.”
Her breath suspended in her chest. She might never breathe again.
She pulled back from him, hoping to encourage a measure of cool reason. But it was no use. Her focus was entirely concentrated on the points of contact between his hands and her body.
