He didn’t need to finish the sentence. She finished it for him. “I dance with you?” she scoffed with more bravado than she’d thought herself capable. “Why? Because you’re my savior?”
What arrogance. The very idea.
“No,” he said, coolly. “Because I’m a duke.”
It was the irrefutable truth, and they both knew it. A dance with the Duke of Ripon might set a few tongues wagging, but it gave her firmer social standing to be seen as in the favor of such a powerful man.
She dipped in a shallow curtsy as she said, “I would be delighted, Your Grace,” and took his hand, allowing herself to be led onto the mahogany dancing floor. The instant he set their bodies in motion to the rhythm of the waltz, she knew: what had happened in Italy hadn’t stayed in Italy.
It had followed them here, to London, to this dancing floor, and sizzled between them, made it impossible for her to draw a proper breath.
Or a proper thought.
Oh, Italy, what had it done to her?
He stared down at her, and she knew she must say something with his mouth only inches from hers. She’d never been this close to it without kissing those firm lips. She cleared her throat. “I never took you for the sort of gentleman who fills out young ladies’ dance cards.”
“I’m not.” He snorted. “Older ladies on the other hand…”
Indignation surged up. “Are you implying that I’m no longer a young—”
His mouth tipped into a lopsided smile, and she snapped her mouth shut.
Oh, the cheek of the man.
She turned her head decidedly away. What a very bad idea this had been.
“I saw your brother in the card room,” he said, “and I thought you—” He bit off the rest of the sentence.
Again, a blade of heat struck through her. He’d thought she might be receiving the exact treatment she’d been receiving. And he’d come here for…
Her.This frustrating, devastating man who was whirling her across the dancing floor with expert ease, whose silver gray gaze sparked places alight inside her that were better not sparked alight in public, melted something within her. In his arms, in front of all theton, she was safe. The security she’d been attempting to achieve for herself and her family this last year, it was here, in his arms.
Arms that she wanted to gather her closer. She saw the same desire reflected back in his eyes. Of a sudden, she wished they were still in Italy where her hand could remain in his after the waltz ended and they could find a quiet place to—
Talk?
Not even remotely close.
They neared the double doors thrown open to allow cool night air inside the ballroom. Impulse found its voice, and she spoke low enough for his ears only. “Dance me into the garden.”
His gaze held hers for the space of a few rapid heartbeats. “No fountains.”
A laugh hiccupped out of her, again drawing no few glances. The Lady Amelia Windermere who had left for Italy had never drawn an askance glance in all her life, but the one who had returned… She was rather making a habit of it.
And she wasn’t sure she minded.
Live in infamy with me.
Of a sudden, those words held an appeal, hypnotic andright, as he whirled her onto the terrace. He held her hand and led her down a short flight of steps and around the side of the mansion. No one could see them here. Music and ballroom chatter faded, leaving only the sound of their breath.
She reached her arms around his neck, and he closed all distance between them, pressing her against the wall, the length of his body against her, and his mouth, at last, claimed hers and all went right with the world.
How desperate she’d been all these weeks for his kiss, for his large, strong hands upon her. She wanted all of him at once, but he smiled against her mouth and slowed her urgency. She released an impatient groan as every movement of his lips and tongue became deliberate and intentional.
Restless desire poured through her as her hands roved down his muscled chest, his ridged stomach, until they reachedhim, the length of his manhood, hard and ready, straining against his trousers. Insatiable fingertips grazed across superfine, greedy to havethisinside her. If that meant coupling against a stone wall in the Marchioness of Sutton’s garden, so be it. She would have him any way she could get him.
He groaned, and she smiled. Then he broke away, and she gasped in shock as they stood across from each other, cheeks flushed, panting, as if they’d raced all the way to Dover and back.
