The endearment, spoken in that intimate register that made her stomach flutter, sent heat spiraling through her chest. She was still furious with him about their argument, still determined not to let him control her choices—but the way he was looking at her made rational thought remarkably difficult.
“Very well,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded.
Hugo offered his arm with formal courtesy, but when she placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, she felt the tension coiled beneath the civilized surface. He was wound tight as a spring, barely restrained energy humming through his frame.
He’s still angry, too. Good.
The opening strains of a waltz filled the ballroom as Hugo led her onto the dance floor. His hand settled at her waist with possessive firmness, pulling her closer than was strictly proper as they began to move.
“You’re causing quite a stir this evening,” he said quietly, his breath warm against her ear.
“Am I?” She kept her voice carefully neutral though being this close to him was making concentration difficult. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Liar.” His thumb brushed against her waist through the silk, sending fire racing along her nerves. “Half the men in this ballroom are staring at you.”
“Are you jealous, Your Grace?” she asked with deliberate sweetness.
“Jealous?” his eyes darkened with something that made her breath catch. “I’m territorial. There’s a difference.”
Territorial.The word sent a dangerous thrill through her.
“How very… primitive of you.”
“You have no idea,” he murmured, spinning her through a complicated turn that brought her even closer against his chest for a moment before releasing her back to proper distance.
“Are you flirting with me, husband?” The question escaped before she could stop it, echoing with surprising accuracy the teasing challenge she’d thrown at him weeks ago in his library.
Hugo’s mouth curved in a smile that was pure predatory male satisfaction. “Perhaps.”
Perhaps.The same answer she’d given him then when she’d been trying to deny her attraction to him.
“We’re in public,” she reminded him though her voice came out breathless.
“I’m aware.” His hand tightened fractionally on her waist. “Though I’m finding it difficult to care about propriety when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to discover what’s beneath all this civilized behavior.” His voice dropped to a register that made her pulse race. “Like you’re remembering what it felt like when we were in the garden.”
He’s doing it again. Making me forget why I’m angry with him.
“I remember you being insufferably arrogant,” she said though the words lacked conviction.
“Do you?” He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear. “Because I remember you responding quite enthusiastically to my insufferable arrogance.”
Heat flooded her cheeks at the accuracy of his observation. She had responded—more enthusiastically than she cared to admit—even to herself.
“That was before you proved yourself a controlling tyrant,” she said firmly.
“Ah, yes.” His amber eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. “My heinous crime of wanting to keep you safe.”
“Your heinous crime of thinking you have the right to dictate my choices.”
“And what if I do?” The question was asked quietly but with an edge of challenge that made her spine stiffen.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What if I do have that right?” He spun her again, using the movement to bring his mouth closer to her ear. “What if being my wife means accepting my protection, even when you don’t think you need it?”
