The trepidation in her tone gave him a moment of hesitation. “Are you certain you wish to—” But before he could complete his question, the music began.
He bowed to her formally, and she curtsied with an elegance he would not have expected and nary a hint of hesitation, though she did not dip as low as some.
Morgan linked hands with her. “Do you trust me?”
She inclined her head then. “My mind is not certain I ought to trust you, my lord, but something else within me says I should.”
Foolish instinct. Foolish, foolish woman.
Victory washed over him. Already, she had made this battle into a decided rout.
“I find it always wise to trust one’s instincts,” he bit out, tamping down a swiftly accompanying wave of guilt.
A sad smile flirted with her lips for just a moment. “Perhaps not always.”
Before he could reply, the dance had begun in earnest. It was a minuet, and he was heartily glad, as it granted him the opportunity to remain near to her without the necessity of trading partners. It was the dance of courtship, and he intended to use every rusty weapon of charm he could unearth to make her vulnerable to his seduction.
As they circled each other, he wondered what had happened to her, if the limb had been her burden from birth or if she had suffered an accident as a girl. And then he told himself her history did not matter.
The only part of Lady Leonora Forsythe which need interest him, was her kinship with her black-hearted, half-brother.
They left each other and then came back together again. His eyes clung to her, watching for any sign of weakness, and spying none. Not even her limp was in evidence as they performed the perfunctory steps.One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.Her skirts swayed about her. A charming flush colored her pale cheeks, in stark contrast to her white-blonde hair.
Their hands met once more, and they circled each other, gazes meeting. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, a light periwinkle. They struck him.Shestruck him, like a physical blow to the chest.
She was a beauty. By God, she was breathtaking. And she danced like an angel.
Until she didn’t.
As they parted and swirled about each other once more in the course of the dance, she stumbled, catching herself before she tripped. Stubbornly, she continued on, but he saw the pinched expression of pain on her countenance, noted the tightened knot of her otherwise generous mouth.
She was in pain.
Damn it, he intended to use her, not to humiliate her. A protective instinct surged within him, entirely unwanted. He did not know where it emerged from or why. All he knew was he did not want to see her suffer.
The music reunited them, hands linked.
“Do you need a respite, my lady?” he asked.
Her brows snapped together and her shoulders stiffened, her countenance growing determined. “No, though I thank you for your concern, my lord.”
“My lady,” he protested, uncertain where this vein of gentlemanly concern originated.
Her fingers tightened on his. She twirled about with him, not gliding but not allowing her painful limb to limit her. “I am perfectly capable of dancing, my lord.”
The flash of pride in her gaze hit him. He wondered, then, at the reason for her never having danced.
“Of course, my lady,” he reassured her to assuage her pride.
Why had she ordinarily kept stuck to her seat at such events? Was it because no man had ever gathered the courage to approach her blinding beauty and ask? Or was it because every man before him had been reluctant to ask because of her perceived infirmity?
The leg gave her pain, he could plainly see as much from her drawn mouth and the occasional grimace tightening her countenance. But she was determined to persevere, to force her mind to overpower any weakness.
And he could not help but to inwardly applaud her tenacity. Lady Leonora Forsythe continued to surprise him. If she had been empty-headed or silly, if she had thrown herself at him in an effort to become his marchioness, if she had been anything other than what she seemed to be—an innocent beauty with a fierce determination—he would have already led her away from the dance and the ball with nary a prick of guilt.
Morgan would have convinced her to enter a darkened chamber or alcove with him. He would have lifted her skirts, his hand gliding beneath to touch her, from ankle to cunny. Christ, he would have ruined her already.
And he would have damn well enjoyed it.
