He unclasped his hands and trailed a lone, long finger lightly over the ivory keys. Not enough to make a sound. But there was something about that slow caress of the instrument that felt as if it were meant to be upon Jo’s skin instead.
“Mayhap I meant to return your list to you in the blue salon.”
The low rasp of his voice, after a lengthy pause during which she was horrified to realize she had been riveted upon the sight of his hand, startled her.
“You never said so when we danced,” she pointed out.
“Would you have turned up if I had?” He cast a searching glance in her direction.
And all the air seemed to flee her lungs. Being alone with him was like consuming too much wine, heady and dizzying all at once. If she had a modicum of sense, she would retreat.
Naturally, she stayed where she was. “Surely you did not expect me to meet you alone, in the midst of a ball, Mr. Decker? It would have been most unwise.”
“Unwise is drafting a list of ways to be wicked and then delivering it to a gentleman with whom you are scarcely acquainted,” he countered, reaching the end of the piano at last and pressing gently on the last key.
A light, haunting sound filled the air for a second, resonating.
“What are you doing? Someone will hear you!” Without thought, she grasped his hand in hers, keeping him from playing another note.
A mistake, as it turned out.
His fingers locked on hers. The jolt skipping up her arm, past her elbow, sending with it a frisson that landed low in her belly, could not be denied. He used their joined hands to pull her nearer.
So near, she was flush against him, her skirts flattened into his trousers, her breasts grazing his chest. Through her many layers, through the thick barrier of her corset, the connection brought her to life. Her nipples hardened, her breasts tingling.
“You worry too much,bijou. There is so much nattering going on in that library, they would not hear an entire phalanx of soldiers marching down the hall.”
Her free hand settled upon his chest, to push him away. But the fabric of his coat was soft and fine, and the hardness of the muscle hidden beneath it felt even better. Her questing fingertips moved, gliding over his warm strength. All the way to his broad shoulder. She ought to stop touching him. And she ought to sever this moment, end their connection, return to the library.
But she was in a fog which was impenetrable at the moment. Not common sense or the fear of being caught alone with a notorious rakehell like Mr. Elijah Decker could pierce it.
“I want my list,” she managed to say, amazed her tongue could still function properly.
“What if I want to keep it?” he asked, his other hand settling upon her waist with a familiarity she could not help but to like.
“You promised you would return it to me,” she reminded him.
“I do not make promises.” He was suddenly serious. Almost grim.
“Why not?” she wondered aloud before she could think better of issuing the question.
She told herself she should not care. That his answer did not matter.
“Promises are meant to be broken.”
His matter-of-fact response took her by surprise.
She wondered what had happened to him in his past, to make him so cynical and jaded. Who was responsible for the hardness in his jaw now, the firm set of his lips? The answer was apparent—a woman. And the jealousy that accompanied her realization was unwanted. Thoroughly so.
“I have always kept my promises,” she said, though she did not know why she uttered something so foolhardy.
Or why she sounded shaken.
Or why her heart was beating so fast, as fast as the wings of a hummingbird.
“And what promises have you made in your life,bijou?” he asked, sounding intrigued, some of the harshness fleeing his countenance.
“Stop calling me that.” She frowned at him again.
