And yet, today with Henrietta, he had felt that he’d never quite belonged anywhere the way he seemed to belong with her. He had never felt himself so acutely an orphan—not because she made him feel alone, but because of how connected he felt with her. And it made him look back on the rest of his life with an alarming perspective. As if he had been standing alone his whole life and only just realized it.
She was dancing with Mr. Redmond, the publisher. She must be pressing him for the editorship of The Lady’s Magazine that she and her friend Cassandra wanted so badly. The old bastard should just give her and Miss Seymour the reins. Mr. Redmond was nervous, allegedly, about handing over the editorship of one of his publications to two ladies who were so young—and yet—unmarried. He would never exert control over Henrietta’s endeavors, but he hoped that he could very soon offer Mr. Redmond some solace on that score.
The music slowed. Mr. Redmond led Henrietta off to the other side of the crowd. Trem couldn’t risk losing her, so he began to move towards them.
He broke through the crowd and skirted the edges of the ballroom, reaching Henrietta as she and Mr. Redmond bowed to one another in parting.
When he had first glimpsed her, he had been so relieved that he hadn’t paid much attention to her costume.
Now, however, it hit him with the force of an anvil. Somehow, the shimmery light blue fabric of her dress accentuated every slender curve of her body. She looked like a woodland goddess who had just emerged from bathing in a lake but who had retained a mantle of water, somehow see-through and opaque at the same time.
Even though she was fully clothed, she seemed almost naked. No, that wasn’t it, he corrected himself. It was that he had seen her naked and so knew that the dress gave a strong suggestion of what she looked like unclothed.
He went hard at the thought. Which was damned inconvenient in the middle of a ballroom.
She still hadn’t noticed him, with the din of the music, the press of the crowd, and her attention on Mr. Redmond.
Just as the man turned away, Trem caught her elbow.
She startled slightly and looked up at him. Her blue eyes looked darker in the candlelight, but just as soft as always.
“Trem,” she said—and, he was embarrassed to admit, her name on his lips, so casual and yet so bald, had him stifling a groan.
He caught her scent now that she was turned towards him. That heady mixture of some luxurious citrus perfume and that fragrance that was all hers—which reminded him of crisp Edington apples and wet leaves.
“I need to talk to you. Now.”
“Trem, I—” She cut herself off and licked her lips instead. He wondered for a split second if she did it to torment him intentionally. And then he realized. She knows.
She knew that he was going to insist they marry. That he would do such a thing. And he saw in her eyes, on her face, that, for some reason, she felt that she couldn’t accept him. Even though her hand was now intertwined in his own, in the middle of the crowded floor, and he could see plain on her face that she wanted him, too.
No, he thought, he knew Henrietta. She would think that he was only offering for her because he felt he must. Because of John.
He knew, just from looking at her face, that he needed to convince her otherwise.
“But first I need to dance with you,” he said smoothly.
He saw the surprise cut across her countenance. Good, he thought. He wanted to drag her off into some dark corner and ravish her until she consented to be his wife. He saw now that that wouldn’t be the right move quite yet. He needed to give it time.
Instead, Trem swept her into the waltz.
For a moment, they didn’t speak, finding their footing together and amidst the other couples. He didn’t know how Lady Worthington got away with such dimness. It was asking for scandal. The light in the ballroom was so low that he felt more alone with her than he actually was. Yet the darkness allowed him to savor the press of her body on his. He knew that she must be able to feel his hardness up against her, but he wasn’t ashamed. She needed to understand what she did to him. So that she could know that it was his obsession with her, his absolute need for her to be his after this afternoon, that pushed him to say the words he would say tonight.
Eventually, she looked up at him, and he noticed for the first time a little delicate wreath of leaves around her head. Then he took in her earrings—a bow cocked in an arrow. She was Artemis, he realized, gorgeous and free. A being that men yearned to catch.
“Did you convince Mr. Redmond?” he said, keeping his voice low.
“How do you know about the editorship?”
“I always know what you are up to, Artemis.”
“Liar.” She huffed. “And if you make a jest about my dressing as the goddess of chastity, I will have to inflect bodily harm on you.”
“I would never.” It was true—he wouldn’t. He didn’t care a whit about virginity. Artemis suited her perfectly. “I believe she was also the goddess of the wilderness.”
“And of the hunt,” she replied, giving him a wicked smile.
He laughed. “Your brother told me about the editorship. When you started your campaign at the beginning of the season.”
