Or perhaps it was the voluptuous curves that accompanied the hair. The generous swell of breasts he had pressed his face into, a rounded waist he delighted in, and hips that he had gripped as he’d held her against him.
Although she was clothed now, gowned in a dress of elegant red, he knew what every inch of her naked body looked like. The curves, the lines, the soft rolls he had kissed with a poet’s adoration.
This was, naturally, not the first time he had seen her since their parting, but he was still swamped by restless need. The urge to prowl to her side and command her hand in the next dance would do him no favours. Besides, it would ruin the languid, unbothered reputation he had been at such pains to establish. George Comerford did not pursue ladies with such single-mindedness.
Even so, he disliked that she was there flirting with other gentlemen. A wave of something alarmingly possessive rose in him, and he turned back to his wearying partner.
“A dance,” he said, with a flourishing bow. “Would you be so good as to grant me the waltz, Miss Stanley?”
She made what he was certain was a valiant effort to blush, and he almost applauded the attempt. Despite her distinct lack of interest inhim, she was evidently prepared to do anything in order to secure his viscountcy and fortune.
“I’ve heard you like to write poetry,” she said as they took their places in the middle of the ballroom, her hand resting lightly on his.
Another half an hour before he could escape her.
“I do,” he said.
“Like Byron.”
No one would ever quite be like Byron, either with his sudden rise to popularity or the subsequent scandals with the now-infamous Caroline Lamb. The comparison was at once flattering and dire. “Somewhat,” he said.
“I thought you might like to writemesome.” She fluttered her lashes.
He was temporarily speechless. “Is that so?”
“Well Iamextraordinarily pretty. Quite a few gentlemen have been obliging enough to say that if they had the power, they would write a sonnet to the brilliance of my eyes.” If she possessed any subtlety, she was not using it on him. “Do you not agree, sir?”
He could not help thinking again of Caroline, who had never once demanded anything other than honesty from him. She would have abhorred the idea of false flattery. “Why, it means nothing at all if it is not from the heart, darling,” she had said to him on more than one occasion.
There was no denying she was aware of her charms, but at least she wielded them with a lighter hand than Miss Stanley.
“I’m afraid,” he said absently, “I am not much in the habit of writing poetry for young ladies.”
Save, of course, a certain lady who was not in the heart of her youth.
Deciding another half hour with a young lady interested in nothing but his fortune would be intolerable, he guided her from the dance, encountering a fearsome little scowl that almost made him laugh.
Fortune hunters could take their shot at him; they would always miss.
“Ah,” he said, spying his friend. “Hawkridge.”
James Hawkridge had been a friend of his since his Cambridge days, and although he was not titled, he owned a tidy estatein Cornwall. Hopefully it would be good enough to please Miss Stanley.
“Comerford,” Hawkridge said with a start. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s been an age since we last met.”
Hawkridge’s only sign of confusion was a slow blink—he had seen George just two days ago at White’s. “Yes.”
“Allow me to present Miss Stanley to you. Miss Stanley, this is my very good friend, Mr James Hawkridge.” He placed her hand on Hawkridge’s arm, and could almost see the way she assessed his friend, calculating the approximate worth of his property and determining if she was worth his attention. By her eventual smile, she evidently decided he was.
Excellent.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Hawkridge said, after a searching glance at George to clarify his intentions. “Don’t suppose you would do me the honour of dancing?”
Miss Stanley sent George a particularly poisonous look he supposed he deserved. “I should be delighted to dance the remainder of the waltz with you.”
George gestured them extravagantly past him and abandoned the dance in search of refreshments. There was, at least, wine, and he poured himself a generous glass before leaning against a pillar in order to watch the proceedings. James was flirting extravagantly, and Miss Stanley was encouraging him at every juncture. Caroline was nowhere to be seen.
