Clara turned her head to him, blue eyes narrowed.“Was that entirely necessary?”
“Absolutely,” he said, steering her back to the dance floor as the next waltz began.“It would be the height of bad manners for an affianced couple to ignore each other at their own ball.”
“You were not ignoring me,” she said, voice low and dangerous.“You were watching me.”
He inclined his head.“You gave a superb performance, Clara.The ton is utterly besotted.”
They took position among the other couples, hands settling into place.His right on her waist, hers at his shoulder, their free hands joined just so.Her posture remained impeccable, yet a subtle tension vibrated beneath his palm—a sign of the storm she refused to show.
The music began, and they moved, two forces locked in rhythm and resistance.The waltz unfolded like a battle of wills, every step and turn an argument to be won or lost.She followed his lead with the precision of someone determined not to give ground, and he found himself grateful for it.Too many women melted under his touch, mistaking aggression for desire.Clara, by contrast, met force with force, and it was exhilarating.
“Do you enjoy being desired by every man in the room?”he asked.
“I thought that was the plan,” she said coolly.“You did say jealousy would drive them to me.”
His lips pressed into a line.“Yes, but I did not expect to hate it.”
She blinked.“What?”
He spun her elegantly, catching her close again.“I do not get jealous.Not over women.”
“You look like you want to murder Lord Beresford?”
He did not answer at first.Then, voice rough said, “Because the thought of his hands on you makes me want to break something.”
Clara stumbled.
He steadied her.
“That was not in the script,” she murmured.
“No.It was not.”He held her closer.“You seemed to rather enjoy Lord Beresford’s attention,” he said, letting the words hover just above her ear.
She replied without missing a step.“He is a gentleman.He knows how to be courteous.”
“And you find courtesy preferable to candor?”
She arched a brow, her lips curving into the ghost of a smile.“I find it preferable to… whatever it is you are doing.”
Crispin dipped her, not gently, and she gasped.He relished it, pulling her up close so that their faces nearly touched.
“Surely you are not afraid of me, pet.”
She met his gaze, ice over steel.“No more than I fear a house cat gone feral.You make a mess, but you rarely draw blood.”
He laughed, delighted, and spun them through a tight turn that forced her closer still.“Your suitors will need sharper claws if they hope to win you.”
“Perhaps I prefer my suitors declawed.”
He caught the glint in her eyes, the challenge.“That would be a shame,” he murmured, “given how much fun it is to spar with you.”
Crispin could not be sure what she was thinking, but she didn’t look away, not even when decorum dictated she should lower her gaze.The defiance was unmistakable, and it thrilled him.He allowed himself to admire her.The arch of her neck, the way her gown clung to the line of her back, the defiance in every movement.
“You look ravishing,” he said, softer now.“Was it deliberate, choosing the exact shade of blue to match the evening’s drama?”
Her lips twitched.“I would say the effect was accidental, but we both know I am not so careless.”
“I have never met a woman less prone to carelessness,” he said.“And yet here you are, betrothed to me.”
