“It’s very late, Tristan,” she said in the same low voice. “Tell me whatever you want to tell me, because I want to go to bed.”
He smiled, a slow, delicious curving of his lips that made her mouth go dry. “Where did you get that gown?”
“Madame Perisse. Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“It looks like something faeries would weave from spiderwebs and dewdrops.”
She’d been complimented all night, and none of the words touched her as much as those did. “That’s what I thought when I first saw it. Thank you.”
He took a step toward her. “Dance with me. I promised you a waltz.”
“And music?”
“I’ll sing if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
She chuckled. “I think I can count the time, if necessary.”
He was in a very good mood. For a moment she wondered whether he’d proposed to Amelia and she’d accepted, but Georgie didn’t think that would make him smile. The two of them danced with too much precision to be in love—yet.
The thought of him with Amelia made a sensation very like panic rise. She took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. Nothing had happened; he wasn’t ready to marry yet. She hadn’t prepared him for it yet. Not even to herself would she admit that she hadn’t prepared herself for his marrying someone else, either.
“Come here,” he repeated, holding out his hand.
“How did your waltz with Miss Johns go?” she asked instead, folding her hands behind her back. She’d grown more wise over the years; she knew that. Why, then, couldn’t she seem to resist him?
“I would rather have danced with you,” he answered in his low voice. “Are you going to take my hand, Georgiana? I promised you a waltz.”
“You’ve made me promises before that you haven’t kept.”
His eyes narrowed. “That was a long time ago. I keep my promises now. Or I try to, anyway. You’re making it a little difficult.”
“I—”
“I want to waltz with you.”
He took another step closer, smooth and sure as a panther. Oh, this was a mistake. She needed to leave before she ruined everything she’d been planning, because she couldn’t seem to hate him any longer. “I have a question for you,” she said, trying to make her brain work again. “I want to know—”
“Why?” he finished. The question didn’t seem to surprise him at all.
“No lies or flowery explanations, Tristan,” she said flatly. “Just tell me.”
Slowly, he nodded. “For one thing, I was twenty-four, and very stupid. When I heard someone at White’s propose the wager to win a kiss and one of Lady Georgie’s stockings, I jumped at it.” He gazed at her, the confident arrogance for once missing from his expression. “Not because of the wager, though. That just gave me an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
He reached out, running the back of one finger along her cheek. “For this.”
Georgiana trembled. “There was a time I would have given you my stocking. You didn’t need to…”
“And that’s all I meant to do—ask you for your stocking. But once I touched you, I wanted more than that. I was used to getting what I wanted. And what I wanted was you, Georgiana.”
She knew what he meant. When he had kissed her—when he kissed her even now—lightning swirled up her spine. “All right, I’ll accept that. But when I heard about the wager, why didn’t you explain anything?”
Tristan gave a brief frown, looking down at his boots like a guilty schoolboy. “I was wrong to do what I did,” he said, catching her gaze again, “whatever my reasons for participating. You had every right to be angry with me.”
Her mouth was dry. “Then where’s my stocking?”
For some reason that made him smile. “I’ll show you, if you like.”
