He saw no polite way to extricate himself. It was one thing to avoid her, another to show her public disrespect. As torturous as it was going to be to hold temptation in his arms, he would have to grit his teeth and bear it.
“Would you do me the honor, Miss Garrity?” he asked.
His tone was terser than he intended. And perhaps he’d waited a second too long before asking. Flames of anger leapt in Miss Garrity’s eyes before she banked them.
“The honor is mine, my lord,” she said in a dulcet voice.
He cleared his throat and held out his arm; she placed her gloved fingertips upon his sleeve as if it were the carcass of a diseased animal. As he led her to the floor where the orchestra had started up again, he heard Mrs. Garrity say merrily, “Oh, this waltz is one of my favorites…”
Bloody perfect.
I cannot believe I am stuck with this boor,Fiona silently fumed.And for a waltz, too!
Noticing the glances aimed their way, she kept her smile fixed in place as she and Hawksmoor took their place on the dance floor. He, of course, did not bother to smile or convey the slightest pleasure at being her partner. His arrogant features looked carved from stone, his mouth forming a taut line. He said not a word as he positioned a hand on the small of her back.
Two can play at this game,she vowed.If he isn’t going to talk, then neither am I.
She reached up, placing one gloved hand upon his broad shoulder. She slid her other hand into his waiting one, poised in the air. His large hand engulfed her fingers entirely. They began to move. Neither of them said a thing.
Fi kept her gaze focused on a spot just above his shoulder. Used to carrying on a conversation while she danced, she found herself with a surfeit of mental energy. Yet she refused to be the first to speak, to lose this battle of wills.She concentrated on the physical movement of dancing instead. To her surprise and irritation, Hawksmoor was a superb dancer.
He moved with the confidence and grace of a man in his prime. Fi had waltzed with countless gentlemen and was used to keeping herself in check so that her partner could keep up. While it was the male’s role to lead, Fi usually controlled the dance. Her chief accomplishment was that she managed to do so without her partner realizing it.
Yet Hawksmoor did not need to be led; he was in complete command. He executed the patterns with clean precision, his turns and change steps flawless. Moreover, his male vigor sped up Fi’s pulse, challenging her to match him step for step. Many ladies would swoon at the pace he was setting; Fi found it exhilarating.
It was as if their silent warfare had morphed into a contest of who could keep up with whom. If there was anything Fi loved, it was competition. When he swung her into a reverse turn, she lifted her rib cage, stretching her spine over his supportive arm, adding momentum and grace to their spin. He did not falter. Instead, he tightened his hold on her, his large hand covering the small of her back as they glided, then twirled in the opposite direction.
The dynamism of the dance overtook Fi. She lost herself in the music and the moment, stepping and spinning without holding back. Her blood rushed with pleasure as Hawksmoor swung her in a powerful spin, then pulled her close again. The chandelier blazed above them, picking out the strands of silver in his thick, mahogany hair.
She became aware of the heat between their bodies, the firm grip of his hand on hers. His masculine scent, clean and woodsy, infiltrated her senses. They spun again, the turn even more daring than the last, rustling a laugh from her throat. His hand slid upward on her back, his fingertips brushing the bare skin above her dress.
The sensation jolted her. Startled her into looking Hawksmoor in the face. The silver flash in his eyes sent a sizzling charge through her. She couldn’t read what he was thinking or feeling, yet her skin prickled, the tips of her breasts tingling against her bodice. She felt dizzy as they slowed to a stop. Bemused by the sound of applause, she saw that she and the earl had garnered an appreciative audience.
“Thank you for the dance,” Hawksmoor said tonelessly.
He offered her his arm. Given the eyes on them, she had no choice but to take it.
“We frivolous chits serve our purposes,” she said tartly.
“About that.” Instead of escorting her back to her parents, he steered her on a promenade around the dance floor. “You misunderstood a private conversation.”
“Beg pardon. I didn’t realize that a conversation held on a public balcony was private.”
He drew his brows together. “The discussion was not meant for your ears.”
“Obviously.”
“Are you always this difficult?” A hint of impatience entered his voice.
“Only with condescending prigs.” Her smile was for their audience, her words for his ears only. “As it happens, my lord, our feelings are mutual. For you are the last gentlemanIwould wish to wed.”
“That is, indeed, a relief.”
His detached tone irked her. Made her want to get a rise out of him.
“I find emotionless scholars boring,” she said rashly.
“And I find temperamental flirts exhausting.”
