Sir Thomas laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “But she has eyes only for you, my friend.”
Eric smiled politely, disagreeing. Anne Marie had eyes that danced along with her feet. She was ambitious, and a flirt, but a sweet and honest one. Eric was wryly aware of his worth on the marriage mart. His vast wealth would have made him highly eligible even if he had been eighty, his family pedigree would have stood him well had he rickets, black teeth, and a balding pate. He was not yet thirty, he had all his teeth, and his legs were strong and very straight.
Perhaps Anne Marie would catch him one day. He simply was not of a mind to be caught at the moment.
A tapping on the door was quickly followed by an appearance by the lady herself. Anne Marie was a soft blonde with huge blue eyes and a coquette’s way with a fan. She smiled her delight at him and slipped her hand through his arm. “Eric! You are coming now, aren’t you?”
“Let him finish his whiskey, daughter!” Sir Thomas commanded.
“I shall do so quickly,” he promised Anne Marie. He swallowed down the amber liquid, smiling as she pouted.
Suddenly his smile faded as his gaze was caught by a flash of color beyond the open door. A strange sense of the French déjà-vu seemed to seize him as he caught first an impression, nothing more. Then the dancers in the hall swept by again. As a gentleman shifted to the left, he saw the girl who had so thoroughly caught his attention. Her gown was blue, deep, striking blue, with a full sweeping skirt and a daring décolletage trimmed with red ribbons and creamy lace. Against that blue, tendrils of her hair streamed down in a rich and elegant display of sable ringlets. They curved about her naked shoulders and over the rise of her breasts, enhancing her every breath and movement. Her hair was so very dark…and then, with a shift of light, it wasn’t dark at all, but red as only the deepest sunset could be red.
His gaze traveled at last from her breast to her face, and his breath caught and held. Her eyes were the most startling, purest emerald he had ever seen, fringed by dark lashes. Her features were stunning, perfectly molded, lean and delicate, with a long aquiline and entirely patrician nose, high-set cheekbones, slim, arched brows. All that hinted of something less than absolute perfection was the wideness of her mouth, not that her lips were not rose, were not formed and defined beautifully, but they held something that cold marble perfection could not, for the lower lip was very full, the top curved, and the whole of it so sensual that even within the innocent smile she offered her partner, there could be found a wealth of sensuality. She wore a tiny black velvet beauty patch at the side of her cheek, very near her ear, and that, too, seemed to enhance her perfection, for her ears were small and prettily shaped.
There was something familiar about her. Had he seen her before? He would have remembered a meeting with her. From this moment onward he would never forget her. He had not moved since he had seen her, had not spoken, yet he had never felt more startlingly alive. He had lived a reckless life, mindful of his inheritance, but fiercely aware of his independence, and women—virtuous and not so virtuous—had always played a part within it.
He had never known anyone to affect him so. To render him so mesmerized, and so very hot and tense and…hungry, all at once.
“Eric? Are you with us?” Anne Marie said, annoyed.
Thomas Mabry laughed. “I believe he’s just seen a friend, my dear.”
“A friend?” Eric managed to query Thomas politely.
“Lady Amanda Sterling. A Virginian, such as yourself, Eric.Ah, but she has spent most of the past years at a school for young ladies in London. And perhaps you have been at sea on those ships of yours when the young lady has been in residence.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps,” Eric replied to his host. So the woman was Lady Amanda Sterling. They had met, but it had been years before. Still, it was an occasion that neither of them should have forgotten. There had been a hunt. She had been a mere child of eight upon a pony and he had been longing for the very mature and beautiful upstairs maid at their host’s manor. Young Lady Amanda had jostled her pony ahead of his and the result had been disaster with both of them being thrown from their mounts. And when he had chastised her, she had bitten him. He hadn’t given a fig about Lord Sterling and had paddled her there and then. She had raged like a little demon, the child had.
The child had grown.
“Eric, may we dance?” Anne Marie prodded sweetly. “I promise an introduction. Father, do remind me from now on not to have parties when Mandy is our guest, will you?”
Thomas laughed. Eric joined in, and Anne Marie grinned prettily. Eric gathered his wits about him and reached politely for her arm. “Anne Marie, I am honored.”
He led her out to the floor, and they began to dance. Anne Marie gave him a lazy smile as he swept her expertly about the floor, seeking out the woman who had seized his attention. He saw her again. Saw her laugh for her partner, saw the devil’s own sizzle in her eyes. He thought that he recognized something of himself within that look. She would not be governed by convention, she would demand her own way, and fight for it fiercely.
The sound of her laughter came to him again and he felt a reckless fever stir within him. Come hell itself, and time be damned, he would have to have that woman.
Who was the man who caused her laughter, he wondered.
Anne Marie, watching him indulgently, answered the question that he did not ask. “That’s Damien Roswell—her cousin,” she said sweetly.
“Cousin?” He smiled. His hand tightened upon hers.
Anne Marie nodded sagely. “But—and this is a grave ‘but,’ I must warn you!—the lady is in love.”
“Oh?”
Love so often meant nothing. Girls of Amanda Sterling’s tender young age were in and out of love daily. Their fathers seldom let the affairs go past fluttering hearts and dreams.
Yet her eyes were wild, deep with laughter and secrets and passion. He smiled, thinking she was one lass who should probably be wed and quickly—to an appropriate person, of course.
“And he loves her,” Anne Marie warned.
“Who is ‘he’?”
“Why, Lord Tarryton. Robert Tarryton. ‘Tis said that he has adored her for years, as she has adored him. She will become eighteen in March, and it is believed that he will ask Lord Sterling for her hand then. It is a perfect match. They are all loyal Tories, landed and wealthy. You’re frowning, Eric,” Anne Marie warned him.
