His snort was derisive, “I thank god that he is not eating it raw.”
Carrington’s ball was an intimate gathering of forty of London’s wealthiest, most powerful people in the country. As it was, they arrived late, and the strains of an orchestra and hum of guests indicated the party was already in full swing.
“Announcing, His Grace, Duke of Wolfthorne and his wife, Duchess Wolfthorne,” the butler announced.
Instantly, fans snapped out, and a wave of murmurs crested through the room.
“Is that good or bad?” she whispered to Dorian beneath her own.
“I wouldn’t know,” he murmured, while fixing that perfect smile across his lips for the attendees. “I have no insight into the ton’s collective consciousness. Shall we get some liquid fortification before we start the charade?”
“Champagne?”
“For you,” he rested a hand on the small of her back. “Brandy for me.”
At the refreshment tables, he filled her champagne flute and poured a brandy. Surveying the room, Ellie asked, “Do you think it is troubling that Carrington did not greet us?”
“No,” Dorian replied, swirling his drink. “But Carrington knows we are here, I can guarantee you that.”
A blonde woman in an elegant dress, the shade of wine, sauntered to Dorian. The lady was probably in her mid-thirties, tall and statuesque, her gown clinging to her curves and nipped-in waist. She looked at Ellie, then back to Dorian; the cut was not subtle.
“Your Grace,” she said sultrily as she curtsied. “I do not recall receiving an invitation to your wedding?”
‘That would be because I did not send one, Lady Palmer,” Dorian said curtly. “Your charms have no place in a wedding, and do not think I have not seen your dismissal to my wife.”
The lady’s cheeks pinked. “I apologize, Your Grace.”
“Lady Palmer,” Evelina curtsied.
The strains of a waltz sounded in the air, and Dorian turned to Ellie, hand extended. “May I have this dance?”
“Of course,” she smiled prettily, then took the last sip of her drink. To the lady, she added, “Please, excuse us.”
As Dorian swept her off to the floor, Ellie could not help but quip, “And now for your debut waltz.”
After the first few steps, she let the one thread of worry fray from her mind—he was doing fine. Dorian spun her again; the strength and assuredness of his movement caused her to laugh breathlessly.
They whirled in unison, their speed building with the music, her heart pounding even faster as she gazed into his bright eyes. The way he was looking at her turned her insides into sun-warmed honey, her nipples puckering beneath her bodice.
“Stop staring at me that way,” she whispered.
His lips curved mysteriously. “What way?”
“As…. As if you want to strip me bare, or have me painted and immortalized,” she whispered again. “Which is it?”
“Both,” he chuckled throatily as he swung them. “And based on the men looking at you, staring at you, clearly entertaining lustful thoughts, I am not above planting a facer on them.”
“Violence is never the answer,” she chided gently.
“In my experience,” he spun them again, “it is the solution.”
A gruff and scowling Dorian was attractive; now that he was flirting with her, he wasirresistible. Wrapped up in the lush music, the smoky intensity of his eyes, the world faded away.
“I do regret every penny I paid for that dress, however,” his eyes dipped to the off-the-shoulder bodice that flaunted her smooth shoulders, the fullness of her bosom, and the slenderness of her waist. “I wish it were a gunny sack. Though, even that I doubt would turn these voyeurs away.”
She’d never been more at home in her own skin than now, moving as one with him. He swirled them into a dizzying set of perfect spins, as the violins grew to a crescendo. Dorian was so steady and in command: he would never let her fall.
She was frictionless, gliding across the floor with him in the most exhilarating dance of her life. She never wanted it to end.
