Ugh!The whole thing, while he knew it went on in hundreds of thousands of households across Great Britain, seemed a meanlife for a dazzling woman who had the quality and fineness to take her place in any salon in Mayfair or Paris.
Yet Adam could hardly imagine the uproar in London if he returned with Alice on his arm, dressed her up like a lady, and then people found out her true identity.
Luckily, she seemed to have realized the ridiculousness of his proposal even before he did, and he wasn’t forced to retract it.
“Kiss me again,” Alice demanded, which was better than her storming off in a fit of pique because an eager nobleman had asked her to marry him and then instantly changed his mind, regretting it.
In any case, he had no problem complying with her request. His arms went around her, and she plastered herself against him. He let her feel his desire, and she didn’t recoil. She crushed her breasts to his chest and held on while he ravaged her mouth.
It was not the perfect end to an evening. Theperfect endingwould have been if she’d allowed him to take her back to his grandparents’ townhouse on the west end of the Royal Crescent.
Adam rattled around with the most minimal of staff inside the five floors, not that he ever went into the large cellar or the spacious attic rooms. He would have dearly loved to slip Alice inside and up to his bed.
Still, it was as close to bliss as he was going to get that night.
Having weathered the ill-advised proposal, he decided to think with his head before he spoke. He tried. He focused on the path in front of their horses or the view from a bridge in the park, the divine music of an orchestra or the tragedy of a well-performed play.
Yet oddly, nearly every time they were together, Adam could imagine asking her again if she would become his wife. There was always a single moment in which he had to struggle not to let his heart speak.
He was certain she knew he was falling in love with her. For every time he wanted to tell her of the dreadful battle raging inside him, between what was proper and what he wished could happen if the situation permitted, she asked him to kiss her once more, thereby thoroughly distracting him.
“Please,” he asked one Sunday after they’d been to the Theatre Royal, the luxuriously red-and-gold appointed venue in the middle of Bath. “It’s one of the most sought-after tickets.”
Adam had arranged entrance to a ball at the deceased William Beckford’s former residence, the Lansdown Estate. Reputedly one of the wealthiest commoners in Britain, the novelist and art collector had donated his land and residence to the Methodist Kingswood School. With the grand opening of the exclusive preparatory school, a festive evening was expected in the large common rooms of the main building. Everyone in the upper echelon of Bath society wanted to attend.
Being an earl’s son had some benefits, and tickets became instantly available at his asking. However, when Adam surprised Mrs. Malcolm with them, it was he who was surprised when she flatly denied him.
“I do not wish to go to a ball,” she said. “Not any. Never.”
“I know you can dance and even enjoy doing so,” he argued. “Don’t tell me you’re still smarting over the incident with that silly shawl.”
“I have told you before that I have no interest in fancy dinner parties or dances.” She crossed her arms over her beautiful breasts, which he could easily imagine worshiping with hands, lips, tongue, and teeth.
“Fine!” he said, feeling tweaguey. “Either agree to run away with me to deepest, darkest Peru or dance with me at this ball. One or the other. Those are your only two choices.”
“You are absurd,” she said, but there was laughter in her voice.
“I tell you, Mrs. Malcolm, I am not going to take no. Wear that burgundy gown and come to a single dance with me.”
When she hesitated, he gave her a look his mother used to say would melt butter and make one think they’d swallowed sugar at the same time. With his blue eyes held open wide and his lower lip pulled up into a pout, he hadn’t used the expression since he was a youth trying to get an extra helping of vanilla sponge cake.
It had worked then. It worked now, too.
Alice put a hand to her chest. “Oh! Very well. I shall come to the dance if you make me a promise.”
“You have made me extremely happy,” he told her, wondering if he should use the look again to get her to go to bed with him or if that would be pressing his luck too far.
“Will you promise not to try to maneuver me back to the Royal Crescent again?”
She was on to him. His heart sank for he could not make such a promise.
“Ever?” he asked, starting to make his meltingly sweet face again.
“At least for the duration of the ball,” she said.
“I can promise that,” he agreed, thrilled to think of having her in his arms again even for a waltz.
And she did wear the dress, but nearly spoiled it with a lace fichu across the décolletage, hiding her splendid cleavage.What a marplot!
