“Inadvisable? Scandalous? Dangerous?” He set both glasses aside, extending his hand. “All true. Dance with me nevertheless.”
She should have refused. They had already provided enough fodder for gossip to last the season. But his hand waited, patient and certain, and she found herself placing her fingers in his.
He led her to the floor, where couples turned in a graceful waltz. Without hesitation, he drew her into the rhythm, one hand at her waist, the other enclosing hers with precise restraint.
“You know,” she said quietly as they moved.
His fingers tightened infinitesimally. “Know what?”
“About the carriage. Your sister.”
He missed a step—barely noticeable, but she felt it. “You’ve been asking questions again.”
“Not asking. Overhearing. Lady Thornton has a remarkably carrying whisper.”
“Most gossips do.” His voice was carefully neutral, but she felt the tension in his body.
“Why let them think the worst? Why cultivate the legend of a beast when you are anything but?”
“What, then? A hero?” He spun her neatly, drawing her closer than propriety allowed. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you are a man who loves his sister enough to die for her.”
“Loved,” he said, the word sharp. “Past tense. Catherine can scarcely bear to look at me. The sight of what I became turns her stomach.”
“That cannot be true.”
“She hasn’t remained in the same room with me for more than five minutes in three years.” His grip on her hand tightened painfully. “So forgive me if I decline to bask in the glow of my supposed nobility.”
They danced in silence for a few measures, her thoughts tumbling. Around them, other couples kept their distance, whispers following in their wake.
“Is that why you went to India?” she asked at last.
“Among other reasons.”
“And what did you do there?”
His laugh was low and bitter. “Nothing that would win me medals. The East India Company has its uses for men with my temperament and... flexible principles.”
“What sort of uses?”
“The kind that leave men dead and widows keening.” He met her gaze directly. “I told you, Marianne. I’m not a good man.”
“Good men rarely are as interesting.”
Despite himself, one corner of his mouth curved. “You have a perilous philosophy.”
“A practical one. Good men don’t defend merchants’ daughters from importunate lords. They don’t risk censure by dancing with unsuitable partners.” Her voice dropped. “And they don’t kiss women in conservatories as though the world were ending.”
His hand flexed at her waist. She could feel the memory between them—the heat, the hunger, the recklessness of that night.
“That should never have happened.”
“Yet it did.”
“It will not happen again.”
“Won’t it?”
