“Oh?” Smiling, a teasing light in her eyes, Lady Frances lightly fanned her chest. “What wouldyousay is a lady’s most interesting attribute, my lord?”
“Her personality, of course.”
She laughed, as though that was a great joke. It was—he’d said it as though it was. Andpersonalitywas a pathetic word anyway, a lame attempt to describe the indefinable.
Spirit. Essence. Soul.
There was a scent and a sound to a person. There was the way they moved and the music of their voice. There was every expression and response and glance. There were a hundred small things to drive you mad. Light you up. Linger in the night, the echo of a hand on your chest, over your heart.
He glanced down the line. His uncle winked.
When the dance began, Mrs Ardingly passed him one, two, three times. Twice, she did not meet his eyes. Once, she looked up with tears shining, forcibly blinked back.
He would kill him.
He would kill Jonathan Tait.
The world would hardly blame him.
When the dance concluded, Mrs Ardingly hurried away. Sebastian excused himself, pretending not to notice Lady Frances’s mocking smile. He had no time for it. He would fix it later. Right now he kept the glimpse of blue and white in sight as Mrs Ardingly hurried away through the crowd.
He followed her out of the ballroom, his distance discreet.
There was a long corridor beyond, brightly lit, many people milling about, coming or going to the card room. Mrs Ardingly rounded a distant corner and continued on. He excused himself to the people greeting him and walked carefully after her.
Another corridor. A picture gallery. The lights low, the room deserted. Still she carried on, not looking back. She didn’t know he was there.
Finally, he chased her to earth. She’d come to a stop in a small room, lit only by moonlight. A study of some kind, fromthe desks and papers strewn about. He paid them no heed. She turned with a gasp as she heard his step.
“Madelaine…”
“Don’t call me that.”
“No? Not when I ask you to call me Sebastian?”
“Don’t.” She turned back to the window. “Not now.”
He stopped one step behind her. The curve of bare skin at the back of her dress was pale as parchment in the moonlight. “I’m sorry for my uncle. What did he do to you?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. A small, tight movement. “Nothing of note. It was only…only his manner. Him knowing that I hate him and that I couldn’t refuse the dance, not without making a scene. That is what I hate. I hate beingforced. I hate beingpressured. I hate being unable to say no.”
She was talking about much more than his uncle.
“Am I pressuring you?”
“Yes!”
“How?”
She let out a long breath but didn’t answer.
“All I’ve done is talk to you. All I’ve done is acknowledge that there is something…some feeling between us.”
“That’s enough.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper. “Just your presence is enough.”
Slowly, he closed the last step between them. Though they did not yet touch, she must have been able to feel him a scant inch behind her back. Her shoulders tensed, her breath stilled. But though she gasped when he touched her bare shoulder, she didn’t pull away.
Instead she let out a long breath, shoulders dropping.
