Her irritation flared, sharp as the music’s beat. But was it his edict or his endearment that set her stubborn jaw rigid? Whatever it was, the realization was immediate—he’d said the wrong thing. “You underestimate me,” she bit out, no longer soft and compliant in his hold.
He leaned in. “Perhaps,” he said softly, his mouth so close to her ear she shivered, “you enjoy tempting fate more than is wise.”
Her retort never reached him. He felt the catch in her breath as clearly as the pressure of her fingers in his. He turned her neatly through the figures, his grip firm and steady and refusing to yield an inch. He was no fool.
He cared not if the company thought them flawless, a picture of grace. Or saw what he felt—that every step was a contest, every glance a clash of wills. And God help him, he relished the battle.
The quartet swelled, drawing them into another sweeping turn. Her bronze skirts brushed his legs, but it was her defiance that burned hotter than any bronze silken contact. He held her fast at the waist, unwilling to give her a single inch of victory. For the span of the music, she was his. His eyes never left hers, not for the whispering matrons, nor for the fluttering fans he knew were already raised against them.
She tilted her chin, pride stiffening her spine. “One day, Mr. Whitmore, you may thank me for meddling. Someone must keep that arrogance of yours in check.”
A dark satisfaction filled him, a challenge that promised fire if she dared fan it further. “I’m telling you,darling…you interfere tonight, you’ll undo us both. I needed your assistance to get through the door, and”—he softened his tone—“I thank you for that.”
The musicians struck the final chord. Applause rippled, polite, oblivious. Emerson slowed them with precise control, reining in both the music and the chaos swirling within him, ensuring her skirts scarcely whispered against his boots. He bowed with practiced courtesy, though he let his gaze burn, unguarded, into hers.
She curtsied, proud as any queen, though he saw the faint tremor she skillfully hid from the world. Around them, whispers pricked at the edges of his patience.
He straightened and glanced about the room to find ladies staring openly, fans snapping shut with scandalous delight. They were of no concern. Not to him. He offered his arm.
After a slight hesitation, defiance flickering in her eyes as though she would leave him to stand like a fool—the thought had him biting back a smile—at last she set her hand on his sleeve, lifting her chin with that maddening air of triumph that always left him wanting more.
He led her off the floor with the same calm precision he’d guided them through their waltz. His pulse still roared with the rhythm of the music, even while depositing her with her sister and the duchess. He bowed. “Ladies. Your Grace.” Emerson started to excuse himself, but halted just as Lady Huntley’s voice sounded in a hiss.
“Goodness, Rose. If you keep dancing like that, the whole of London will be in an uproar by morning.”
Emerson was hard-pressed not to break out in a gust of laughter. It was only because of the glare in Lady Stanford’s eyes that he managed to maintain his control. He bent his head to Rose, voice low enough for her alone. “We shall speak later.”
A shiver crossed her into him, though she tore her hand free. “If you can manage it without clapping me in irons first, Mr. Whitmore,” she said a little too loudly.
Lady Huntley gasped, and the Duchess of Ryleigh’s eyes widened, though it sounded as if she stifled laughter.
Emerson smiled at the two of them and leaned in again, barely restraining himself from touching his lips to her ear. He had the urge to drag her away that instant, to end this reckless charade before her stubbornness undid them both. “Privately,”he whispered. “I must be off. I’ve a monetary pledge to make,” he announced.
Thirty-Four
Emerson’s escape felt…narrow. And there was a burning sensation between his shoulders. It was sharp and searing. But he dared not look back. First, he had no yearning to see her disgust—then again, if it was fury… He glanced over his shoulder to see sparks shooting daggers at him.
“Emerson.” Ben’s quiet call jarred him from blatant stupidity.
The fact that Ben hadn’t ribbed him over the sensation Emerson and Rose had created on the dance floor—if Lady Huntley’s reaction was anything to worry over—had the hair rising on the back of his neck.
“What is it?” he asked, lowering his own voice.
“Collier and Gorman just arrived with Lampert. I’ve been watching them. They’ve yet to see me.”
Emerson’s gaze followed Ben’s, and he spotted the three upstarts across the ballroom. The mirrors were extremely helpful. What he saw did not please him.
Rose was slipping from the ballroom, away from her family, and making her way to the doors and out.
“Damn,” he said under his breath. “Where the devil does she think she’s going?”
“Er, the retiring room? Truly, Emerson. Get a hold of yourself. It’s downstairs, you dolt.”
“Oh.”Right.Still, he didn’t quite trust her. Worse, Collier closely followed. “Where’s the card room?”
“Down the hall,” Ben said.
“I’ll return soon. Keep an eye on Gorman,” Emerson said. He followed the tilt of her head, the purposeful sway of her skirts into the foyer—the bronze a shining beacon. Yes, down the staircase, toward the retiring room, just as Ben had said. But he didn’t like it. Not one whit. The thorny Rose he knewnever vanished without mischief at her heels, and with Collier prowling nearby, he trusted her destination about as much as he trusted Collier’s smile.
