She nearly swooned into his arms.
“Have you missed me?” he asked.
“Oh God yes,” she answered before she could prevent herself, and then blushed violently as he grinned. She opened her fan with such vehemence that its concealed blades dropped to the floor with a clatter. She began to employ it with the vigor of one whose nostrils (or in this case, hormones) are ablaze, but to no discernible effect other thansending a breeze through Ned’s hair. One strand slid over his forehead and Cecilia’s internal heat grew so intense she gave up on the fan and reached for a glass of lemonade instead.
A long, unladylike gulp informed her too late that the cordial had been mixed with wine. She hastily set down the glass and, anticipating a dreadful headache, retrieved the cocaine pill from her purse. She swallowed it without further hesitation, sipping alcoholic lemonade by necessity to wash it down. Then she turned to favor Captain Lightbourne with a censorious glare.
He appeared to be standing next to the specters of Signor de Luca and Teddy Luxe, but when she blinked he resolved into one, slightly blurry, figure. “While I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor,” she said coolly, “I believe myself to be literate enough without any service you may provide. Thank you and have a good Easter. Er, evening. Where did I put my fan?” She opened her fan to fan herself while futilely searching purse, table, and floor for the fan.
“Dance with me,” Ned whispered, stroking a gloved finger down the bare skin of her upper back.
She shrugged him away. “The music has stopped.”
“It’s going to start again. I’ve put in a special request with the band.”
He took the fan from her and tossed it over his shoulder, where it fell into a grand display of roses. Then he held out a hand, and Cecilia’s good manners (or inebriation) saw her taking it before she even knew what she was doing. Almost immediately she tried to relinquish her grip, but he had her now and would not let her go.
“Very well,” she relented. “One dance. But this is most impertinent of you, Captain Lightbourne. We have said our farewells.”
“You said farewell,” he countered as he led her toward the dance area. Behind them, the roses exploded into a shower of smoke andpetals, sending bystanders scattering with screams and horrified gasps. “I saidalla prossima. That’s Italian for ‘until next time.’”
“Oh, if you are going to speak Italian at me, what hope do I have?”
He smiled and, tugging gently on her hand, turned her toward him. He caught her waist with his free hand, shifted his other hand so their gloved palms lay together. “No hope at all, Miss Bassingthwaite,” he said cheerfully, and as music filled the room again he drew her even closer.
“A waltz!” she gasped. “It is too decadent.”
“Maybe seventy years ago. And you are not so old as that, my dear,” he added, looking appreciatively at her décolletage. He moved his left foot forward and Cecilia moved her right back in self-defense. Before she was conscious of it, they were gliding around the floor.
“You are a scoundrel,” she whispered furiously.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m thinking of starting a Society of Gentlemen Scoundrels.”
“You’re millennia too late. It already exists and is called the patriarchy.”
He laughed. “Touché. Alas, I will never best you in conversation, will I?”
“No.”
“Although I have rendered you wordless several times now, and that’s even more satisfying.”
She stared at him aghast.
“And I see I’ve done it again. Yes, very satisfying indeed.” He grinned, and as he lifted their hands she spun away beneath his arm and returned. He slipped his hand around her waist again and she tried not to shiver. Summoning her wits, she demanded from them a suitably acerbic comment—
But her wits had dressed themselves in pink sparkling tulle and danced away with their eyes closed, their faces turned up to the starrychandeliers, blissfully ignoring her. Cecilia was left mute (and a little dizzy).
Ned was a magnificent dancer. Lithe and confident, he held her with a firmness that made her feel delicate in his arms. But she was not delicate, she reminded herself. She could kill him with one swift movement should she choose.
And yet—the intoxicating lemonade, or the intoxicating gorgeousness of the occasion, convinced her for once to let go, to let herself feel—to surrender in this dreaming moment to the handsome, seductive, and altogether dangerous man who led her in the dance. She closed her eyes and joined her wits in bliss, waltzing the night to freedom.
“While I have you quiet,” Ned murmured, “I must make a confession.”
“No, don’t talk,” she whispered. “You’ll ruin everything.”
He dipped her, and when she came up, her mind full of stars, he sighed. “I must, I’m afraid. Forgive me, Cecilia, but I’ve stolen Pleasance.”
She opened her eyes, the dream wavering. “I beg your pardon?”
