That made her want to swoon.
Lord Chilton extended his arm to her once more. “We have been gone for too long, my lady. I dare not risk anything more than one kiss beneath the mistletoe. I daresay it was enough.”
Viscount Chilton was right about that. Their stolen kiss had been enough.
Enough to prove to her there was only one man she wanted to kiss. And it was not Lord Chilton.
Oh dear heavens.What was she to do now?
Everything within Bladecried out the need for his fist to connect with Lord Chilton’s face. He had failed to note the moment the dark-haired lord had led Lady Felicity from the ballroom. But he spied the instant they returned. Chilton looked pleased with himself.
The bastard had been alone with her.
Blade’s feet were moving, carrying him across the polished parquet. He was a bullet shot from a gun, hurtling toward his intended target. Mindless. Determined to do damage.
He neared the couple, and Lady Felicity’s eyes widened as she took him in. Likely, his face suggested he was about to tear off one of Chilton’s arms and beat him with it. He wanted to do that. But something stopped him.
An instinct he had not realized he possessed.
It told him he could not settle this matter as he would in the rookery.
And it told him how desperately he wanted this woman. More than he wanted his next breath. Because he was about to be…
Civilized.
He bowed rather than brawling. “Lady Felicity. Lord Chilton.”
Though the viscount’s gaze narrowed upon Blade, he had no choice but to play the gentleman and bow in response. “Mr. Winter.”
Lady Felicity dipped into a perfect curtsy. Her lips had that dark-berry stain that told him she had just been kissed.Fucking hell.Instead of the outrage he had expected to feel, the queer sensation overwhelming him was disappointment.
Hurt.
Pain.
What the devil?
“I believe the next dance is mine,” he said, as if he had not a care.
As if he were a nib. As if he always invited ladies to dance. As if he had bloodydancedbefore. As if he did not want to hang Chilton with his own cravat.
As if he did not also wish to inform Lord Chilton that not only was the next dance with Lady Felicity his, but the woman herself was as well. Which he longed to say, although it was not true. She could never be his. They were too different, their worlds disparate. She needed a husband to fulfill her obligation to her family and sisters. He did not want to marry.
Chilton said something Blade’s overburdened mind refused to hear. All that mattered was the lord went away. And he was leading Lady Felicity to the dance floor and Christ help him, but the song was a minuet. He was going to have to prance. And try not to trip either himself or Lady Felicity.
“You know quite well this dance is not yours,” she murmured as they took up their positions.
“It is now,” he informed her, leaning too near to her ear for propriety’s sake and not near enough for his own.
Jasmine, fragrant and lilting, wafted to him.
The dance began in truth, and they faced each other in the fashion of prizefighters squaring off. He felt ridiculous. This was surely the most spoony notion he had ever entertained. They moved, their gazes holding. Strangely, his feet knew what to do. The cursory lessons he had taken returned to him.
What was he doing? Why was he dancing with her? Why were her hazel eyes burning into his? Their hands linked, and they spun nearer each other as the song played on.
“You surprise me,” she said softly so their fellow dancers could not overhear.
He surprised himself, but he was not about to admit it.
