“I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying proper attention.”
“Not at all, Lord Fairmont. It was my error. I turned the wrong way. Again.” She looked up at him, a sheepish grin on her lips. “The waltz is more dangerous than I imagined.”
“I, ah, think it’s generally considered safe enough.” Why was he still holding her against his chest? She was perfectly steady now.
“Are you implying, Lord Fairmont, that I’m the only lady in England clumsy enough to concuss herself during a waltz?”
“Certainly not. I’d never imply such a thing. I’d say it aloud.” He gazed down at her, grinning like a fool, when the proper thing to do would be to release her, at once.
Releaseher, for God’s sake.
But that wasn’t what he did. Instead, he gazed down into her startled blue eyes, an odd hitch in his breath.
She was wearing another one of her seemingly endless supply of somber gowns this morning— this one a dull, dark green, but somehow, he still couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. With her flushed cheeks, and the wisps of hair that had escaped her severe bun curling around her face, she was more beautiful to him than ever.
There was no reason she should be. No reason at all that those wispy curls should fascinate him, but all at once his skin felt too tight for his body, and his lower belly bottomed out in the way it did right before…
Oh, no. His cock was choosingnowto make its presence known? It was the rudest organ imaginable.
He released her and took a step back, but she was still rubbing her temple, and without thinking, he brushed her hand aside with gentle fingertips. Surely, he wasn’t such a savage he couldn’t control himself for long enough to make certain she wasn’t hurt?
“Does it hurt still? Here, come closer to the window, into the light.”
“It’s a little tender.” She let out a nervous laugh as he led her toward the window. “You have hard elbows, Lord Fairmont.”
And an even harder cock, but God it was making enough of a nuisance of itself without his dwelling on it.
“Let me see.” He swept the wispy curls aside and leaned closer. Her temple looked a little red, but it wasn’t swelling, so?—
Wait, were those little gold flecks in her eyes? Or was he imagining them?
He wasn’t. There was a ring of gold flecks surrounding her pupils in a most enchanting starburst pattern, like dappled sunlight on dark blue water.
“Is it very bad, my lord?”
He sucked in a quick breath to steady himself, but she was so close, her sweet pink mouth just a breath away from his. “No, but it looks a little red. Are you dizzy at all?”
“I-I don’t think so, no.” Her whisper was shaky, her blue eyes wide, but she didn’t move away.
He had no reason to keep touching her— no right to touch her at all —but his hands were sliding up her arms to her shoulders, his palms cupping the soft, warm skin of her neck. “Euphemia.”
“Yes?” She swallowed.
He swept his fingers over her throat to feel the movement, then brushed his lips over the red mark on her temple. “Does this hurt?”
She drew in an unsteady breath. “No.”
He traced her jaw, then tipped her face up to his with a finger under her chin. He waited for one breath, two, to give her a chance to pull away, but she only gazed up at him, her blue eyes soft, and her lips parted.
Just like that, he was lost.
His aunt, his sister, Lady Upton’s ball, the waltz… it all faded away. Time narrowed and contracted until there was just the two of them, her face tipped up to his, their breath mingling.
“And this?” He pressed his lips to her forehead again, lingering this time, his lips parted now, and his heart pounding at the sensation of her smooth skin against his tongue. “Does this hurt?”
She moved her hands to his chest and he stiffened. If she pushed him away, he’d release her at once. He wouldn’t frighten her for the world.
But she only rested her hands against him, her palms flat against his waistcoat. “No. Your, ah… your lips are soft. Much softer than I imagined.”
