“Good Lord, no. Not a bit of it, Grantham. I told her she was an angel, and deserved much better than me, then begged her to have me anyway, because I couldn’t live without her.”
“Well done, Basingstoke.” Montford nodded approvingly. “One thing a man in love knows how to do, Grantham, is beg. You may as well have Lady Emily, unless, of course, there’s another lady you love? A lady you can’t live without? A lady you’d fall to your knees for? I’d prefer to see you wed to a lady who can properly subdue you.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Why is that, Montford? Because you wish to curse me with your own fate?”
Montford grinned. “No. Because it’s far more amusing for me that way.”
“If there is such a lady, you’d better snatch her up, before someone else does. Oh, look. There’s Viscount Dunwitty, just coming into the ballroom.” Basingstoke nodded toward the doorway. “What appropriate timing. He appears to be searching for someone. Now, which young lady do you suppose has caught his eye, Grantham?”
Dunwitty stood in the archway, his arrogant gaze moving over the company like a king surveying his court—or like a marquess, at the very least. He was dressed in fashionable black pantaloons and a perfectly tailored coat, looking nauseatingly . . . golden.
“Oh, I can tell youthat, Basingstoke. Dunwitty’s looking for Miss St. Claire. He seems rather enamored of her, doesn’t he? But never mind him. Lady Emily is just on the other side of the ballroom.” Montford gave Max a nudge. “Why not ask her to dance, Grantham?”
He didn’t want to dance with Lady Emily. All he wanted, all he cared about, was Rose. It was past ten o’clock. She hadn’t yet made her appearance in the ballroom, and he was growing more agitated with every moment that passed. Every time he caught a glimpse of golden hair, he jerked his head toward the doorway.
He’d done it so many times, he’d gotten a crick in his neck.
Yet still, no Rose. What was keeping her? Francesca and Prue had stolen her away directly after dinner, and he hadn’t laid eyes on her since. It had only been a few hours, but it felt like an eternity.
It was driving him mad.
Since their interlude in the kitchens at Hammond Court, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her for a single instant. Her fingers in his hair, her soft laughter, her passionate kisses, and her breathlessness when she’d cried out for him. God, the way she’d cried out for him. Just the memory of his name on her lips made him hard. He’d spent every minute since then with a cock as stiff as a fireplace poker.
He’d sought her out everywhere today, hungry for even the barest glimpse of her—a flash of her green eyes, a fleeting glimpse of her smile. He strained to hear her voice when they were in the same room together, ached for the sound of her laugh.
The sleigh ride this morning had been pure torture. He hadn’t dared to ask her to share the two-seat sleigh with him. He’d somehow ended up with Lady Emily instead, but all the while he’d thought about how Rose had looked when they’d gone out yesterday, her cheeks pink from the cold, the golden length of her hair flying out behind her as they’d skimmed over the snow, the warm, curved length of her thigh pressed against his.
But as much as he wanted to be near her, he’d kept his distance. He couldn’t bear to be near her and not touch her, and God knew he couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t trust himself to lay a single finger on her without the desire smoldering in his belly flaring to feverish life, and sweeping all before it.
It was the most exquisite, delicate torment, but torment was torment, no matter how exquisite, and this was torment to a degree he’d never known before. The house party couldn’t end soon enough.
“Ah, there’s my lovely wife at last, and wearing the gown I favor.” Basingstoke was gazing at the entrance to the ballroom, his face alight with admiration. “A man can’t really complain about his wife lingering so long at her looking glass when the result of her efforts is so enchanting, can he?”
“You’ll not hear a single complaint from me. Prue looks ravishing, as always. She grows more beautiful every day.” Montford let out a yearning sigh, his gaze locked on his wife.
There’d been a time when Max would have mocked his friend mercilessly for such a lovelorn sigh as that. He would have claimed no matter how enamored he became of a lady, he’d never permit himself to become so besotted he couldn’t look at her without sighing, but now—
“There’s Miss St. Claire. My, she does look fetching tonight.” Montford turned to Max with a sly grin. “Don’t you think so, Grantham?”
“She’s a lovely young lady. Sweet tempered, as well.” Basingstoke glanced at Dunwitty. “I’d wager she can have the viscount for the asking if she wants him.”
Max whirled around, his heart vaulting into his throat. “Miss St. Claire? Where is she? I don’t see her.”
“She came in with Prue and Franny just now, but it looks as if she’s lingering outside the door. The lady is a bit shy, perhaps. This is her first ball, is it not? Ah, there she is.” Basingstoke let out a low whistle. “Very pretty, indeed. That shade of green suits her. Don’t you think so, Grantham?”
Max didn’t answer. Francesca, Prue, and Rose were gathered near the door, surveying the company, but he only had eyes for one of them.
Rose, every inch of her perfect, resplendent.
The chandeliers had all been lit in honor of the grandness of the occasion, and the candlelight from above shone down upon her as if it had singled her out for all its attention, setting her golden hair ablaze.
Max echoed Montford’s hungry sigh, albeit silently. She looked like a spring day, a cool, summer forest dappled with light, a sunrise.
She was wearing a green silk gown and a necklace with a single, tiny emerald draped around her graceful neck. The stone nestled into the hollow of her throat, dragging his attention to that tempting expanse of creamy, bare skin.
He’d kissed her there, touched his tongue to that tiny hollow, caressed her silky skin, and buried his fingers in the thick, golden mass of her hair.
She’d worn it up tonight, bound in a simple knot at the back of her neck, but a few golden curls had been left loose. They brushed her white shoulders, and he . . . good Lord, he was jealous of those curls, because they were touching her bare skin.
