“And as for that stiff-rumped, priggish, Duke of Restraint – did you understand my humour there, Simpson? – turning up in those tight black pantaloons and then having the effrontery to decline my invitation for a more private viewing – the hoity-toity, omnipotent hog-grubber!”
More rustling and thumping could be heard, but Rakecombe’s gaze was intent on the night-haired beauty before him, whose mirth-filled eyes first wandered over those same pantaloons and then lingeringly rose.
She licked her lips and he regretted wearing the tight-fitting apparel. Brummel’s blasted fault, and the arbiter of fashion was so deep in debt it was difficult to catch the fellow to complain. Indeed, he owed Rakecombe two hundred pounds.
“The duke asked me to dance, did you know that, Simpson?” Lady Gibbon continued.
“No, my lady.”
“Well, he did. A waltz. A very intimate waltz. And it’s not solely his arrogance that’s large, the puffed-up nodcock. And then he just collected that stupid cane and left. Left my ball!” she shrieked in crescendo.
“Yes, my lady.”
Aideen didn’t know where to place her eyes.
She couldn’t look down. But equally she couldn’t look up because deep within, something bad was happening.
It tickled her throat and she bit her lip.
But still it welled, and finally she decided upwards was the better option. Surely a blast of Rakecombe’s frigid stare would quell any amusement.
If His Grace had scowled sternly or ground his jaw in flinty castigation, all may have been well.
But he didn’t.
Despite portraying a study in stillness, a faint quirk rippled his lower lip and spinach eyes sparkled, softening his severe face. And in that moment, she realised something profound. Yes, Rakecombe was strait-laced and ruthless, but he was also sardonic and dry and could see the funny side of life, even though he chose to never show it.
In response, her own lips quivered, lacking his self-discipline, and before she knew what was happening, the merest squeak of laughter absconded.
Lady Gibbon was thankfully extolling the delights of an alternative gentleman’s snug pantaloons, water splashing, and so Aideen’s whimpers went unheard, but for how long?
Without warning, large hands covered her ears and her body was tugged forward, firm lips descending upon hers. Unstirring. They simply swallowed all sound, all breath. Intense warmth and inherent strength.
Shock erased the tickling in her throat, obliterated any laughter. His lips withdrew.
Palms still shielded her ears but other senses sharpened.
The fragrance of linen – clean, masculine and…dry.
The silk of his waistcoat caressing her skin.
The clenched jaw and penetrating eyes.
Those immodestly displayed thighs in tight pantaloons pressing against her skirts.
All amusement was forgotten and hands which had hung loosely to her side now rose to slide up his chest. And although she couldn’t hear voices, there was still one sound. The thud of a heart. Rapid and deep. The thud sped as she huddled against him and buried her nose in the expensive silk, breathing his scent.
Contentment flowed through her. An unfamiliar emotion, as most of the time she seemed to veer from anger to joy, never balanced. But for now, when neither of them could bandy words or drawl insults, she felt steadied. Secure.
Rakecombe, she suspected, was feeling anything but. His fingers began to caress the curls by her ear, and his breathing, she noticed, became laboured, chest heaving.
Why did they have this attraction?
She should be so far below his notice that he could tread on her and not detect a bump to his stride.
A door slammed, a sound she heard even through his broad palms.
For a time, neither stirred, until slowly his hands slid down to cup her chin, raising her head until their gazes met.
