Page 53 of The Courtship Dance

Francesca smiled and squeezed his arm a little. “As do you, I imagine.”

He glanced at her and allowed a small smile. “You are right, of course. I had thought that I had become accustomed to her absence when she was staying with you, but I discovered that it is quite a different feeling when one knows that she is not returning after a month or two. I have to be glad for her, for I know she is happy with Bromwell, but I cannot help but wish that his estates were not so far as Yorkshire.”

“At least Marcastle is much nearer there,” Francesca put in consolingly.

“Yes. No doubt we shall visit more when I am back home.”

Francesca could not keep from feeling a pang of loneliness, thinking that then she would be here quite alone. It took her a moment to realize that she was being nonsensical—she was rarely alone in London, even when the Season was over. Besides, given the threat that loomed before her with Mr. Perkins, it was all too likely that she would not be in London at all, but immured at Redfields.

Determinedly, she steered the conversation in a new direction as they entered the ballroom. “I thought that you might have a Midsummer’s Night Eve party—what do you think? We could have it on that date and make the place appear a fairyland. Cranston thought that it could be done in time. We can have lots of greenery and, amidst all that, white flowers of every sort.”

She went on happily describing the wonders that could be done with net and tulle sprinkled with silver sequins and draped in swags across the ceiling to catch the lights. After a few minutes, she stopped and arched an eyebrow at him.

“I am boring you to tears, am I not?” she asked with a sigh.

“Not at all. I could not be more transported,” he assured her, one side of his mouth quirking up in a grin.

“Liar,” she told him without heat.

He chuckled. “I am sure it will be delightful. Everyone will be dazzled. They will dance away the night and go home declaring that no one can entertain like Lady Haughston.”

“But it will be your party, not mine,” she pointed out.

“I think all and sundry will be aware that mine was not the genius behind it. Such elegance and whimsy could only be yours. Will you come as Titania—a vision in white and silver?”

Francesca’s eyes sparkled. “There’s an idea. Perhaps we should make it a fancy-dress ball.”

He let out a groan. “No, please, not that. Aunt Odelia’s fancy-dress ball was more than enough for one year.”

“You did not even come in costume!” she protested. “It could not have been so hard.”

“No, but I was plagued to death to do so, which is perhaps worse.”

Francesca shook her head at him, smiling. They had been strolling around the large room as they talked, but he stopped now and turned to look at her. She raised her eyes questioningly, not sure what he was doing.

“You must save the first dance for me,” he told her.

Under his gaze, she felt suddenly, strangely shy. She shook her head. “But I must oversee the arrangements—make sure everything runs smoothly. I won’t have time for dancing.”

“Nonsense. That is what Cranston will be doing. You will open the dancing with me.”

She looked up into his face. There was something in his dark eyes that made her breathless. “But surely…one of the young ladies—Lady Mary, for instance—should have the honor.”

“No,” he replied. “Only you.”

He surprised her by taking her hand and sweeping her out onto the floor, humming a waltz. Francesca laughed and fell into the easy rhythm of the dance, and they whirled around the room. It might have been daylight, and the grand room utterly empty of any decoration, but it felt for a few moments quite magical to her.

She was very aware of the hard muscle of his arm beneath her hand, of his long, supple fingers at her waist, guiding her subtly. Finally he stopped, and for a long moment they simply stood there gazing at each other, her hand still in his, his hand still at her waist. Though they had not danced long, his breathing was visibly harder, his chest rising and falling. His eyes glowed with a dark light. Francesca could feel the sudden surge of heat in his hands, and his mouth softened. He leaned closer.

She knew that he was about to kiss her, knew that she should move away. Instead, she closed her eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THEN HIS LIPS were on hers, soft and seeking. His hands did not move from the position they had been in as they danced. He did not pull her against him or touch her anywhere else. Only his lips spoke for him, sweetly, yearningly kissing hers—entreating, teasing, tempting her.

Francesca trembled. She wanted to go up on tiptoe and throw her arms around his neck. She ached to hold on to him and kiss him, to press her body into his. She wanted to throw everything else aside—all caution, all sense—and indulge herself. To forget that he was on the verge of making an offer for another woman. To ignore her past and not think about where this kiss could lead.

But if she could not bring herself to pull away, neither could she allow herself to move forward. She simply lived in the moment, fragile and sweetly aching, drinking in the pleasure of his mouth.