Page 27 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Shall I come to your room this evening?”

Charlotte’s foot came down on top of his and she stumbled. Her face must have turned bright red for heat seemed to burst from her cheeks. How dare the wretch propose such a thing in the middle of the drawing room? Of course that was his design. She could not upbraid him here without causing a scandal. Oh, yes, he was a rake through and through.

His strong arm steadied her and she shot him a scathing look. He grinned and winked at her, a most lecherous glint in his eyes. Well, she would put an end to those notions forthwith.

“You go too far, Mr. Garrett. I have neither given you permission to use my first name nor done anything to suggest I would be agreeable to such advances.”

“But my dear Charlotte, you most certainly have.” He grasped her hands and whirled her around. “That amorous interlude at Almack’s was all agreement, if I remember correctly.”

“You remember incorrectly, sir. I was not a willing partner in that bit of debauchery.”

“I recall you exactly, Charlotte. In my arms, pressed against me, my lips thrilling to the taste of you. I have wanted another taste for months.” He had pulled her close so those last words brushed her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “And I usually get what I want.”

They broke apart and the dance continued, although she moved mechanically through the rest of the steps. When at last he led her from the dance floor, she trembled in earnest and excused herself as quickly as she could.

She fled to the refreshment table once more, thankful for a moment’s respite to gather what remained of her wits. But oh, dear. Lord Wrotham appeared immediately to take possession of her, and the look on his face did not bode well for her. Naturally, he’d seen her little tête-à-tête with Mr. Garrett. The whole company had seen it unless they’d been struck blind. How could Lord Fernley have invited that rogue? She would have a few choice words for him shortly.

Lord Wrotham’s big, rough hand took hers, but instead of leading her back to the floor, he made his way to Elizabeth, speaking a word in her ear.

She laughed and nodded, then rearranged her sheets of music.

He pulled Charlotte onto the floor to stand in front of him. “I hope you will not be too scandalized by my request, my lady.” His eyes said he hoped she was, and a thrill ran from her head to her toes.

“I doubt you can shock me, my lord.” She raised her chin and stared straight into his coal-black eyes.

“We shall see.” He grasped her hands, the power in his a tangible thing. His touch spread delicious warmth throughout her body. They bowed and Elizabeth began a waltz.

Not exactly scandalous, yet a bold choice. The first figure moved easily, with little intimate contact. Then, in the second figure, his arms were supposed to embrace hers. Instead they reached all the way around her back until they touched. He pulled her closer to him, his lips pressed against her ear, and whispered, “And now, my lady? A waltz can be a scandalous dance if your partner is of a mind to make it so.” He pressed her tighter, almost indecently.

Yet she did not struggle. Could not. His big body against her—the hard strength of him leaving nothing for her to imagine—persuaded her that to fight him was futile. She would never be free. Never wanted to be.

They twirled in time to the music, yet the room faded until his face alone remained illuminated by the candlelight. “You never answered me, my lady.”

Had there been a question? She couldn’t remember.

He gazed into her face and leaned forward.

She stared, fascinated, as his lips drew near—

A discordant jangle stopped the music. She froze, then looked at Elizabeth, who hastily picked up the scattered sheets of music. “My pardon, ladies and gentlemen.” Her color high, she rose from the instrument and Georgina took her place and began a quick-paced mazurka.

Wrotham led Charlotte off the dance floor, and before she could protest, out the French windows to stand on the veranda.

She shook herself, trying to cool down in the slight chill of the evening breeze. Coming back to reality.

“Thank you for the dance, my lord.”

So much more than a dance. And a dangerous one at that, for in the few minutes of that waltz, everything else had ceased to exist: guests, music, ballroom. The man before her had been her whole world and she had reveled in it. Such a thing had never happened before.

Even now, the phantom touch of Wrotham’s arms embraced her, heating her to a fever pitch. An overwhelming desire arose to feel his lips on hers. Just once.

She looked up at him but couldn’t read his face in the faint light of the stars. Still, she understood his desires. His body had proclaimed them eagerly enough when they had danced. She’d been eager too, and now . . .

He stepped toward her, his eyes black and alive with passion. For her. She leaned forward—

Raucous laughter wafted through the French windows, wrenching her back to the present. Her guests required her attention. This was not the time. But soon . . .

Putting a hand out, she stumbled back and murmured in a shaky voice, “I must see to my other guests, my lord, if you will excuse me.”