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And he would, in another moment, but first he’d taste the skin of her throat and neck once more, and … dear God, he’d never seen collarbones as perfect as hers. He brushed a fingertip over one, his gaze darting to her face when she gave an involuntary shiver.
He traced her other collarbone then dipped lower, his fingertips drifting over the satiny skin between her breasts, his eyes closing at the warmth of her, the softness. He’d been with other ladies, but nothing compared to her.
It was as if she had been created for him alone.
But she wasn’t his. Not yet, and so with a restraint that should have qualified him for sainthood, he set her gently away from him.
“Mr. Ambrose?” She swayed toward him, her lovely blue eyes hazy with desire, and he was obliged to clench his hands into fists to stop himself from snatching her right back into his arms.
But if he did, he’d never let her go.
“Gabriel.” He brushed golden strands of hair from her cheek, smiling down at her as he tucked it behind her ear. “Gabriel Christopher Ambrose.”
Soon, he’d tell her his full name. He’d tell her everything.
Soon, but not quite yet.
“Gabriel.” She rolled the name on her tongue, tasting it. “It suits you.”
“Hmmm.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Will you dance with me tonight, Stella?”
“At the ball?” Her face dimmed. “There’s nothing I would love more than to dance with you, but I can’t possibly attend the ball. Lady Featherstone—”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Not at the ball. In the conservatory, this evening. Will you come to me here as soon as you’re at liberty? Please, Stella?”
He was meant to dance the first dance with the lady he’d chosen as his duchess. He’d chosen her. She would be his duchess, and no other lady would take her place tonight.
“Yes.” She smiled at him. “I’ll dance with you.”
“Tonight, then.” He didn’t trust himself anywhere near her lips, so he pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead. “Until then.”
He’d confess the truth to her tonight. All of it. His name, his title, everything.
If all went well …
His first dance, and every dance from this moment on, would be hers.
Stella skipped up the stairs as if she were walking on air.
Tonight, she would dance with Mr. Ambrose, and—
No, not Mr. Ambrose, but Gabriel, like the angel. It was an extravagantly romantic thought, but if a lady couldn’t be extravagantly romantic when she was in love, when could she?
She could deny it no longer. She was in love with Gabriel Christopher Ambrose.
The guests were still playing charades when she passed the drawing room, and there was no sign of Phillippa or Stella’s stepsisters in their bedchamber, so she drifted up to her attic room, dozens of delightful thoughts unfolding in her head as she made her way down the corridor.
If only she had a proper gown to wear tonight! One that would billow around her in a graceful arc as Gabriel led her through a dance—
“Well, Estella, here you are at last. I’ve been waiting for you for an age.”
“Phillippa.” Stella stumbled to a stop, her heart leaping into her throat. What in the world was Phillippa doing, lying in wait outside her bedchamber door?
“You’re a clever girl, Estella.” Phillippa eyed her calmly, as if her sudden appearance in the servants’ quarters was the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t deny it. But you’re not as clever as you think you are.”
Stella lifted her chin. She knew better than to challenge Phillippa. She’d learned that lesson mere days after her father’s death. He hadn’t yet been cold in his grave before she was ordered from her bedchamber in the family wing to a bare, chilly room set deep among the rafters, far away from the rest of the family. All her pretty gowns and shoes had been taken from her and replaced with a coarse linen pinafore.
Overnight, she’d gone from being her father’s beloved daughter to a servant in her own home. Since then, she’d become a master at holding her tongue.
