“Won’t you dance with me?” she asked.
***
Marcus looked at her—all of her: the shatteringly beautiful face with its pale gold halo, the gown, vividly blue against the snowy purity of her skin, and the sinuous curves it clung to and caressed. He thought, What’s the use?
He also thought, No, not again.
He said, his voice strained, “I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Oh,” she said. Her lashes lowered, her mouth turned down a fraction, and she was turning away.
His heart ached, his fool heart, and his fool hand wanted to touch her, bring her back. He kept his hands by his sides. “I mean yes,” he said hoarsely. “Of course I mean yes.”
Of course, he thought, as her blue gaze swept up to his. Of course he wanted her. How could he help it? How could he let her turn away?
The music started up. Last night, he had scarcely touched her, yet he’d felt the jolt and the current pulsing between them. But last night he’d been tired and vulnerable, he told himself.
He brought his hand to her waist... and the shock of contact darted through his nerve endings. She gave a tiny gasp, and stiffened... shocked, too.
“Too late now,” he said under his breath. One over warm gloved hand firmly clasping her waist, the other tingling against her gloved palm, he whirled her into the dance.
It seemed as though every eye in the ballroom was fixed on them. And why not? This was the first waltz of the evening, and he of all men had won the privilege of partnering her. How shocked they’d all be if they knew Christina Travers had broken the rules and asked him.
“Why did you ask me?” he said.
“Because you forgot to ask me.”
“I see. Every other man in the place has fallen victim to your snares. Now your conquest is complete.”
He spun her into a turn that brought her thigh against his and made the silk gown ripple about his legs. He thought of soft thighs pressing against his and of the rustle of sheets. His breath quickened and his grip of her waist tightened.
“Marcus,” she gasped.
He looked down. Her face was pink. “What is it?”
“You are driving the whalebone into my back.”
“Whalebone?”
“My stays,” she hissed, flushing more deeply.
Of all things, she had to remind him of her undergarments. Reluctantly he eased his hold. “What the devil do you want with a corset? You scarcely even dressed.”
He gazed down at the creamy expanse of bosom offered to his view—and that of every other male in the ballroom. “By my calculations, you took three hours, only to come out half-naked.”
Her head went up. “I am not half-naked. And I did not take three hours. Only two. And a half. Stop looking at me that way. You’ll make everyone stare.”
“If you didn’t want people to stare, you should have put on the rest of your gown.”
“Oh, very well,” she said. “Look if you must.”
“Of course I must. There is that great diamond, like a tavern sign, demanding my attention.”
“Yes, Marcus,” she said patiently. “I wore it on purpose to vex you.”
He was vexed—not by the diamond but by the circumstances. Waltzing was very much like making love to music, but not enough like.
He wished her low voice didn’t beckon so irresistibly. He wished he didn’t find her combative retorts so adorable. Above all he wished that he hadn’t found the woman of twenty-eight so very much more exciting and desirable than the girl of eighteen.
He drew her closer.
“I thought we were supposed to keep twelve inches apart,” she said breathlessly.
“I’m too old and set in my ways to start following such stupid rules now,” he said, also painfully short of breath. But then, waltzing wasn’t the mildest of exercises.
She, too, was growing overheated. Her face was flushed, and there were traces of moisture at her temples. A strand of silky hair was coming loose near her left ear. It was making him desperate.
He drew her into another turn, steering her to a doorway, then through it, to the dimly lit hall that led to the backstairs.
“I think we’d better talk,” he said. He let go of her waist and, taking her by the hand, led her into the shadows. He was aware of her body tensing in resistance, though she didn’t try to break away.
“I suppose, because I asked you to dance, you’ve leapt to certain conclusions,” she said, a shade of belligerence in her voice.
“Yes,” he said.
“I suppose as well that you think my gown constitutes a deliberate provocation.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I don’t see why I must dress like a dowd or obey every persnickety rule of behavior to please you,” she said.
He bit back a smile. “But you aren’t trying to please me,” he said.
“Certainly not.”
“You’re trying to drive me distracted.”
“I’m not trying to do anything.”
“And you’ve succeeded.” He brushed the way-ward strand of hair back with his thumb. She trembled.
“I suppose you think I’m going to kiss you now,” he said. “I suppose you think you’re irresistible.”
“I suppose you think you are,” she said.
“I must be. You couldn’t keep away.”
“I did not drag you into a dark hallway.”
“I didn’t drag you.”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“Must you always have the last word?” he asked impatiently. “Will you not give one inch?”
After a moment’s consideration, she let out a sigh. “Very well,” she said. “Kiss me if you must. You might as well get it out of your system.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you insist.”
Still holding her hand, he bent toward her. Her head tilted back ever so slightly, ever so reluctantly. Her fingers tightened on his and that small pressure vibrated through him... a pulsing current, irresistible.
He bent closer. A bre
ath away from her lips he paused, his heart hammering. He remembered vividly the aching loss, the grief and rage... weeks, months of it. But he also remembered the sweetness and tender yielding of the kisses he had stolen long ago.
His lips touched hers and there was a shock, sharp and sweet at once, and softness, too, so familiar... and the piercing ache of yearning. It was the yearning that made his arms slip round her to gather her close, and kiss her long and deeply... as he’d never dared to do all those years ago.
But it was different now. Christina was no longer a naive young girl, easily frightened by desire. Her mouth parted to his coaxing tongue and she melted against him, answering his erotic summons with a woman’s tender passion.
She was as warm in his arms as homecoming, warm as love and belonging. Yet this was no safe hearth, either, he speedily discovered, for her warmth fueled his need, and the fire built swiftly.
Her firm breasts pressed against the wool of his coat, but it wasn’t enough. His hands moved over her back, pressing her nearer, but still not close enough, for this was gloves on silk, and he wanted flesh on flesh. His hands moved to the base of her spine, to the sweet curve of her hips. She was near enough to be aware of his aching arousal. He wanted her closer still, wanted to crush her to him, but that would only make matters worse. He was already losing control.
He released her mouth. He meant to release her altogether, but the instant she began to pull away, his hands fastened on her waist.
“You can’t go back now,” he said thickly. “You’re all... mussed.” Delectably mussed. Her neat coiffure was tumbling undone, her gown was tantalizingly rumpled, and her breath was coming in quick gasps. He thought about how much more tousled and heated he might make her, and his own breathing grew more labored. He tugged her closer. She stiffened, resisting.
“Don’t tease, Christina,” he said. “I only want another kiss.”
“No,” she said. “I gave you the inch you wanted, and you took ten miles. Then you have the audacity to tell me I’m mussed—as though I did it myself— on purpose to vex you, I suppose.”