Alathea turned to see the earl of Chillingworth emerging from the crowd. He swept her a necessarily abbreviated bow. "Such solace to discover a divine delight in this unholy crush." He sent a measuring glance Gabriel's way. "So nice to know one's evening won't be a complete waste of time."
Gabriel didn't respond.
Ignoring the burgeoning menace at her elbow, Alathea smiled and gave Chillingworth her hand. "I believe the musicians her ladyship has hired are quite exceptional."
"If only one could hear them," Chillingworth replied. "Are your sisters enjoying their Season?"
"Indeed. Our ball will be held next week-dare we hope you'll attend?"
"No other hostess," Chillingworth avowed, "will have any hope of enticing me elsewhere." His gray gaze roved Alathea's face, then settled on her eyes. "Tell me, have you seen the latest production at the Opera House?"
"Why, no. I had heard-" Alathea broke off as the sea of guests suddenly wavered, then parted. As the clamor of voices dimmed, the opening strains of a waltz filtered through.
"Ah." Chillingworth turned to her. "I wonder, my dear, if you would do me the honor-"
"I'm afraid, dear boy, that this waltz is mine."
Gabriel's languid drawl did nothing to conceal the steel beneath his words. Chillingworth looked up; over Alathea's head, gray eyes clashed with hazel. Turning, Alathea stared at Gabriel's face, noting the hard edge fell determination lent his features. Relinquishing Chillingworth's gaze, he met hers. "Shall we?"
He gestured to the rapidly clearing dance floor, then his arm shifted beneath her fingers and his hand closed about hers. His gaze flicked to Chillingworth. "His lordship will excuse us."
Giddy, slightly stunned by what she'd glimpsed in his hooded eyes, Alathea smiled apologetically at Chillingworth. The earl bowed easily. Without more ado, Gabriel led her forward. A second later she was in his arms, whirling down the floor.
It took a full circuit before she caught her breath. He was holding her too close again, but she wasn't going to waste what breath she had protesting that point. "I don't suppose there's any sense in pointing out that this waltz wasn't, in fact, yours to claim."
He met her gaze. "Not the slightest."
The look in his eyes stole her breath. She mustered her wilting temper for protection. "Indeed? So whenever you feel like waltzing, I'm to expect-"
"You misunderstand. Henceforth, all your waltzes are mine."
"All?"
"Every last one." He expertly twirled her around the end of the room; as they joined the long line going back up the ballroom, he continued, "You may dance any other dance with whomever you please, but you'll waltz only with me."
All inc
lination to argue, to protest, evaporated. Don't tempt me. He'd warned her once-the words were again in his eyes. They rang in her head. When she finally managed to draw in another breath, Alathea looked over his shoulder and tried to gather her wits and focus on his motives.
Only to fall victim to her senses, to the seductive shift and sway of their bodies, their long limbs twining, sliding, separating, then coming together again. He waltzed as he did all physical things-effortlessly, expertly, with an inherent grace that only emphasized the leashed power behind every move. He held her easily, his strength palpable, surrounding her, guiding her, protecting her.
She'd waltzed with others but none with his matchless authority, founded as it was in his knowledge, physical and sensual, of her. He knew she couldn't resist, that while in his arms she was helpless. That her heart beat unevenly, that her skin heated, that she would go wherever he led. He had her trapped in a web, one she had helped fashion, of passion, of yearning, of desire slaked by sensual reward. She was his and he knew it. What he meant to do with the knowledge, with her, remained an unsettling unknown.
The music ended and they slowed, then halted. She studied his face, the hard planes unyielding, uninformative, and inwardly sighed. "I should find Serena."
Releasing her, he placed her hand on his sleeve, and protectively steered her through the crowd.
The following evening, Alathea left her bedchamber once again in a tearing rush. Heading for her office, she flung the door wide and dashed for her desk. Sitting, she pulled a sheet of paper free, settling it on the blotter as she flicked open the inkwell.
"You wanted me, m'lady?"
"Yes, Folwell." Alathea didn't look up. Dipping a pen in the ink, she industriously scribbled. "I want you to deliver this note to Brook Street."
"To Mr. Cynster, m'lady?"
"Yes."
"Now, m'lady?"