Sarani did not have to turn. She felt his presence like a palpable force. A wash of goose pimples spread across her skin, the fine hairs of her neck lifting in instant response.
“The Duke of Embry,” the majordomo intoned.
All at once, the chatter died as every lady with a pulse, even the married ones, smoothed her dress and patted her coiffure. Sarani forced herself to remain still, even when she felt the duchess’s gaze flick coldly toward her. Sensing Rhystan’s approach, she turned slowly, her blood thickening to molasses in her veins at the breathtaking sight of him dressed in raven black from head to toe.
Sweet merciful heavens, he was sin on a stick. Her hitherto dry mouth watered indelicately.
“Duchess.” He greeted his mother with a quick nod of his head and then turned to her. “Lady Sara,” he said, his deep voice washing over her as he lifted her gloved hand and kissed it. “How lovely you are.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she mumbled with a curtsy, the whole of him assaulting her shaky senses on every level. Sight, smell, hearing, touch. The only thing missing was taste. Her traitorous tongue darted out to wet her lips.
His gaze slid there, a smirk forming as if he knew exactly the effect he had on her.
Could he sense that she wanted to do unspeakable things to him? That she wanted to claim that sinful mouth without a care for decorum like the heathen she was accused of being? Releasing a ragged breath, she pinned her tingling lips between her teeth, and his smirk widened. And now, her cheeks were positively on fire.
She cleared her throat. “You are, too. Lovely. Er, handsome. Drat, you know what I mean. You look well.”
Gracious, she was a lackwit. Queen of the Lackwits.
He smiled as the musical strains of a new set began and offered her his right arm. “Will you dance?”
Sarani hoped her knees would not fail her. “I am yours to command, Your Grace.”
* * *
Rhystan was well aware he was causing a scene by ignoring everyone else, given the glowers coming from the thin-lipped visage of his mother. Yet even she wasn’t aware of just how close he’d come to throwing propriety to the wind, flinging Sarani over his shoulder, and hauling her from the room like a Neanderthal at her husky, provocative reply.
I am yours to command.
Did the minx know what she was doing to him? The flash of unguarded pleasure and then the unhidden hunger in her gaze as he’d greeted her had nearly brought him to his knees. And then, the likely innocent response that had lewd fantasies of him commanding her elsewhere—in bed and without clothing—had sent his brain into a frenzy of lust.
Rhystan knew he was practically dragging her to the ballroom floor, but he did not care. He needed her in his arms. From the moment he’d set his eyes on her, his body had leaped to attention, but something within him had also settled.
It was a kind of calm a ship would see in the middle of a hurricane.
He’d been drawn to her the moment he’d entered the crowded ballroom—gleaming like a vibrant lotus flower in a garden of lackluster blooms. His eyes had narrowed when he’d seen her in the company of his mother, but she had not been intimidated, not his tigress. Her spine had been ramrod straight, her shoulders back as she took a simpering debutante to task. He didn’t have to hear the exchange. From the look on the other girl’s face, Sarani hadn’t been cowed in the least.
He knew he had been absenting himself from her too much. The situation with the ducal estates was grimmer than he’d expected, and according to Longacre’s projections, it would take a ludicrous amount of money to make them financially stable. Money, which he had, thanks to his many investments, but it wasn’t a quick or easy fix, which meant he would have to be in London much longer than he had anticipated.
But now, he didn’t want to think about the estate or its solvency.
He wanted to think about the woman in his arms and the strange sense of well-being that had slid through the marrow of his bones, tethering him to her. Everything else had fallen away—his mother, her schemes, Longacre, his financial burdens…all of it.
There was only Sarani.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he guided her into place for the waltz.
A blush stained her cheeks. “Thank you.”
Her gown—it had to be new—was a bold topaz color that made her changeling eyes lean toward brownish-gold and her cheeks glow. It was fashioned in the current style with an embroidered bodice that left the tops of her elegant shoulders tantalizingly bare, hugged the length of her torso to her waist, and then flared out in a bell shape to the floor. Long ivory gloves, matching the blond lace accents on the dress, covered her from fingertips to upper arms.
She looked magnificent, outshining every other female in attendance.
A princess among peasants.
Rhystan wanted to trace his mouth along those elegant collarbones, scrape his teeth along that beautiful expanse of honey-rich skin, and mark her in the most carnal of ways so that everyone there would know she belonged to him.
She’s not yours.
The thought was a harsh reminder of the game he was playing—that they were both playing. They weren’t true intendeds. They weren’t even friends. They were temporary allies, and she was a means to an end. But that reasoning didn’t negate the fact that it felt like the first time he’d been able to breathe in days as though she were his very air.
He tensed, waiting for the familiar resentment to rise, but it wasn’t there.
His gloved palm tightened against her trim waist as they twirled into the first rotation. His swift pivot brought her upper body within inches of his, the crinoline beneath her skirts crashing into his hips. She gasped, her fingers clutching for purchase on his shoulder, and he grinned at her vexed expression.
“Stop that,” she hissed. “Everyone’s watching, and your mother’s glare might set fire to the entire ballroom. I’m already objectionable in her eyes. She’ll think I can’t dance.”
“If anyone can’t dance, it’s me,” he joked. “I’ve practically forgotten how.”
She huffed a small laugh. “I seem to recall you acquitting yourself quite well in the palace several years ago. What you lacked in confidence, you certainly had in skill.”
Her eyes widened as though she hadn’t meant to bring up the past, but for the first time in years, the thought of them in Joor did not gut him. He remembered his scattered thoughts and the challenge in her stare when she’d reprimanded him for not asking her to dance.
“I was too busy trying to count the measure in my head so as not to brutalize your royal toes,” he said easily. “I wanted so terribly to impress you.”
Her eyes dipped for a moment and then raised back to his, her reply so soft he almost missed it. “You succeeded.”