Inch by inch, he drew her closer. She felt the press of his thigh against hers. Heat sizzled through her—and it wasn’t because of the dancing. She felt breathless—and it wasn’t because of the dancing.
Every inch of her was aware of him. The heat of his body, the powerful arms, his hand on her waist, his bare thighs beneath the short tunic. She clung to him, allowing herself to simply twirl and spin to the music as he willed it. She felt almost dizzy and yet sharply, gloriously alive.
“And they say the waltz is a scandalous dance,” he murmured. “Such nonsense.”
She glanced up at him. Didn’t he feel it?
His eyes danced with knowing laughter, his mouth curved, and he drew her even closer.
He felt it. She closed her eyes, unable to meet the intensity in his, and gave herself up to the music, the dance and the man.
Eventually the waltz ended, and he led her to a seat. “Thirsty?”
She nodded.
“Ratafia, lemonade or champagne?”
She was already intoxicated and she hadn’t had a drop of wine, but she found herself saying, “Champagne, please.”
She watched as he crossed the room in search of refreshments, his stride powerful and easy, his shoulders broad and almost bare. He was magnificently at home in his costume.
She shivered, unable to drag her gaze off his long, muscular legs in that short, red tunic. Waves of heat rippled through her. So this was desire . . .
She’d felt pale echoes of it before, but nothing like this, never anything this strong. It had been building between them, she realized, ever since that first kiss. No, even before that.
Women generally find sexual congress pleasurable . . .
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He disappeared into the crowd, and she sat and watched people enjoying themselves. The masks and costumes seemed to have encouraged more overt flirting, and some were definitely stepping very close to the line. If not over it, she added mentally, noticing one of the shepherdesses slide her hand into the folds of a Roman senator’s toga.
She blushed and looked away, feeling a little out of her depth. How many of the ladies here enjoyed sexual congress? The ones who flirted? Was that why she didn’t know how to flirt? Because she had disliked the marriage bed?
Oh, how could she be so old and still feel so ignorant? Lucy was better at this than she was, and Lucy was half her age.
Lady Peplowe, superb in her enormous turban, moved among her guests, talking and chatting, bringing people together and effortlessly putting them at ease. She was a superlative hostess and very popular.
As Alice watched her, a thought sprang to mind.
Perhaps a decade or so older than Alice—Penny was the youngest daughter—Lady Peplowe was plump, casually elegant and very sophisticated, but Alice had always found her comfortable to talk to. She wasn’t an intimate friend, but she had shown a great deal of kindness to both Alice and Lucy.
She would surely not mock Alice for her ignorance and lack of sophistication.
Alice waited until Lady Peplowe began to move from one group to the next. She hurried across the floor and intercepted her. “Lady Peplowe,” she began, suddenly breathless.
Lady Peplowe’s brows rose. “Is there something the matter, my dear?”
“No, no, it’s a lovely party. It’s just . . . May I call on you tomorrow? There is something particular I would like to discuss with you.” She was blushing, she knew.
“Of course. Only make it later in the day—say, five o’clock. I intend to sleep very late tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I didn’t think. Would you prefer me to come the following day?”
She smiled. “No, I can see it’s something that won’t wait.”
“It will, of course, it’s just . . .”
Lady Peplowe patted her hand. “Tomorrow at five will suit me very well, Lady Charlton. You can explain it all then. In complete privacy.” She glanced over Alice’s shoulder. “Now, there’s a handsome Roman general waiting with a glass of champagne for you. Better go and relieve him of it before some other lady snaps it—and him—up. He’s a delicious sight in that costume, barely there as it is. I do like a man with a good pair of legs, don’t you? And as for those gloriously muscular upper arms . . .” She fanned herself briefly, winked at Alice and glided away.
* * *
* * *
It was time for the second waltz of the evening. Lucy watched as Alice stepped onto the floor with Lord Tarrant. Hers weren’t the only eyes that watched their progress with speculative interest. They made a handsome couple.
Lucy glanced around the ballroom. Which of these extravagantly dressed people was reporting back to her father? The thought made her simultaneously furious and sick. The sooner she married some lord, the sooner this whole ghastly thing would be over.
Lord Thornton appeared at her elbow. “Shall we sit this one out in the courtyard, Miss Bamber?” It was very warm now in the ballroom, with all the lanterns and candles burning and the press of overheated bodies, so she nodded.
Outside it was blissfully cool, the night air fresh with a soft breeze stirring the leaves overhead. “You’re not cold, are you?” Lord Thornton asked. He gestured to his matador’s jacket with a wry smile. “I’d offer to give you my coat, but I doubt I can remove it. It took all my valet’s efforts to get it on. Do you have a shawl I could fetch?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.” It wasn’t quite a lie. She wasn’t cold, but something about sitting out here alone with Lord Thornton, not to mention the intense way he kept looking at her, made her feel a little on edge. As for his coat being tight, his whole outfit, especially his breeches, outlined his lithe, lean, muscular form almost indecently.
She could hardly drag her eyes away.
They sat for a few moments in silence, listening to the music floating from the ballroom. Then he said abruptly, “Did you mean what you said about marrying a lord, any lord?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She didn’t see any other way out of the fix Papa had trapped her in.
“Even an old man?”
She nodded. The very idea appalled her, but even worse was the knowledge that if she didn’t, her father would ruin Alice. Besides, she might not have to endure an old man for long. Which was a horrid thing to think.
“What about a young man?”
She shrugged. “As long as he’s titled, it makes no difference. Now can we stop talking about it, please? I’d rather just enjoy the night and keep these depressing realities for the cold light of day.” The moon was out, hazy, lopsided and serene. The scent of flowers perfumed the air. And the music only added to the magic.