He sucked in a breath and tried to dismiss the potent effect she had on him. This was madness. He’d never responded to any woman with such electrifying force before, not even Clara. It’s purely physical, he reminded himself. After all, he barely knew the woman. But devil take it, he wanted to. Desperately.
He cleared his throat and steered her along the edge of the ballroom at a slow pace, determined to savor each second he’d be permitted to spend in her company.
Equally determined not to get carried away on a dangerous dream, he said, “Perhaps we can locate your husband. Pennington says he’s a furniture manufacturer?”
“Yes. He’s rather sought after, so if you’re in the market for a new dining room set, you may have to wait a while.” Amusement and something akin to pride lit up her eyes.
“You must have married at a young age, Mrs. Hewitt, to have a daughter who’s already found a husband,” James told her before he could gauge the wisdom of his words. Ordinarily, he was a man who paid close attention to what he said. His profession demanded he do so. And complimenting a married woman on her looks was probably not good form. In fact, he doubted her husband would approve. Yet James could not seem to stop himself from wanting to make Mrs. Hewitt aware of how attractive he found her. So he’d made an attempt to do so in the most subtle way he knew.
Now that the words were out, however, he realized it sounded as though he was trying to judge her age. Which was something he ought not have any interest in learning.
Idiot.
But rather than cut him a critical gaze, the lady smiled. “You flatter me, Mr. Dale.”
Did he? It warmed his heart that she thought so.
“Indeed,” she added, “I was but eighteen years old when my daughter was born.”
Which meant she was in her mid to late thirties. “I never would have guessed. I’m sure every bachelor here will be disappointed to learn that you’re not one of the debutantes.”
What the hell was he doing?
A delightful flush colored her cheeks. “If I may be equally bold, I’m certain the young ladies looking to marry will fix their eyes upon you, Mr. Dale. Unless you’re already wed?”
Good God. She was openly flirting with him and fishing for information about his matrimonial status. The awareness of her interest and possible shared attraction caused fiery sparks to prick at his skin. A warning bell sounded inside his brain. The path he was on was hazardous to be sure, and it was high time he stepped off it. Before he did something stupid like lure her into a private corner somewhere and kiss her senseless.
The very idea…
He shook his head and forced his mind back to her question. Was he married? “Not any longer. My wife died quite unexpectedly eight years ago.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Hewitt’s eyes dimmed. “I’m so sorry.”
James was too, though only for Michael’s sake. In spite of Clara’s unfaithfulness she’d been a doting mother, and Michael had suffered tremendously from the loss.
“It was especially hard on my son.” He knew she had a daughter so it only seemed fair to give her similar information about himself.
“And is this son of yours also in attendance this evening?”
“He is.”
“Then you must also have married at a young age, Mr. Dale, for I swear you do not look a day over five and thirty.”
Her teasing manner – the infectious gaiety with which she spoke – ignited his blood like nothing else. For the first time in more than twenty years, he experienced pure desire. It wasn’t something he thought he’d ever know again after the wretched pain and humiliation Clara had caused him. He’d thought himself closed off from physical want and need forever. Until this very moment, when he found himself trying to think up ways in which he might see Mrs. Hewitt again.
Which wouldn’t do at all.
This had to stop.
And it would.
As soon as they reached the refreshment table.
Only three more yards to go. Give or take.
He dreaded each and every one. “I was one and twenty when I married. A year later, Michael was born.”
They were finally at their destination. Was it just his imagination, or did Mrs. Hewitt give his arm a gentle squeeze before she removed her hand?
Before he had a chance to properly savor the gesture, his closest friends, Grayson Grier and Colin West, made their presence known. James introduced them both to Mrs. Hewitt, then turned to fill a glass of lemonade for her while Grayson’s and Colin’s curious gazes burned into the nape of his neck. There would be questions to answer later. For now, he ignored his friends as best he could and handed Mrs. Hewitt her glass. Her fingers brushed his, ever so briefly, but it was enough for every cell in his body to feel as though it exploded with pleasure.
Lord help him.
Unable to tear his gaze from her, he watched as she set the edge of her glass to her mouth and drank. A sheen of moisture remained on her lips afterward, and a wicked desire to lick it away with his tongue overwhelmed him. He gritted his teeth and tore his gaze away, only to find his friends watching him with unabashed amusement.
Damn.
“Are the three of you longtime friends?” Mrs. Hewitt inquired when no one else spoke.
“We met at Eton and went on to study at Cambridge together, but it was the army that forged a truly unbreakable bond among us,” Grayson said.
“War does have a curious way of bringing men closer together,” Colin added in a somber tone.
“I know what you mean,” Mrs. Hewitt said in a way that suggested she’d suffered great loss once. James hoped she’d expand on the matter so he could learn more about her. Instead she asked. “Which battle did you engage in?”
“The Battle of Aboukir,” James said. “Under the command of General Abercromby.”
Their commander had been killed in action, but it was the death of their friend, Richard Hughes, that had made a truly lasting impact on them all. In merely the blink of an eye, their quartet had been reduced to a trio. James shuddered in response to the memory, which remained as clear as ever in spite of all the years that had passed.
“Aboukir is close to Alexandria, is it not?” Mrs. Hewitt asked. She took another sip of her drink. James did his best to refrain from looking at her this time.
“It is,” Grayson confirmed.
“And if memory serves, General Menou was in charge of the French army,” Mrs. Hewitt added.
“Your knowledge on this matter is remarkable,” Colin said.
James was equally impressed since few of the women he’d known made any attempt at keeping abreast of current affairs, never mind ones taking place in other parts of the world.
“What can I say?” The lady shrugged. “I like reading the daily papers.”
“And I like knowing I have the most well-informed wife there is,” a man slightly shorter than James but of similar build declared as he sidled up next to Mrs. Hewitt. Handsome, with dark blonde hair and piercing green eyes, he awoke an ugly sensation in James – a gnarly feeling he did not like in the least. Jealousy, quick and forceful, drove its way through him.
“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Hewitt said, “my husband, Mr. George Hewitt.”
This good-looking specimen of masculinity, encased in what appeared to be a trim body, was the man Mrs. Hewitt would go home with. And just like that, James was assailed with the most alarming desire to bury his fist in Mr. Hewitt’s face.