Chapter One
London, 1825
“Care to dance, my lady?”
The murmured words tickled the skin on her nape, sending chills down her spine. Pressing her lips together, Julia scanned the crowd, desperate to keep her expression calm.
Her stomach turned over, and her knees weakened. Literally weakened. All at the sound of a deep voice coming from behind her and the sensation of warm breath breezing across her skin. Her reaction toward the gorgeous and charming Earl of Bedingfield was foolish, hopeless.
Yet there it was, almost frightening in its intensity. He knew it too and teased her with his presence at almost every ball, musicale and soiree she attended, which were many since she’d accepted every invitation she received in the hope of seeing him. It had been years since she’d attended a season, and she wanted to make the most of it, despite her lack of wardrobe or funds.
Tonight, if she was brave enough, she’d let her…feelings for him be known. Not that they were feelings.
No, pure lust was not an emotion. It certainly drove her to distraction and made her think of him constantly, but she didn’t have any feelings for him beyond reasonable fondness since she’d known him for so long.
But she lusted. Coveted. Wanted him more than she had any other man she’d ever encountered, and that included her deceased husband. Guilt abandoned her at the realization. She wasn’t dead. She had every right to search out a man, take a lover, find her pleasure. She didn’t want marriage.
She wanted Bedingfield; temporarily, of course. There was something about him, a certain charisma. The way he spoke to her, looked at her—he wove a spell around her.
“Surely you jest. You’ve never asked before,” she replied, continuing to stare at the dance floor, wondering at the breathless quality of her voice. She rested a hand briefly over her rapidly beating heart and willed herself to calm down.
She could do this. She knew she could. He was what she wanted. He just didn’t know it yet.
“I never jest when asking a lady to dance. Will you do me the favor, Lady Renwick?” He moved before her, elegantly handsome in evening dress, the stark black jacket making his shoulders impossibly wide, his chest impossibly broad. Images of being held in his arms as he swept her into a waltz flitted through her mind, and her fair skin heated. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the telltale blush. The air between them fairly crackled with sensual awareness.
She’d never danced with him before, but his request went perfectly with her plan. She had a purpose this evening, one she’d never pursued before. Since coming out of mourning, she’d been terribly lonely and had toyed with the idea of taking the occasional, very discreet, lover. She’d just never found a man who interested her enough to do so.
Until Bedingfield.
Once she considered him, the choice was made. She was going to take a lover. And Bedingfield was the one she wanted.
But she wasn’t the only one. Accompanied by their overeager mamas, fresh-faced debutantes crowded the sidelines of the ballroom, vying for the attention of the most eligible bachelors, the titled gentlemen with much to offer. Gentlemen like Lord Bedingfield.
“Aren’t there plenty of other, more appropriate, ladies whom you could ask to dance?”
“I’m not interested in them.” His smoldering blue gaze met hers, full of so much intensity and heat that it very nearly singed her where she stood.
She swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. Men did not make her nervous, and she’d been preparing for this moment for days, weeks.
She was older than him—not by a scandalous amount, but enough to make her feel the difference. And he was so handsome—tall and broad with dark brown hair worn a little too long that tended to curl at the ends, the most gorgeous blue eyes that a woman could drown in if she weren’t careful, a body made for sin and a lush, full mouth—he undoubtedly knew how to pleasure a woman in a variety of ways. He was the catch of the season, had been for more than a few seasons, and could have his pick of the ladies. His absolute pick.
Yet he was in front of her, reaching for her hand, a slight smile curving his delectable lips. She had no choice but to offer her hand in return, because she wasn’t rude. She would never turn him away.
She didn’t want to turn him away. His asking her to dance made her curious. What were his intentions? Was he interested?
She hoped so.
He wore no gloves, such a faux pas, but he always did whatever he wanted. The moment their hands touched, a jolt shivered up her arm and settled low in her belly.
Her eyes widened as he swept her into his arms and led her onto the dance floor. For such a large man, he moved effortlessly, guiding her with an ease born of years of practice and natural grace. With one hand clutching hers and the other settled at her waist, he immersed them into the crowd among the swirling dancers.
His touch burned through the fabric of her gown, her stays and her shift as if they didn’t exist, and she shivered.
“
Cold?” He tipped his head toward her, his lips turned in the slightest smirk. He’d felt her tremble, and she didn’t want him to realize exactly how her body reacted to such a simple touch.
“A little,” she lied blithely, returning his smile. After making the mistake of allowing their gazes to meet for a prolonged moment, she felt trapped. Ensnared. Stunned silly by the heat and hunger reflected there.
As they passed the other dancers, their whispered words broke the spell, and she wished she hadn’t heard them. Most likely they were questioning why he would ask her to dance over someone more deserving.
“I believe we’ve shocked people.” He sounded pleased with himself.
“Is that why you asked me to dance? So you could cause a bit of scandal during an otherwise uninteresting evening?” Perhaps she’d been wrong about his intentions. Had he only wanted to use her to amuse himself? The thought hurt, and she hoped he would deny it.
Bedingfield frowned. Even then he was the most handsome man in the room by far. “Of course not. Do you think so little of me, Lady Renwick?”