Reaching down, he tucked his still-swollen cock inside his drawers and closed the placket of his breeches. “I suppose this is your revenge for my interrupting your kiss with your prince,” he grumbled.
“How perceptive of you.”
Damon shook his head, a smile-half wry, half grim-curving his mouth. “I must commend your creativity. It was highly effective.”
“Why, thank you. I also thought,” Eleanor mused as he fastened the buttons of his breeches, “to put your vow of celibacy to the test… to make it more difficult for you to keep your pledge. Of course, if you find it too painful, you could always go to your mistress for relief.”
“I told you,” he retorted in exasperation, “I don't have a mistress.”
“Perhaps you should employ one to see to your carnal needs,” Eleanor said carelessly. “Then perhaps you won't continue to pester me.”
Despite the lightness of her tone, Damon caught the small hitch in her voice that suggested she was not as nonchalant about the subject of his mistress as she tried to appear.
“That just shows how little you know about the male body, sweeting. I can soothe the pain myself. I don't require a woman to slake my carnal needs.”
His remark made her hesitate and raise her eyebrows in curiosity. “Oh? How?”
“By stroking myself. It is not nearly as pleasurable or satisfying, bringing myself to climax that way, but effective for easing the pain.”
Eleanor gazed at him a moment, as if trying to picture what he was describing. Then flushing, she shook her head quickly, evidently irritated with herself for allowing him to distract her. “Your carnal state is certainly no concern of mine, Damon, nor are my romantic affairs any concern of yours. I'll thank you not to interfere in the future.”
She opened the door, then paused to say, “I will ask Lady Haviland's
butler to summon your carriage for you so that you will not have to wait in the entrance hall for long. If you are swift enough, perhaps he won't notice that you are missing your shoes.”
“I am not troubled about the Haviland butler,” Damon said dryly. “It is my valet who worries me. Cornby will be highly distressed if I return home without my shoes.”
Eleanor dimpled. “You can always tell him that I absconded with them.”
As she slipped out the door, Damon couldn't help laughing softly.
Letting his head fall back, he shut his eyes, remembering the picture Elle had made as she delivered her parting shot… her eyes sparkling, her luscious mouth curved in an enchanting half smile. That image would haunt him for days.
And so would his physical ache from her outrageous trick. Damon shifted in his seat to ease the pressure caused by his raging arousal.
Yet he had probably deserved her retribution, he thought with a self-deprecating grin. And perhaps he had been mistaken to interfere so overtly in her romance. As it was, he seemed only to be driving her into the prince's arms, not to mention inflaming his own aching need for her.
He needed to cool his blood, although he was not about to turn to a mistress or any other woman. His vow of celibacy was real, even if it led to acute physical suffering. When he returned home, he would take care of his pain, Damon decided.
At the moment, however, his physical discomfort was not his chief problem.
For now he would have to determine how to obtain a pair of shoes that fit so he could leave the Haviland ball with his manhood figuratively intact.
Before Eleanor returned to the ball, she hid Damon's evening pumps where she doubted he would find them: in the music room two doors down from the library, behind the draperies of a window seat. Once in the entrance hall, she approached the Haviland butler and requested that he send for Lord Wrexham's carriage immediately.
As she made her way upstairs, Eleanor couldn't help feeling a twinge of satisfaction and triumph along with a measure of self-recognition. Despite her professions to the contrary, she had unconsciously wanted revenge on Damon for hurting her so deeply two years ago.
Even if her scandalous escapade tonight had been a bit spiteful, Eleanor decided stubbornly, she didn't regret it in the least, although she had discerned a wicked glint in Damon's eyes that had promised retribution. She had succeeded in both her aims-to discomfit him the way he had discomfited her of late, and to prevent him from returning to the ball and interfering further with her pursuit of Prince Lazzara.
When she arrived in the ballroom, the din of gaiety and laughter had increased from earlier in the evening, in part because a lively country dance was in progress.
She saw her Aunt Beatrix at once, speaking to their hostess, Lady Haviland, but she didn't immediately see Prince Lazzara or Signor Vecchi. Taking care to avoid the sprightly dancers, Eleanor threaded her way through the crowd and headed to the far corner where the prince had been seated earlier.
She discovered him still there, sitting in the same chair, except that this time, curiously, he was bent over at the waist, a handkerchief pressed to his forehead.
Concern seizing her, Eleanor leaned down to murmur in his ear, “Highness, are you feeling unwell?”
When he lifted his head, she could see that his olive complexion had paled, while the term “green around the gills” perfectly described his expression.