She let her gaze skate across Elias as if she didn’t see him, although the image of his long, lean form attired in stark black and white burned into her brain. Instead she forced herself to concentrate on her partner. Rich, polite, obliging Lord Tranter. Society ladies went into raptures about his fairytale blond handsomeness. Marianne too admired his appearance. But to her regret, these days only dark, dangerous and saturnine set her heart racing.
Her heart raced in earnest when Tranter returned her to her father’s side and she glanced up to see Elias prowling toward her with that purposeful stride. She felt more hunted than ever, but there was nowhere to run. She experienced a sudden hankering for the peaceful isolation of the Seaton estates in Dorset.
Or perhaps an enclosed convent high in the Alps.
“Lady Marianne.” Elias bowed over her hand and even through their gloves, his touch shook her. Since coming to her senses about his mercenary motives, she’d struggled to crush that automatic, animal reaction to him, but so far she hadn’t succeeded. “Baildon, Desborough.”
“Wilmott,?? her father said stiffly, making no attempt to hide his dislike. Elias’s sister had become Sedgemoor’s duchess instead of Marianne. Since then, her father had developed a rabid hatred for anyone by the name of Thorne.
“Good evening, my lord,” Marianne said as if Elias was simply another acquaintance.
She’d spent a lifetime practicing impeccable manners. Exemplary behavior had been the only way a motherless seven-year-old girl had found to gain her father’s approval. Last year those manners had preserved her pride when Sedgemoor had jilted her. They came to her rescue now. She’d cut her throat before she betrayed her unwelcome weakness for this fortune hunter to the world.
“I wondered if you might favor me with this dance.” Elias’s brilliant black eyes told her she was the most fascinating creature in London. Her mind knew that he didn’t mean it. Everything female in her wanted to smile back and beg him to sweep her up in his arms and carry her off.
People called Marianne Seaton a cold fish. How shocked they’d be to peer into her deepest desires. For months, she’d suffered feverish, disturbing dreams about Elias’s hands on her body. Cold was the last word to describe her response to Lord Wilmott.
“Thank you,” she said with her characteristic calmness. Nobody would guess how difficult it was to maintain. She withdrew her hand, recognizing the game Elias played by holding it too long. The contact left her fingers tingling. “I already have a partner.”
To her relief, she saw Sir Richard Harmsworth heading through the crowd in her direction. She liked Richard and right now, she felt in dire need of the deep well of kindness that lurked below his immaculate exterior.
“Perhaps the supper dance?” Elias persisted.
“That’s mine, old chap,” Desborough said.
“My daughter has no dances free, Wilmott,” her father snapped.
“Good evening, my lords, Marianne.” Richard cast his dazzling smile across the group. With his burnished golden looks, he was accounted the handsomest man in England. And the most charming. And the most elegant. Marianne wondered why this beau ideal stirred her affection but no attraction. Perhaps because Richard Harmsworth was utterly devoted to his wife. Or perhaps because only one man in London set her pulses jumping, and it wasn’t Sir Richard, however spectacular his appearance.
“Good evening, Richard,” Marianne responded, and for the first time tonight, she didn’t have to feign a smile.
“My dance, I believe.” He bowed over her hand. “Glad I requested it last week. You haven’t sat out a set all night.”
“To my regret,” Elias said.
Richard shot him a quick glance as he released Marianne. “In that case, I’d be greedy to claim my two dances. Feel free to take my place, old man.”
“Sir Richard, there’s no need—” her father began, but Elias had already seized Marianne’s hand. If she pulled away, people might notice, although she stiffened in his hold. This audacity was new. Usually she managed to fend him off.
“My thanks, Harmsworth.” Elias turned to Marianne. “Unless the lady objects, of course.”
“No objection at all,” she muttered through tight lips. What else could she say? But her heart beat with forbidden excitement, along with justifiable annoyance at how he manipulated her.
“Delighted.” Provoking amusement lit his eyes, although his long mouth remained unsmiling. He knew she was fuming. This odd, persistent affinity made it fiendishly difficult to ignore her yen for him. “Shall we take our places?”
Luckily it was a contredanse. She couldn’t bear for him to hold her in his arms for the waltz. Not when he lied about wanting her. Not when however she tried, she couldn’t stop wanting him. The other dancers weaving around them didn’t register. Instead as she mindlessly followed the steps, she saw Elias. It was like being trapped alone in a cave with an enemy.
Only when they stood at the end of the line, waiting their turn to rejoin the set, was she sufficiently in command of herself to speak without revealing her turmoil. Tonight her famously unruffled air was a complete sham. She could hardly hear the scratch of the violins over her pounding emotion. Anger. Unwelcome physical attraction. Reluctantly acknowledged apprehension: not that he’d do anything shocking, but that she might.
“Kidnapping is illegal,” she said flatly, staring anywhere except at Elias.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“What a relief. You can speak after all. I was worried that you’d ceased to breathe. Or that I was dancing with a marble column. All elegant stony silence.”
The jibes captured her notice. “I’m happy to return to my father and sit this dance out. Never imagine your attentions do me any favors.”