He hesitated… but they were here, alone in the moonlight, the violins a distant whisper in the dark. Unhurriedly, he strolled forward, his gaze, intent, on her.
Flick watched him approach, large, elegant-dangerous. The moon silvered his hair, rendering his face harsh in its stark light. The angular planes seemed harder, like pale stone; his eyes were deeply shadowed beneath their heavy lids.
How his presence could be reassuring and unnerving simultaneously she didn't know. Her nerves were tightening, her senses stretching… The yearning she'd felt as they'd danced returned with a rush.
She'd come here to be quiet, to breathe the cool air, to let it soothe her overheated brain, her flushed skin. She'd come here to ponder. Him. Part of her wondered if she'd read him aright. The rest of her knew she had. But she still couldn't bring herself to believe it.
It was like a fairy tale.
Now he was here… Her nerves skittered even before she formed the thought. Abruptly, she recalled she was annoyed with him. Folding her arms, she tilted her chin; as he drew near, she narrowed her eyes at him. "You conspired with Mrs. Pemberton-Foggy told me she sent her message to the General via you."
He halted before her. "Mrs. Pemberton conjured a vision of you moldering into an old maid-that didn't seem a good idea."
His deep drawl slid over, then under, her skin, effortlessly vanquishing her annoyance. Refusing to shiver, she humphed. "I can't see how an evening like this is going to change things." She gestured toward the house. "I'm certainly not going to find a husband in there."
"No?"
"You saw them. They're so young!"
"Ah-them."
His voice deepened; she sensed that net of fascination flow about her again. His lips curved, lifting just a little at the ends, drawing her mentally closer, nearer. "No," he said, the word a deep rumble. "I agree-you definitely shouldn't marry any of them."
The ensuing pause stretched, then his lids rose and he met her gaze. "There is, however, an alternative."
He said no more, but his meaning was clear, written in the planes of his face, in his eyes. He watched her, his gaze steady; the night held them in soft darkness, alive and yet so silent that she could feel her own pulse filling the air.
Then came the music.
Haunting strains drifted over the lawns, flowed over the hedges. The opening bars of a waltz reached them-he angled his head slightly, then, his gaze never leaving her face, he held out his hands.
"Come-waltz with me."
The net drew tight-she felt its shimmering touch as it settled about her. But he didn't tug; it was her choice to step forward, to accept, if she would.
Flick wondered if she dared. Her senses reached for him-she knew how it felt to be held against his warm chest, how it felt to have his arms close about her, how her hips would settle against his hard thighs. But…
"I don't know how."
Her voice was surprisingly even; his lips curved a fraction more.
"I'll teach you"-a hint of wickedness invested his smile-"all you need to know."
She managed not to shiver. She knew very well they weren't talking of a mere waltz-that wasn't the invitation etched in his eyes, the challenge in his stance. Those hands, those arms, that body-she knew what he was offering. And, deep inside, she knew she could never walk away-not without trying, touching. Knowing.
She stepped forward, lifting her arms, tilting her face to his. He drew her to him, one arm sliding possessively about her, the other grasping her right hand. He drew her close, until they touched, until the silk of her bodice brushed his coat. His smile deepened. "Relax, and let your feet follow where they will."
He stepped back, then aside; before she knew it, she was whirling. At first, he took small steps, until she caught the rhythm, then they whirled, swooped, swung, trapped in the music, swept up in the effortless energy of the dance.
Then the mood of the music changed, slowed; they slowed, too. He drew her fractionally closer-she leaned her temple against his chest. "Isn't there some rule that I'm not supposed to waltz before someone or other approves?"
"That only applies in town at a formal ball. Young ladies have to learn to waltz somewhere, or no gentleman would ever stand up with them."
She suppressed a sniff-she hadn't stepped on his toes once. They were revolving slowly, the music soft and low.
It was she who stepped closer, fascinated by the slide of silk between their bodies. And by the heat of him.
He didn't step back. His fingers locked about hers, he laid her hand in the hollow of his shoulder. His arm tightened about her, his hand splaying below her waist, locking her to him so that they moved in truth as one.