"Don't be silly," she admonished. "I'm perfectly safe."
He laughed. "Spoken with the true conviction of an innocent who doesn't know how much danger she's in."
"How much danger can there be with you here to protect me?" she demanded.
"More than you know," he said softly.
"You're scowling again."
He glanced at a crowd of young rakes waiting for the present dancers to relinquish their partners. "At the moment, my scowls are the only thing standing between you and certain ruin."
"Cheer up, Jays." Sarah's brown eyes sparkled as she leased him. "We're dancing, yet you look like a man about to meet Madame Guillotine."
"Why shouldn't I?" he countered. "When meeting Madame Guillotine might be easier? And I'm in danger of losing my head either way?"
Sarah's smile grew broader. "Thank you, Jays. I believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I've paid you compliments," he said. "I believe I told you you were beautiful in the coach earlier this evening."
"Yes, you did," Sarah agreed. "And you said my bosom was quite lovely. And I know you mean it because you keep staring down at it as if it were a window full of French pastries you can't wait to sample."
"Blister it, Sarah," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I keep staring at your bosom because I keep waiting for your bodice to relinquish its grip and obey the laws of gravity."
"And what will you do if it does?" she baited, turning her back to him as the steps of the dance took her away, then brought her back to face him. "Sample my pastries?"
Jarrod all but broke out in a sweat. "Stop it, Sarah."
"Stop what, Jays?"
"Stop flirting with me," he warned. "And stop putting images in my head, lest you find yourself with more than you can handle."
"Is it possible, Jays? Are you really in danger of losing your head over me?" There was a hopeful note in her voice that Jarrod couldn't fail to recognize. "Because in all the years I've known you, you never once hinted that you might lose your head for me."
"I'm in danger of losing my patience," he snapped. "And my sense of humor."
"You've already lost your sense of humor," Sarah pointed out.
"Then don't force me to lose my patience," Jarrod cautioned once again. "It's all I have left." He closed his eyes in an attempt to blot out the image Sarah had put there. Images of him sinking to his knees on the Garrisons' marble dance floor in order to kiss and caress and taste the lovely bosom she had arranged just for him. And it was just for him — because Jarrod had no intention of letting any other man get close enough to view the bounty. His body responded to the mental images and Jarrod groaned as dancing became an effort of will.
He stopped suddenly, at the end of a square, and the gentleman dancing beside them careened into him, knocking Jarrod sideways. Sarah missed a step and fell heavily against him. The twin points of her breasts pressed into his chest and her body molded itself against his for a brief second. Jarrod placed his hand at her back to steady her.
Sarah looked up at him, a worried expression on h
er face. "Did I inadvertently tread on your toes?"
"No."
"You groaned," Sarah informed him. "As if you were in pain. I wondered if I'd trod on your toes."
He couldn't help but smile at her innocence. "My toes are fine."
"Then perhaps you should release me."
Jarrod squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn't realized he was still holding her against his chest until she'd reminded him. Bloody hell, but he was making a cake of himself in front of a hundred or so witnesses. And there didn't seem to be a blasted thing he could do about it. He exhaled, then slid his hand down the line of her spine and over the curve of her bottom, savoring the feel of silk and heat as he did so. He groaned again. Louder.
She frowned. "Are you in pain elsewhere?"
"Most definitely," he answered.