The Masseys’ house was centuries old, a rambling villa built on the riverbank. The ceilings were lower than now fashionable; there was a wealth of dark wood in beams and paneling, but the shadows were dispersed by lamps, candelabra, and sconces liberally scattered through the rooms. The large interconnecting chambers were perfect for less formal entertaining. A small orchestra scraped away at the river end of the dining room, for the occasion converted into an area for dancing.
After greeting their hostess in the hall, Leonora entered the drawing room, telling herself she’d enjoy herself. That the boredom caused by lack of purpose that customarily afflicted her would not affect her tonight because she did indeed have a purpose.
Unfortunately, enjoying herself with other gentlemen if Trentham was not there to see…it was difficult to convince herself there was all that much to be gained from the evening. Nevertheless, she was there, gowned in silk of a deep turbulent blue no young unmarried lady could ever wear. As she didn’t particularly want to chat, she might as well dance.
Leaving Mildred and Gertie with a group of their cronies, she made her way down the room, stopping to exchange greetings here and there, but always moving on. A dance had just ended when she stepped through the doors into the dining room; quickly scanning those present, she considered which of the gentlemen—
Hard fingers, a hard palm, closed about her hand; her senses reacted, informing her who stood at her shoulder even before she turned and met his gaze.
“Good evening.” His eyes on hers, Trentham raised her hand to his lips. Searched her eyes. Raised a brow. “Would you care to dance?”
The look in his eyes, the tenor of his voice—just like that, he made her come alive. Made her nerves tighten, her senses sing. Sent a rush of pleasurable anticipation sliding through her. She drew breath, her imagination eagerly supplying what dancing with him would feel like. “I…” She looked away, across the sea of dancers waiting for the next measure to begin.
He said nothing, simply waited. When she glanced back at him, he met her gaze. “Yes?”
His hazel eyes were sharp, watchful; behind them lurked faint amusement.
She felt her lips set, lifted her chin. “Indeed—why not?”
He smiled, not his charming smile but in predatory appreciation of her meeting his challenge. He led her forward as the opening strains of a waltz began.
It would have to be a waltz. The instant he drew her into his arms, she knew she was in trouble. Valiantly battling to dampen her response to having him so near, to feeling his strength engulf her again, his hand spread over the silk at her back, she cast about for distraction.
Let a frown form in her eyes. “I thought you would attend the Colchesters’ affair.”
The ends of his lips lifted. “I knew you’d be here.” His eyes quizzed her—wicked, dangerous. “Believe me, I’m perfectly content with your choice.”
If she’d harbored any doubt as to what he was alluding, the turn at the end of the room explained all. If they’d been at the Colchesters, waltzing in their huge ballroom, he wouldn’t have been able to hold her so close, to curl his fingers so possessively about her hand, to draw her so tight through the turn their hips brushed. Here, the dance floor was crowded with other couples all absorbed with each other, immersed in the moment. There were no matrons lining the walls, watching, waiting to disapprove.
His thigh parted hers, all restrained power as he swung her through the turn; she couldn’t suppress a reactive shiver—couldn’t stop her nerves, her whole body responding.
Tristan watched her face, wondered if she had any idea of just how responsive she was, of what seeing her eyes flare, then darken, seeing her lashes sweep down, her lips part, did to him.
He knew she didn’t know.
That only made it worse, only heightened the effect, and left him in even greater pain.
The insistent ache had been escalating over the past days, a nagging aggravation he’d never before had to contend with. Before, the itch had been a simple one to scratch. This time…
His every sense was focused on her, on the sway of her supple body in his arms, on the promise of her warmth, the elusive, teasing torment of the passion she seemed intent on denying.
That last was something he wouldn’t permit. Shouldn’t permit.
The music ended, and he was forced to halt, forced to release her, something he did reluctantly, a fact her wide eyes said she realized.
She cleared her throat, smoothed her gown. “Thank you.” She looked around. “Now—”
“Before you waste time planning anything else—like attracting another gentleman to dance with you—while I’m with you, you’ll dance with no one else.”
Leonora turned to face him. “I beg your pardon?”
She honestly couldn’t believe her ears.
His eyes remained hard. He raised a brow. “Do you want me to repeat it?”
“No! I want to forget I ever heard such an outrageous piece of impertinence.”