A Gentleman's Honor (Bastion Club 2)

He looked at her for a moment, as if the answer should be obvious, tattooed on his forehead or some such, then his smile deepened. “I was in the army—the Guards.”

“Waterloo?”

The concern in her face was quite genuine. It warmed him. “And the Peninsula.”

“Oh.”

Tony watched her digest that. Despite the fact he waltzed well—always had—the waltz wasn’t his favorite dance; with a woman in his arms, he’d much rather be involved in a romp that heated up the sheets on some bed, rather than a sedate revolution about some tonnish ballroom.

And in this case, the woman in his arms teased and challenged on a level he’d forgotten what it was like to be challenged on. For too many years, women, ladies and all, had come to him easily; generally speaking, he’d only had to cro

ok his finger, and there’d always been more than one willing to slake his lust. He was an accomplished lover, too experienced to be anything other than easy and generous in his ways.

Too experienced not to recognize when his senses were engaged.

Taller than average, supple and svelte, she was less buxom than those ladies who normally caught his eye, yet she hadn’t just caught his attention, she’d fixed it— quite why he couldn’t say. There seemed a multitude of small attractions that made up the whole—the sheen of the candlelight on her perfect skin, a soft cream tinged with rose, a very English complexion, her eyes and their green gaze—direct, without guile, amazingly open—the lush, heavy locks of her dark mahogany hair, the way her lips set, then eased and lifted.

He wanted to taste them, to taste her. To tempt her to want him. And more. With her in his arms, his appetite, along with his imagination, was definitely inclined toward a bed.

Alicia was conscious of an escalating warmth, one that seemed to rise from within her. It was pleasant, even addictive—her senses responded with a wish to wallow and luxuriate. It was something to do with him, with the way he held her, whirled her so easily down the room, with the reined strength she sensed in him but which triggered her innate defenses not at all—that strength was no threat to her.

His effect on her, however, might be; she wasn’t experienced enough to know. Yet it was just a dance—one waltz—and she’d never waltzed like this before, never felt quite like this. Surely it couldn’t hurt. And he was a military veteran, an ex-Guardsman, and a viscount.

Quite what that said of him she wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t all be bad.

He swung her through the turns at the end of the room; her heart leapt as his thigh parted hers. Letting her lids fall, she concentrated on breathing—and on the warmth her senses seemingly craved.

The music slowed, stopped, and they halted. And she realized just how pleasant—how pleasurable—the dance had been. She glanced at him, met his black gaze, and thought she saw a fraction too much understanding in his dark eyes. How black could seem warm she had no idea, but his eyes were never cold…

She looked to where Adriana’s court waited, and saw Adriana on the arm of Lord Manningham ahead of them, moving that way. Torrington took her arm and steered her in their wake.

As seemed normal for him, he didn’t offer his sleeve or ask her permission…

And, as was starting to be normal for her, she’d let him.

She frowned. Not once during the waltz had she thought to check on Adriana and Manningham—her distraction had been that complete.

The man on whose arm she was strolling was dangerous.

Seriously dangerous; he’d managed to make her forget her plan for a full five minutes, in the middle of a ton ballroom, no less.

Tony saw the frown form on her face. “What’s the matter?”

She glanced up. He looked into her green eyes, watched as she debated, then decided not to tell him the truth—that he was disturbing her, ruffling her senses, undermining her equanimity—as if he didn’t know.

Frown deepening, she looked down. “I was just wondering whether my demon brothers had behaved themselves tonight.”

He felt his brows rise. “Demon brothers?”

She nodded. “Three of them. I’m afraid they’re quite a handful. David is a terror—he pretends to be a pirate and falls out of windows. I don’t know how many times we’ve had the doctor to the house. And then Harry, well, he has a tendency to lie—one never knows if the house really is on fire or not. And as for Matthew, he is only eight, you understand, if we could just stop him from locking the doors after people, and slipping around the house at night—we’ve lost three parlor maids and two housekeepers, and we’ve only been in town for five weeks.”

Tony looked into her face, into her green eyes so determinedly guileless, and struggled not to laugh. She was a terrible liar.

He managed to keep a straight face. “Have you tried beating them?”

“Oh, no! Well, only once. They ran away. We spent the most awful twenty-four hours before they came home again.”

“Ah—I see. And do I take it these demons are your responsibility?”