Whose lips were not straight. “My dear, a word of advice—you may not seek, but the gentlemen assuredly will. Indeed”—her gaze slid teasingly to Tony—“I’m quite sure they already are.”
The only way to deal with such females was to meet their jibes with polite impassivity; Tony did so. They stayed by Alicia’s side, chatting about this and that, for nearly ten minutes, then moved on.
Before Alicia had time to draw breath, two other haughty matrons stopped to speak kindly. He stood by her side, suavely urbane, and thought cynical thoughts along the lines of: where Cynsters led, others followed.
He was grateful for Helena’s support; he knew her well enough to know the gesture had been intentional. To be seen to be accepted by the elite of the haut ton provided a social cachet which was of itself a protection. Rumors were simply much less likely to be credited. Socially, Alicia and Adriana were gaining a status it would require a major public indiscretion to shake.
As more of the ladies on whose opinion the ton turned made a point of acknowledging Alicia, ei
ther by stopping for a few words or by exchanging nods across the room, he felt increasingly reassured on the social front.
Other fronts, however, were not so secure.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carrington.”
The deep timbre of the voice sent Tony’s hackles rising. He turned to see a dashingly handsome gentleman with unruly blond curls bowing over Alicia’s hand; from the look on her face, she hadn’t meant to surrender it. The gentleman had approached from the rear, escaping Tony’s watchful eye, which endeared him to Tony even less.
The gentleman straightened and smiled at Tony. “Your servant, Torrington.” Exchanging a brief nod, he looked back at Alicia. “My mama chatted with you earlier—she told me your name. I’m Harry Cynster.”
His smile thawed Alicia; she returned it, relaxing. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
It took Tony a few seconds to make the connections. Harry Cynster, he of the guileless blue eyes and a distinctly predatory streak. Horses—he was a renowned whip, a legendary rider, in more than one sense, appropriately nicknamed Demon.
He was chatting with Alicia, his voice a deep, fashionable drawl, deploying the charm for which the Cynsters were notorious. “My mama dragged me along. Now we’re all of us back from the wars, it seems our mothers and aunts are determined to marry us all off.”
“Indeed?” Alicia returned his innocent look with one of polite scepticism. “And what of you? Doesn’t marriage figure among your ambitions?”
His eyes met hers, their expression rather less innocent. “Not just yet.”
The undercurrent beneath the words registered as a warning.
Harry raised a brow. “I believe that’s a waltz starting up.”
To her surprise, Tony reached across; his fingers closed about her hand. “Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me, Cynster.” He smiled urbanely, and drew her to him. “Mrs. Carrington has promised me this dance.”
Over her head, blue eyes met black. There was something—some form of masculine challenge—behind Tony’s polite mask. She glanced from one to the other, then Harry Cynster raised both brows, faint surprise in his face. “Well, well. I see.” Then he grinned and saluted her. “A pity, but I wish you good riding, my dear.”
Before she could reply to the strange comment, Tony whisked her away.
“Mrs. Carrington doesn’t often dance at all,” she informed him as he drew her into his arms.
He met her eyes. “Except with me.”
With that, he whirled her into the revolving circle of dancers. The floor was crowded; he had to hold her close. So close his strength and that fascinating power he wielded, a potent blend of physical confidence and sexual prowess, wrapped about her, a seductive spell she wasn’t even sure he knew he was weaving.
Then he guided her through the turns; his thigh parted hers, and all she could think of was…
She looked away, cleared her throat. Desperate to cool her thoughts, she struggled to find some distraction…“What did he mean?” Glancing up, she caught Tony’s black gaze. “Harry Cynster—why wish me ‘good riding’? He doesn’t even know if I ride.”
For an instant, Tony stared down at her; she couldn’t interpret his expression. “He assumed,” he eventually said. His tone seemed flat. “He’s an exceptional rider himself…”He shrugged lightly. “Probably all he thinks of.”
His lips tightened, as if he didn’t want to say anything more. He looked up, steering her on; she wasn’t sufficiently interested to pursue the point—whatever it was.
But that left her mind free, and her senses susceptible. Left her nerves leaping when they were jostled and he drew her protectively close, into the safe harbor of his arms. For a moment, their hips and thighs touched, brushed; when they moved on, she felt heated. She glanced up at him, praying the heat hadn’t reached her cheeks, afraid it had, afraid that her eyes, too, would give her away, would hold some impression of her thoughts, reveal her sudden, unexpectedly flaring need.
His eyes met hers; darkly burning, they reflected thoughts that mirrored hers.
Abruptly, it seemed they were the only couple on the floor, the sole focus of their senses. They moved in a social vacuum charged with sensual heat, wracked with restrained passion. It flowed about them, caressed their skins. Teased, taunted, and left them yearning.