A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

“Here!” he protested. “I thought you were supposed to help me win Em’s hand, not tell her all my weaknesses.”

Clarice rolled her eyes. “I’m quite sure Emily knows of them already. We’re merely passing the time.”

Jack smothered a laugh at the look on Nigel’s face.

But Alton’s assessment proved true; Nigel’s case was the least urgent. After bestowing her clear approval, Clarice and he took their leave. He steered her up the long ballroom, noting, as she did, the interest they provoked, the quick looks, the questions whispered after they’d passed.

Music rose from the dais at the end of the room, the lilting strains of a waltz. Halting, he caught Clarice’s eyes. “We’re here supposedly to enjoy the ball. Shouldn’t we dance?”

He raised a brow and watched her slowly raise one in return as she considered just what he was suggesting, that their appearance at three balls in a row with absolutely no attempt to enjoy the entertainment offered would assuredly raise speculation as to their purpose and potentially focus interest on whom they had met, whom they’d been speaking with.

Clarice smiled. “Yes. Let’s.” As he stepped onto the dance floor and swept her into his arms, she murmured, “I warn you it’s been years since I last waltzed.”

“Just relax.” He

stroked his fingers along her spine as his hand came to rest on her back. “I believe you’ll find it’s not something you forget.”

He drew her to him, and revolved, immediately reminded how well matched they were, how delightful it was that she was so tall, that her legs were so very long. With her in his arms, the waltz took on another dimension, one of deeper, more specific pleasure.

Clarice felt it, knew it, let her mind drink in the sensations of being held so masterfully, captive to a strength far greater than her own, surrounded by it, by him, yet not threatened.

She looked into his face as they whirled, the rest of the dancers dissolving about them, studied his clean-cut, almost austere features, and wondered why. Why, with him, it was so different.

Never before had she liked being held, not in the sense of being controlled, of being confined, of a strength that could accomplish that. His strength, the warm steel she could sense enveloping her, could, if he wished, immobilize her, trap her, restrict her, yet nowhere in her was there even the slightest fear that he, it, ever would.

They were lovers, and if she didn’t feel threatened when he held her beneath him, or before him, then no fear was likely to surface here. Instead, this, the dance, the exhilarating precession of the waltz, became another element of their loving, another landscape in which they could explore their physical and sensual connection.

A connection carried through the heat of his hand as it rested, heavy, on her back. In the strength in the fingers that held hers, that powered their sweeping turns, in the effortless control that guided them unerringly through the swirling throng. Their thighs brushed, forest green satin softly swooshing as her skirts caressed, then fell back. She felt alive in his arms as she never had before, more conscious of her body, of her breasts lightly brushing his coat, of the heady promise in the muscled body so close to hers, of the beckoning heat in his eyes.

A heat that welled and rose through them both.

The music faded, then died. Together with the other dancers, they swirled to a halt. She didn’t need to speak, simply smiled into his eyes, let her eyes acknowledge their passion.

She saw his response etched in gold and green, then his lashes lowered as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed.

Then his lids rose; their eyes met. The moment held, stretched.

To them both, for that instant, they were the only people in the room.

Then reality returned on a wash of sound. She let her smile deepen as he changed his hold on her fingers and set her hand on his sleeve. “I think that’s the first waltz I’ve ever truly waltzed.”

He didn’t say anything, merely smiled, satisfied.

They resumed their progress to the door—and saw Moira, mouth open in stunned amazement, standing with two younger ladies by the side of the room, all staring, dumbfounded, at them.

Distantly, supremely haughtily, Clarice inclined her head without breaking her stride. Jack briefly studied the three ladies, then followed her lead. Once they’d merged with the still-considerable crowd, he murmured, “Who were the other two?”

“My half sisters. The darker-haired one is Hilda, the other Mildred.”

“Clearly they hadn’t expected to see you in such surrounds.”

“No.” They gained the stairs and started down. “Given she intercepted my letters to Alton, Moira must know I’ve been coming up to London every year, but I’ve never before ventured back into the ballrooms.”

“Do you think she’ll guess why you’ve broken with habit tonight?”

“Possibly, but possibly not. She and her daughters are avidly devoted to all the gadding about, the balls, dinners, and parties, especially during the Season. It may not immediately occur to them that my return to the ballrooms isn’t simply due to social starvation.”

“She obviously hadn’t seen you until just now, so she didn’t see you with Nigel and Emily.”