All About Passion (Cynster 7)

He did, his lips curving easily-the light in his eyes, the tenor of that smile, sent a shiver coursing through her.

“My lady.” He arched a brow but there was no question.

Battle was joined.

He drew first blood, whirling her into another waltz that ripped her breath away. She struck back with her own brand of teasing, artfully flirting with three gentlemen at once. When he ruthlessly cut short her exhibition, she smiled knowingly and watched his temper rise.

Shortly after, she discovered he had an advantage she couldn’t match. He could touch her anywhere and her senses leapt. Her whole body, all of her skin, was sensitized-not just to his touch, but to his breath, to his very nearness. She was acutely aware of every little brush, every gliding, illicit caress.

He deserved his reputation-she’d seen enough, Lady Elizabeth had hinted at enough, for her to have a good idea of what it was. Only a past master could have accomplished what he did-done all he did-in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Very rarely did anyone see; only on a few occasions did she catch an understanding smirk or a too-wide smile.

For a full twenty minutes, he had her running ragged, her breathing increasingly fractured, her senses skittering wildly, trying to imagine what next he would do. Trying to anticipate so she could take evasive action…

It suddenly dawned on her that that was the road to defeat. But she had so few avenues for attack.

She turned her mind to it-and discovered the outer edge of his ear was one sensitive spot. The side of his throat, too, but his cravat got in her way. His arms, his shoulders, his hips-those might have been more useful if they’d been bare. But his chest-when she let herself stumble against him, and splayed her hands across the wide muscles, she felt his breathing lock.

The exercise cost her another episode of feeling his hands too firm about her waist, but she slipped out of his hold smiling. Intently.

They continued to chat, to play chief attraction for the gathered throng, all the while pursuing their game. The necessity of concealing their increasingly physical clashes raised the stakes, heightened the challenge.

Finally, she found what she sought. His thighs-he tensed visibly when she artfully trailed her fingers down the long muscles, taut beneath his trousers.

For a fraction of a second, his mask slipped, and she glimpsed the man who had kissed her in the forest. Then he avoided her hand and spun her into the crowd. A second later she felt his hand on her hip, felt it slide lower, then close. Thanking heaven for her heavy skirts and petticoats, she stepped away with a teasing look.

Ten minutes later, she caught him again. With his back to the wall and her before him, her wide skirts hiding her hands, she spread her fingers about his thighs, then ran her hands upward-

Gyles caught her wrists in an iron grip. He found himself staring into brilliant green eyes, widening slightly-and wondered what the hell they were doing. He didn’t need her to touch him to arouse him; he was already aching. Their game-and her unexpected participation-had wound him tight.

If she touched him-

He flicked a glance at the crowd. They’d spent time with everyone, done their social duty; the event was drawing to a close. It was early evening, still light outside. The majority of guests would head home that night. Most would leave as soon as Francesca and he retired.

He looked into his bride’s challenging eyes. “Let’s continue this in private.”

Her brows rose, then she inclined her head. “As you wish.”

She straightened, then looked down when he didn’t release her wrists. Gyles forced himself to do it-to uncurl

his long fingers and let her go. She watched him do it, watched his fingers unfurl. He saw one brow arch, and realized she could feel it, sense it-the effort it cost him, and all that he was hiding, even from her.

“The door along the wall to our right-go out, take the first right, third left, first right. You’ll come to a flight of stairs. Go up-it’ll bring you out beside a gallery. A maid will be waiting to lead you to the countess’s suite.”

She’d glanced up again; he couldn’t read her eyes. “And you?”

“I’ll cut through the crowd and take a different exit. That way, we’ll avoid any unnecessary fuss.” He paused, then asked, “Assuming, of course, that you’re not partial to fuss?”

She held his gaze for an instant, then, mask gone, inclined her head haughtily. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

She turned and glided away from him.

Gyles watched until she disappeared through the door, then he straightened and sauntered into the crowd to make good his own escape.

Chapter 7

“Wallace?”

“Yes, sir?”