Her hand flew her face, which was fast turning a shade redder. Embarrassment pinched at her mouth. “Yes, well, that happens more often than not, milord,” she said, quickly tucking the errant strand behind her ear. “As you see, there is a good reason the tabbies call me the Hellion of High Street.”

“Do you not care about fashion?” he inquired, distracted by the graceful, shell-pink curve. He had never before thought of an ear as erotic, but there was something strangely sensual about hers.

“Not as much as I care about other things,” she replied, her husky voice holding a faint note of challenge.

What things? he wondered. Other than chess. But aware of how stilted his comments were sounding, John remained silent.

The awkwardness stretched for several moments before his sister edged back a step. “Oh look, there is Lady Repton. If you will excuse me, I must have a word with her before she disappears for good into the card room.” said Cecilia. “Wrexham, the musicians are striking up a waltz. I am sure that Miss Sloane would like to dance.”

“His Lordship need not trouble himself—” began Olivia.

“Oh, it’s not trouble at all,” said Cecilia breezily. “Indeed, my brother adores dancing.”

John mechanically held out his hand.

One, two, three. One, two, three…

Olivia could swear she heard him counting under his breath. Ticking off the seconds, no doubt, until he could escape the embarrassment of having to partner an ape leader.

A clumsy a

pe leader, she amended as she missed a beat and trod on his toes.

“Sorry,” intoned John.

His hold on her tightened. He had big hands, yet their touch was surprising gentle. And warm. Olivia was suddenly aware of a tingling heat spreading across the small of her back.

Perhaps dancing isn’t so odious after all, she mused, acutely aware of his long legs and corded thighs scant inches from her body. The thought took her by surprise. Up until now, the experience had left her cold, but there was something about the earl that set him apart from other gentlemen of the ton.

His evening clothes, for one thing, observed Olivia. Unlike many of the puffed-up popinjays present tonight, he was dressed in unrelenting black, save for the brilliant white hue of his simply-tied cravat and low-cut shirtpoints.

And in contrast to the soft, fleshy figures dancing close by, the earl was as solid as chiseled steel. Beneath her gloved hand, she could feel the flex of hard, lithe, muscle.

Military muscle.

She had, of course, recognized the Earl of Wrexham at once as the soldier from the smoke-shrouded game room. That he seemed oblivious to her identity was probably all for the best—it had been an odd encounter, to say the least, and one that was best forgotten.

As they spun beneath one of the ornate crystal chandeliers, she ventured a look up through her lashes, curious to have a better look at his face in the bright light. Up close, his sun-bronzed features had the same austere lines and sculpted strength as wind-carved granite. Save for his mouth, which once again struck her as having…a sinuous sensuality.

Good Lord, thought Olivia with a self-mocking smile. I must remember to pass that description on to Anna for the next scene in her novel.

Shifting her gaze, she watched the thick strands of his ebony-dark hair dance against his collar. He wore it unfashionably long, and the silky texture softened the sharp line of his jaw. The earl, she decided, wasn’t precisely handsome, he was…interesting.

“What were you writing?” he asked abruptly.

So, he had been observant enough to see that.

“Oh, er, nothing of any interest, sir.”

“A secret billet doux to one of your admirers?” John cracked a smile for the first time. “Ho, ho,” he added, his joviality sounding a bit too forced. “Have no fear, Miss Sloane. You may count on me not to say a word about it.”

Olivia bristled. How like a man to assume that a lady was capable of writing naught but love notes. Ashamed of herself for imagining, even for a scant moment, that he was different from the other tulips of the ton, she replied tartly, “You know sir, not all females are brainless widgeons.”

His brows shot up in confusion. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied sweetly. “You did.”

“I—”

Tags: Cara Elliott Hellions of High Street Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net