Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)
“Your sister knows me too well, Miss Caro.”
“On the contrary,” protested Anna. “I know you not at all, sir.”
“A more accurate statement would be that you know me better than you think.”
A frightening thought.
“However, in the spirit of furthering the acquaintance, might I request the next dance?” asked Devlin abruptly.
Taken by surprise, Anna stammered, “I—I am fatigued, sir.”
A glint of unholy amusement seemed to light in his eyes. “I promise to move very slowly. As you know, I am loath to exert myself any more than necessary.”
Caro stifled an unladylike chortle. “That’s not what is whispered in all the drawing rooms, sir.”
“It’s dangerous to listen to idle speculation, Miss Caro.” Devlin held out his hand to Anna. “Well?
“But you never dance at these parties,” she said.
“Aren’t you just a little curious as to why I wish to do so now?”
“No,” lied Anna. Against all reason, the desire to feel his touch again impelled her to add, “But to avoid drawing unwanted attention, I shall accede to your request. People are already staring.”
“Let them,” drawled Devlin, as he led her to the far corner of the ballroom floor. “Do you really give a fig for what bumbleheaded idiots think of your actions?”
“Ladies are not as fre
e as you gentlemen are to thumb their noses at Society,” she answered obliquely. “The rules are far stricter.”
“Don’t the rules ever chafe, like the whalebone stays of a corset that’s been laced too tightly?”
Anna avoided the uncomfortable question by snapping back with a tart retort. “Somehow I doubt you have much experience with too-tight corsets, Lord Davenport. Unlike the Prince Regent, you have no need yet to wear such an intimate garment to enhance your manly figure.”
A silent laugh, warm and wicked, teased against her cheek. “True. But I have unlaced enough wasp-waisted women to know that they must be deucedly uncomfortable.”
Drat the rapscallion rogue—he was impossibly awful. Anna looked away to a distant spot over his left shoulder, hoping a telltale flush of color was not betraying the terrible tickle of heat that suddenly flared inside her. And impossibly intriguing. The thought of his long tapered fingers unknotting her undergarment stirred a strange shiver. What a pity she could not ask him for a detailed description of the process. It would be quite useful in writing Count Alessandro’s next seduction scene.
“Forgive me, am I boring you?” inquired Devlin, as the musicians struck up the first lilting notes of the new dance.
It was a waltz, Anna realized belatedly.
“Your thoughts seem to be wandering,” he added.
“I…” His palm pressed lightly on the small of her back, drawing her close, and all of a sudden, the rest of her words seemed to trip away.
Strangely enough, the floor was behaving oddly as well. The parquet took on a tiny tilt, pitching her off-balance.
“Too much champagne, Miss Sloane?” Devlin’s voice held a hint of amusement.
“As I said, I’m tired, sir, and not much in the mood for dancing.” The first twirling steps left her feeling even more lightheaded. “So perhaps you could stop spinning in circles and simply get to the point of why you have dragged me out here.”
“Ah, and here I thought my technique was not quite so clumsy.”
In truth, he was an excellent dancer, lithe and light on his feet. For someone who claimed to be an indolent idler, he had a panther-like grace, an impression sharpened by the rippling of muscle beneath the tailored black wool of his evening attire.
“If you are fishing for flattery, cast your lures elsewhere, sir.” Anna tried to sound stern, but there was, she admitted to herself, something exhilarating about crossing verbal swords with the marquess. Yes, his clever, caustic tongue could cut like a rapier, but the fact that he expected her to be able to defend herself with equal skill was in itself a great compliment. It added an unexpected edge to their thrusts and parries.
And interestingly enough, their recent clashes had given a hint of hidden steel beneath his devil-may-care…