Free Between the Devil and Ian Eversea by Julie Anne Long Page A

was looking up, gazing limpidly back at him. He was a connoisseur of women’s mouths, and hers was a work of art, he was forced to concede. The bottom lip a shell-pink pillowy curve, the top shorter, with two gentle little peaks. A bit like a heart. Both whimsical and sensual, one was tempted to trace its contours with a finger.
    Her face was rather heart-shaped, too, and the heat of the crowded ballroom and the vigor of dancing had made her rosy. It was the sort of color a good bout of lovemaking put into a woman’s cheeks.
    He contemplated telling her this, just to shock the living daylights out of her.
    “Is something amusing, Mr. Eversea?” She said this with something like strained gaiety.
    “Oh, something is always amusing. I suppose that’s my motto, if one must have one. What is yours, Miss Danforth?”
    “Never surrender,” she said instantly.
    He was a bit taken aback.
    “That is a pity,” he tried. Murmuring. Halfheartedly sending out the innuendo as a smuggler would send a signal with a lamp from the coast, but not expecting much by way of response.
    Something did twitch across her cloudless brow. Irritation? Confusion? Indigestion?
    “I beg your pardon?” she said politely.
    He didn’t expound. “That’s a much better motto than the one for, oh, Leicestershire: ‘Always the Same.’ ”
    This elicited a burst of loud laughter from her that made him suppress, just barely, a wince.
    She modulated it instantly, then fell abruptly silent. A moment later she cleared her throat.
    “Then again, there’s a measure of comfort in sameness,” she said, to the man who thrived on risk and newness, especially new women. “Why did you mention Leicestershire? Is there something special about it?”
    She seemed to be waiting with bated breath. As if everything hinged on the next thing he said.
    “It’s where Richard the Third was buried. Or so they say.” That was nearly all he knew about Leicester. That, and the motto.
    “Richard the Third? The kingdom for a horse king? The poor bent chap? Are you very interested in history, then?” It was a rush of barely contained eagerness.
    “One and the same. Are you very interested in history, Miss Danforth?”
    The answer was important. If it was affirmative, it would encourage him to avoid conversation with her altogether in the future. Not even an opportunity to play red flag to the Duke of Falconbridge’s bull would tempt him to endure conversations about ancient history.
    The present was so much safer than the past, as far as Ian was concerned, and the future was a concept he’d only begun contemplating with excitement. It would be his refuge, all those ports on that map of the world. He would run like a river, never stopping. He suspected, after all, it was his nature to keep moving.
    He looked out over her head at the ballroom, and saw Olivia sail by in the arms of Lord Landsdowne, who looked possessive and proud. So she’d either walked off her sore ankle or decided she’d better dance with Landsdowne on the heels of his reel with Miss Danforth. Olivia looked . . . one never knew with Olivia. She’d perfected the art of appearing as though everything was perfect. And there was a certain defiance to her lately. As though she thought Lyon Redmond was actually looking on when she went walking with Landsdowne, and when she danced with him, and suffering over it.
    “I’m interested in some periods of history. Perhaps I’ll go to Leicester one day.” Miss Danforth sounded a trifle desperate.
    He returned his attention to her.
    “Perhaps you will,” he humored. And as if this entire conversation was rudderless and he could not be blamed if he failed to stay the course, he looked out over her head again . . . There she was. Lady Carstairs dancing with some other fortunate soul.
    He knew her quick sultry smile and that little head toss were all for him, and he wondered which of the alcoves he ought to attempt to maneuver her into before the night was