Free Most Eagerly Yours by Allison Chase Page B

fool could see you were feeling unwell.”
    “Lord Wentworth didn’t abandon me,” she clarified. “He went to find me something to drink.”
    “It looks as though I have beat him to it. His loss.” His voice dipped. “And my gain.”
    Was it? His attentions left her flustered. It had been for George Fitzclarence’s benefit that Victoria had meticulously selected her wardrobe to emphasize her very best features—her blond hair, her slim figure, and, yes, her supposed wealth. Her amber gown was of the finest-quality silk; her slippers, reticule, and fan had been purchased at Bond Street’s most exclusive shops.
    For all the bait they had set, had she hooked the wrong fish?
    Unless . . . had the Earl of Barensforth followed her outside because he recognized her from that long-ago summer’s day?
    Apprehension sent a forced rush of blood to hum in her ears, throb in her temples. She pictured herself as she had appeared to him then: bonnet gone, coif devastated, dress torn, face streaked with dirt. She herself had hardly recognized the image staring back from the glass above her dresser. Surely, then, he did not recognize her now.
    Even so, she guarded her face with another sip of champagne, then started to go inside. “Thank you, but I must rejoin—”
    He shifted, blocking her path. “Beatrice tells me your dance card is full. A pity. You really ought to dance with me.”
    She stopped short, nearly colliding with his chest. “Oh, and why is that?”
    “I’d spare your feet a good deal of mistreatment.”
    The candid observation made her laugh in spite of herself. “You noticed that? How horribly embarrassing. I’m afraid the fault was entirely my own. I confess to being a hopeless clod on the dance floor.”
    “Oh, no, Mrs. Sanderson, I think not. I watched you dance. You were perfection.”
    He had watched her? The knowledge made her insides flutter.
    “Everyone watched you. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
    She hardly knew what to say, so she said nothing and shook her head.
    His hand—the same powerful hand that had once reached through a crowd for her—beckoned now. His proximity made her feel as though she were back in the ballroom crush, heated, pressed in upon, breathless. The darkness carved his features with a brutal beauty. His ebony tailcoat, ivory knee breeches, and glowing white shirtfront seemed sculpted from the smoothest stone.
    “With your permission, may I prove a point?”
    “I . . . that depends entirely on the point you intend on making.”
    His smile became devastating in its exuberance. “Can you hear the music from here?”
    “Of course I can hear the music. I am not deaf, sir.”
    He relieved her of both the champagne glass and the gloves she still held in her other hand, and set them on the balustrade. When he returned, he positioned himself toe-to-toe with her, his wide shoulders and broad chest blocking out everything beyond, including the safety to be found through the doorway.
    His left hand claimed her waist, settling open-palmed just above her hip. His other hand closed around hers. Heated awareness pulsed through her as she realized that he, too, was gloveless, that his palm lay brazenly naked against her own.
    “Madam, prepare yourself as we endeavor to discover the full extent of your talents.”
    Before she could think of a response to that bit of cheek, she found herself swept in smooth, flowing circles, the crisp breeze filling her skirts, stirring her hair, and uplifting her soul.
    He partnered her flawlessly, even over the bumpy flagstones, never once stepping on her foot . . . never once looking away from her eyes. His own eyes, shadowed and fathomless, smoldered with unspoken suggestions, untold implications. She felt keenly aware of everything about him: his superior height, his muscular build, the searing brand of his palm at her waist. . . .
    The notion struck her—stunned her—that they were doing something more than dancing, something much more intimate, more