Free Captive by Joan Johnston Page B

said, that the duke had wanted to dance with her because she was beautiful.
    “Do you think I’m beautiful?”
    Denbigh looked startled at the question, and then uncomfortable. “Why do you ask?”
    “You said the duke wanted to dance with me because I’m beautiful. Do you think I’m beautiful?”
    Charlotte was looking right into Denbigh’s eyes when she asked and saw a flare of some emotion, quickly shuttered. He continued staring at her until she felt a disconcerting heat rising in her cheeks. She refused to look away, focusing instead on his individual features, the wide-spaced gray eyes, the black brows, the aquiline nose, the square jaw, the mobile mouth that hardly ever smiled.
    She watched him lick his lips and felt a strange shiver of excitement run through her. She wondered if he had felt it, too. She lifted her gaze to meet his and found his eyes were heavy-lidded, his nostrils flared, his lips somewhat full. Charlotte suddenly felt threatened, but there was no escape from his embrace.
    “My lord …” She didn’t finish the sentence because she couldn’t remember what she had wanted to say.
    “Your eyes are too big,” the earl said in a husky voice, “and as green as a cat’s. Your hair tumbles about your face like a fallen stack of goldenboys. Your lashes, on the other hand, don’t match your hair at all. They’re coal black. And you have freckles marring those alabaster cheeks.”
    “You refused to let me cover them with powder, my lord,” Charlotte reminded him in a voice that quivered with hurt as he listed all her faults.
    “And your mouth …” Denbigh made a
tsk
ing sound and shook his head as though in dismay. “You have the mouth of a courtesan. Red and plump and rosy. It is easy to see what Braddock found to like. But Braddock is a rake.”
    Charlotte lifted her chin pugnaciously. “Are you finished, my lord?”
    “No, I am not. Your chin defines you, Lady Charlotte. Defiant. Stubborn. Square and honest to a fault.”
    “Now are you done?”
    “One more thing.”
    “What is that?”
    Instead of answering, Denbigh danced her toward the edge of the floor, toward a curtained anteroom that concealed them from the assembly. Once inside he stopped dancing. When she tried tostep back, his arm firmed around her waist, holding her in place. “You make a man want to keep you safe from the evils of the world, to kiss you and touch you and hold you close.”
    Charlotte fought back a momentary panic. She had no idea why Denbigh was saying such things. He most certainly could not act on such a statement. After all, she could hear the dancers whirling past them on the other side of the curtain. There was nothing the earl could do to her here that would be any worse than the insults he had hurled on the dance floor.
    Or so she thought, until he lowered his head and his lips touched hers.
    Olivia could hardly believe she was waltzing at Almack’s. She had dreamed of it for so many years—since the accident when she was seventeen—and been so very certain her dream would never come true. Now, thanks to Charlotte, it had.
    The reality of it was even more wonderful than she had imagined. She could feel the muscles in Braddock’s shoulder under her fingertips, feel the strength of his arm around her waist, the warmth of his body, the scents of soap and male sweat, which were not at all unpleasant.
    And she could feel his gaze on her. That is, when he was not watching her brother.
    “Do you think your brother will call me out for the insult?” Braddock asked abruptly.
    She glanced up at him in surprise. “What insult, Your Grace?”
    “For daring to dance with his sister,” Braddock said. It was plain he would have welcomed a duel.
    “It is an honor you do me, Your Grace.”
    “The honor is mine,” he replied grimly.
    She knew he was responding with what courtesy demanded. Even if he did not mean it. “It is kind of you to say so, Your Grace.”
    “Kindness has nothing to do with my