by Amy Sandas
His body tightened with the fierce desire to smooth his mouth over that untouched skin and feel its silky softness under his tongue.
Fixing as fierce a scowl as he could manage on his face, he brought his gaze to hers. “You mistake me for a different sort of man if you think to make me your pawn.”
Her eyes were wide and her breath came short. He couldn’t be sure if it was from his heated gaze or the threat in his voice, but still, she did not step away from the door. Instead, she lifted her chin and replied defiantly, if not a little breathlessly, “On the contrary, Lord Granville, I think you’re the very best man for the task.”
So, she knew who he was.
She was either bolder or more naïve than he thought. Whatever it was, it was time to put an end to her little fantasy.
Roman stepped toward her. Slowly. “The only thing you’d get by being seen with me is a scandal. Is that what you want, little pet? Ruination?” he asked in a voice weighted with the tension inside him.
“I’m not asking you to ruin me,” she replied, her voice lowering to match his. “Just talk to me. In view of the others.”
Now that he was close enough, Roman noted that her eyes were a light variation of hazel. Pure and bright, like champagne-colored topaz. He slid his gaze over the curve of her cheek, then along the line of her jaw and down the side of her neck to her bare shoulder. “Even if I could manage such a thing,” he continued in a drawl, “no one would believe it was a harmless little chat. They will assume I intend to bed you or that I’ve already had your legs wrapped around me.”
Her gasp was soft and barely perceptible.
He’d intended to shock her, prove how misguided she was to think he’d be the one to help in her scheme.
But when he lifted his gaze back to hers, he caught sight of something unexpected in her eyes.
Mixed in with her frustration and cautious trepidation was a fresh, bright spark of desire.
Chapter Two
Haylie Dellacourt held her breath, but it didn’t stop her heart from thumping like the gallop of hooves against her ribs.
A smart girl would have fled the room the moment she’d realized she was suddenly alone with the Marquess of Granville, one of the most infamous and unrepentant rakes in all of England.
Haylie, however, had been far more terrified of the young ladies in the hall than she had been of the man lounging decadently in the corner of the darkened room, staring at her with a black and brooding gaze.
He wasn’t handsome in a truly aesthetic sense with the harsh, masculine angles of his face, the dark, almost soulless black of his gaze, and the sardonic twist to his lips. His attraction was something that ran deeper than his appearance. It was a thread of knowledge and an untouchable quality that, even in her lack of experience Haylie understood was dangerous to the female heart.
Though it had been years since she had last seen him as a child, she had recognized him immediately. In this moment, however, she realized her error in thinking that just because the marquess had been friends with her brother years ago during school, he would somehow find it in himself to befriend her as well.
Stupid girl.
But she wasn’t about to give up now, even though he was trying to frighten her off with ridiculous talk of ruination. No one in the ballroom would ever believe what he implied so crudely. She was well aware she wasn’t the sort of girl who inspired notorious behavior from a dangerous rogue, so his current ploy was lost on her.
Well, almost lost. Though she knew it was a farce, she couldn’t quite keep her body from reacting to his rough words, heated gaze, and improper proximity. Everything inside her seemed on the verge of melting, including her brain.
“Is that what you want?” he asked darkly, and Haylie had to think hard to recall his last words.
She didn’t want ruination, but could she accept the possibility of it?
Of course.
Not for Lord Westcott, but for herself. She was dreadfully tired of being the plump little wallflower no one wanted to dance with, and the marquess had offered a solution. The moment she was seen on his arm, people would have to start seeing her in a different light. People who had disregarded her at every turn would start to wonder about her. Someone might even be urged to come and talk to her. And if that someone could be Lord Westcott, Haylie was quite certain others would follow.
She met his gaze and answered confidently. “I doubt ruination could be any worse than being a hopeless wallflower.”
“It would be far worse,” he stated. “Trust me.”
“It doesn’t matter because a simple dance can’t very well ruin a girl,” she argued. “Allow me just one to test your theory. After that, I swear I’ll never bother you again.”
He stepped up to her, so close she had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. So close her skirts brushed against his legs and she was able to detect the muted scent of cedar-wood emanating from his coat.
When he spoke then, his voice held a harsh note of something akin to anger, though his eyes declared no emotion at all. “Don’t make a promise you can’t fulfill,” he muttered thickly. “Step aside.”
Haylie’s body swayed of its own accord. Instinct urged her to do as he said.
But something else inside her—something rebellious that was sick and tired of being the butt of crude jokes if she wasn’t being ignored altogether—was desperate to stand her ground.
She no sooner stiffened her spine and lifted her chin than she felt his large hands grasping her firmly about the waist. A half gasp, half squeak escaped her lips as he lifted her in the air and turned to set her down a meter from where she’d just been standing.
She was so stunned by the sudden move and the ease with which he’d accomplished it that she barely had a moment to acknowledge the warmth and strength of his hands, or the sudden flare of heat in his dark gaze, or the way they had been nearly nose to nose and chest to chest for a split second before he opened the study door and passed through, pulling it shut behind him with a resounding click.
Haylie stood right where he’d left her, blinking in shock.
Then a tingling little thrill rushed through her, curling her toes and increasing her heart rate. She’d just done something most women only whispered about in heated sighs behind fans in secluded corners.
She’d been alone in a room with the infamous Marquess of Granville.
His sardonic gaze and darkly sensual manner were everything they were rumored to be. Even as he’d been warning her off, she’d been drawn in. The richness of his voice, the intent way he’d looked at her, the brief, heady grasp of his hands on her person. Haylie had no doubt his roguish reputation was well earned.
With a deep breath, she crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips in thought.
Considering everything the marquess did tended to be noticed and talked about, his suggestion of trying to gain Lord Westcott’s attention certainly had merit. If only he weren’t so totally opposed to helping her.
She couldn’t very well ask any of the other gentlemen of her very limited acquaintance to engage in the type of farce the marquess had suggested. She could imagine how that awkward conversation would go. It would be complete humiliation.
The marquess, however, was known for bold, disreputable behavior. Haylie had a hard time believing he had any true misgivings over the potential risk of ruining her. A single dance with the scandalous marquess surely wouldn’t do much more than draw a few eyes her way and perhaps spark a little speculation.
As a little girl dreaming of her debut, she never could have imagined that slipping in a puddle of spilled punch would destroy her social life. Unfortunately, her rounded figure and the fact that she’d ended up sprawled across an elaborate buffet table had been enough to trigger derision amongst her peers.
She’d instantly become an undesirable. The more people avoided her, the more awkward she’d become in her attempts to make friends until it reached the point that none of the other young
ladies would associate with her and the gentlemen coolly kept their distance. It remained that way all through her first season and had continued through her second.
Until just last week, when Lord Westcott had smiled briefly at her in passing.
He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in London, extremely popular with ladies, gentlemen, and the matrons alike. If she could gain his favor—even fleetingly—it might turn the tide of the rest of the ton, allowing her to finally step past her disastrous debut.
Her gaze narrowed. After stalking to the closed door, she gripped the handle with purpose.
One dance.
That was all she needed.
Haylie kept her head high and her pace unhurried as she strode down the hall to the ballroom located at the far end. But once she stood in the wide arched entrance, her stomach turned and her steps faltered.
The ballroom was a total crush. The dance floor was crowded with dancers while more guests circled the outer edges of the room in a steady flow of bi-directional foot traffic. Haylie instinctively angled toward the wall, where at least she could catch a breath. Rising on her tiptoes, she tried to scan the crowd for a tall man with dark hair and deep black eyes within a scowling visage. After a moment, she realized she would have no luck spotting the marquess if she stayed in one place.
Trying not to look as desperate as she felt, she began to circle the dance floor, sweeping her attention from the dancers on her left to the milling groups of guests on her right. It took more than an hour to make a full circle. By the time she reached the entrance once again, she determined that Granville was not in the ballroom. Or if he was, there was very little chance she’d find him.
Feeling defeated, she found an unoccupied spot along the wall.
She was foolish anyway to think she might be able to convince a man like Granville to do her bidding. And she was probably even more foolish to think Lord Westcott might be swayed by the sight of another man paying attention to her.
It was a stupid idea she never should have entertained.
She suddenly wanted nothing more than to leave the party altogether. But since her cousin was the bride being honored with this over-the-top wedding celebration, she was obligated to stay the duration, which meant two more days of torturous events such as this.
“My dear Miss Dellacourt.”
Haylie’s stomach dropped and she resisted the urge to close her eyes against this new challenge to her fortitude. Instead, she placed a careful smile on her lips as she turned to view her greatest social nemesis approaching on the arm of Lord Reynaud.
Miss Eleanor Brighton-Smith was a lovely creature with fair, curling hair, vivid blue eyes, and a slim figure reminiscent of a sapling willow. Her expression was one of very mild concern.
“Hello,” Haylie replied politely, though her muscles tensed.
“You appear distressed,” the other woman noted gently. “Have you lost your way to the buffet table?”
Chapter Three
Across the ballroom, Roman noticed as the blush of shame and suppressed anger colored the young woman’s soft cheeks. He was too far away to hear what the slim blonde had said, but he was certain it wasn’t complimentary. He waited for the gentleman to step in with some chivalrous defense. Instead, the young man bent to whisper something to his elegant companion, causing her to laugh before they both moved on.
What the hell?
He didn’t often move in such polite circles, but wasn’t that what they were supposed to be? Polite?
From where he stood leaning against the doorframe just inside the small smoking room located off the ballroom, he had a clear view of the dark-haired woman in yellow who had just spent more than an hour circling the ballroom. Several dances had commenced during her lengthy stroll and not once was she approached by a partner.
In fact, she wasn’t approached by anyone.
It bothered him. Enough to keep him watching and wondering where the girl’s chaperone was. Or her sponsor. Weren’t debutantes supposed to have an overprotective mother or elderly aunt at their elbow guiding them through the waters of society? What about a skulking male relative ready to defend her honor?
It appeared the young lady was quite alone.
It was none of his business.
It shouldn’t matter that despite her obvious humiliation, she remained where she was, bravely facing her tormentors. It especially shouldn’t mean anything to him when she took a heavy breath and lifted her chin with a tentative and hopeful smile as another group of young people walked by without even sparing her a glance.
Ultimately, it came down to the fact that something needed to be done about the wretched situation and since no one else was going to intervene, it would have to be him. After stubbing his cheroot out in an ashtray, Roman left the smoking room in long strides, ignoring those he passed just as they had all ignored her.
He knew his appearance in the ballroom was likely giving society matrons a bit of a shock, but he honestly didn’t care. Unlike the young woman he approached with single-minded purpose, he had absolutely no concern with what high society thought of him, which was exactly why he was the last person she needed.
Too late now.
Having noticed the stir he caused in his approach, the young woman turned toward him with those big, beautiful eyes of hers. Her full-bow lips parted in surprise, causing a spark to ignite in his blood—a spark distinctive to her that was becoming disturbingly familiar.
Coming to a stop, Roman couldn’t manage to smooth away his usual scowl, but he did give a short bow as he held out his hand. “I believe this dance belongs to me.”
Her pupils dilated as she sent a frantic glance to one side and then the other before staring up at him again with a stunned gaze.
Roman lifted a brow. “Unless you’ve come to your senses,” he added in a lowered tone meant just for her ears. “Be very certain of you answer. I cannot guarantee the results of this charade.”
“No,” she blurted quickly. “I mean, yes.” She placed her hand in his and stepped toward him. Her skirts swirled around their feet as she lifted her chin to look up at him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Tucking her hand into the bend of his elbow, he led her out to the dance floor, realizing far too late that the band had struck up a waltz. A country dance would have suited his purpose just fine, but now he’d have to contend with the added torment of having her warmth and softness practically pressed up against him for the duration of the song.
As soon as they reached the edge of the swirling dancers, he turned to face her. Lifting one of her hands into position, he slid his other hand around the corseted column of her waist in decadent self-torture before smoothing it up the center of her spine into the proper position.
Too late, he realized he never replaced his gloves after leaving the smoking room, which meant his thumb and forefinger slid across the bare skin of her upper back. His body tensed in delicious anticipation as he pressed his hand between her shoulder blades and guided her into the first step.
She moved gracefully at his bidding, receptive and trusting. Her posture was lovely, her steps light and perfectly in time to the music. The dance was effortless, which gave Roman far too much time and opportunity to notice other fine details of the woman in his arms.
First, that her skin felt like silk beneath his touch. Also, that the pink had not yet left her cheeks. And lastly, that she had refused to look up at him since they started the waltz.
“Filled with regret already, pet?”
Her chin lifted immediately and her pale, shimmering eyes found his. “Not at all, my lord. It’s just been a long time since I’ve danced. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it.”
An unexpected flash of anger tightened his grip on her fingers.
Then she smiled. “I suppose you dance all the time,” she suggested softly.
“No, I don’t.”
Her surprise was genuine. “But you’re so good at it.”
“There are other
things I prefer to do when I have a woman in my arms.”
Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t look away from his intent gaze. He wasn’t even sure why he’d said such a suggestive thing. Perhaps he wanted to see her reaction to the innuendo. Or maybe he just wanted to remind her of the risk she took in enlisting his help.
“You certainly seem fond of your wicked reputation, my lord,” she observed with a slight tilt of her dark head.
He didn’t refute the observation. “How do you know who I am?” he asked. “We don’t exactly move in the same circles.”
“You and my brother were friends at school. I met you when you came home with him on holiday one year.” Her lashes fluttered over her gaze. “You likely don’t recall our brief introduction since I was just a small child.”
Roman frowned. A heavy feeling settled in his gut. There were only a few times he’d ever gone anywhere but home for holiday. “Who is your brother?”
“James Dellacourt. My name is Haylie Dellacourt.”
A curse slid from his throat.
Her eyes widened at the word no gentleman would ever use in a lady’s presence, but she did not pull away or miss a step.
Roman looked down at her, astounded at the fateful circumstances that put this woman in his arms tonight. His voice was leaden with sins committed long ago as he said, “You do realize your brother hates me.”
She tilted her head and eyed him curiously. “I know you haven’t been as close as you were, but I seriously doubt James hates you. I cannot imagine him feeling such a strong emotion for anything.”
Roman’s smile was strictly sardonic. “Trust me. He’d probably rather see me dead than dancing with his sister.”
She studied him for a moment, the soft gold glint of her eyes assessing and thoughtful, before she gave a careless little shrug and glanced to the side. “Then it’s a good thing he isn’t here.”
Roman lowered his brows. “He did not accompany you?”
She snorted at that. “James has never escorted me anywhere. If it doesn’t involve his horses or his hounds, he cannot be bothered to take interest in it.”