“I’m disappointed there is no Mazurka on the program this evening, since it is your specialty.”
He laughed. “A waltz would suit me just as well. May I bring you something to drink in the meantime?”
“Burnt champagne would be lovely.”
Lily watched him move away, relieved that their conversation was going well. The evening was turning out to be civil and amusing—precisely what was needed.
Richard hurried up and took her hands. “Please, Lily, dance the galop with me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Anne Riding.”
“What? My cousin actually begging me to dance? How the tables have turned. Your sister says you bribe handsomely. Is it true?”
“Yes, but Isabelle’s price is too steep—she wants my favorite horse! Please, Lily. You’re my only hope.”
“Oh, very well. You’re lucky I am so filled with charity this evening.” She let him pull her toward the dance floor. “I’ll rescue you and your horse too.”
The two of them formed up in the long lines of ladies and gentlemen on the floor. Soon the strains of a lively reel had them whirling about, and some of the younger folk made a show of kicking up their heels in the energetic dance. Richard danced well, never mind what Isabelle might say about his skills. When the music finally ended, Lily was breathless.
Mr. Huntington found them as they left the floor, and handed Lily her champagne. “I see Richard decided to dance with you after all.”
Richard straightened. “Sorry to steal Lily away. She came to my rescue—it was a desperate bit of business.”
Mr. Huntington lowered his voice. “Speed and camouflage; they are your best hope. And if you are cornered, turn the topic to a subject that woman cannot long abide—the merits of different fowling guns or an account of your exploits at billiards.”
“Mr. Huntington!” Lily said. “I shall hold you personally responsible if Richard ever raises those subjects in my hearing.”
Richard, spotting Miss Riding closing on them, gave a muffled groan. “Thank you for the dance, and the advice. If you will excuse me—” He was gone, slipping with surprising agility in the direction of the refreshment tables.
Mr. Huntington turned to her. “Miss Strathmore, I believe this next dance is mine.”
“Certainly, sir.” It was the least she could do for their guest. Lily took a hasty sip of champagne then set it down on a nearby table. It was making her feel a bit unsteady.
The musicians began marking out the beat for a quadrille, an older, stately dance.
“Shall we?” Mr. Huntington held out his hand.
She set her hand in his, tamping down the rush of sensation as his fingers closed over hers.
He drew her confidently onto the floor and swept her a low bow as the figures began. Turning slowly, they revolved around one another. Lily’s skirts grazed his trousers in passing. The measured paces of the dance drew them forward and back, close enough to almost touch, then away, circling a new partner and back again.
Lily could not help meeting his eyes. He held her gaze for a heartbeat. Then two. Her breath quickened and she felt suspended in some quiet, magical bubble that enclosed just the two of them. Everything fell away, and it seemed that time had no meaning beyond the graceful dip and sway, the advance and retreat of their steps. The sleeve of his coat brushed softly against her arm as he passed, a whisper of a touch. The contact made her pulse leap.
Her every sense was enhanced. The taste of the fruity champagne lingered on her tongue, the lavender perfume she had touched to her throat enfolded her in rich fragrance, and the sound of violins cast a net of music that drew them smoothly through the twining figures.
Then the music slowed, and it was like waking from a dream. She could not look at him. Tomorrow she must return to London, where her mother would talk endlessly of guest lists and wedding gowns and the prestige the union with Lord Buckley would bring.
She stumbled, and in an instant Mr. Huntington was at her elbow, supporting her. His touch burned through the silk of her gown.
“Miss Strathmore?” Concern darkened his brown eyes.
“I’m fine. Just a momentary dizziness.” Lily cast about for a place to sit. She needed to escape him, his touch and scent, the sound of his voice. She needed to regain her wits—but he was guiding her through the crowd and out onto the terrace.
Quiet folded about them as they left the ballroom. She took a deep breath of cool, misty air to steady herself. The light shining through the doors and windows reached only a few feet before fading into the black and silver of the night.
“Better?”
“The air helps.”
He leaned against the stone railing, the planes of his face softened by shadow. Far too handsome—and far too close. She closed her eyes, holding on to the rail with both hands, and drew in another breath, trying to collect herself.
“I feel much better now,” she lied. “Shall we return?”
“Let’s walk the terrace and enter the ballroom by the far doors.”
“I really don’t think…”
“We can avoid the crush that way.”
It was a sensible enough idea, though after their indiscretion in the conservatory, after the way she had just responded to him during the dance, the last place she should be was alone with him on a moonlit walk. Yet somehow her good sense had deserted her, leaving behind a wistful yearning, a burning restlessness just under her skin.
Lily pulled her shawl up over her shoulders and set out along the terrace, declining the offer of his arm. She might be foolish, but she was not stupid.
He kept pace with her, hands clasped behind his back. She could have sworn he was grinning.
Lanterns were set at intervals, highlighting a branch here, a bough of evergreen there. Below, a thin mist was rising over the lawns, curling low about the tree trunks and topiary. Lily paused to draw her wrap tighter and turned to look out over the gardens. It was a romantic scene, if a bit chilly. Impossible to paint with any fidelity.
“Are you cold?”
There was the rustle of cloth and then the weight of his coat settled over her shoulders, carrying his warmth, his scent. It was wicked of her, but she savored it.
“Thank you.” Her voice was more of a whisper than she had intended.
“Lily.” He spoke her familiar name and it was like a caress, his voice deep and close behind her. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders.
She closed her eyes and did not answer. They should return to the ballroom, but returning was hard, and yielding to the moment so easy. So perfect. She leaned back, letting her head rest against his chest. Immediately his arms encircled her.
With a groan, he bent and set his lips to the side of her neck. Sensation flared from the touch of his mouth against her skin. His hair, soft and cleanly scented, brushed against her jaw, and she could barely keep her balance as he trailed slow kisses up the column of her throat.
His hands settled on her hips and he turned her to face him. The moonlight showed the unmistakable desire in his expression, his eyes heavy-lidded, his hands anchoring her in place as he lowered his mouth to capture her lips. Lily slid her hands up to his shoulders and closed her eyes while the exhilaration blazing through her flared higher. She was aware of every place where she pressed against him. The night chill was banished by the heat of their two bodies.
“James.” She returned his kiss with an urgency that surprised her, an urgency that only increased when he slid his tongue against her lips, tracing a hot line along the seam of her mouth. Lily felt as though she could barely breathe—as though she did not need air, only this, the touch and taste of him, to sustain her. He moved his hand to her face and stroked her cheek, his thumb smoothing along her cheekbone and jaw with a gentle pressure, coaxing, opening. Lily parted her lips, allowing him to enter and explore, hot and moist.
She had never been kissed like this. It was thrilling and unexpected and her blood caught fire. She responded, letting her tongue meld agains
t his, wanting to devour him. There was no tomorrow, no ball, no moonlit terrace. Only the two of them, holding each other with such a fierce yearning that Lily thought her heart might break.
CHAPTER NINE
James was almost lost in the surge of reckless sensation. Lily felt incredibly right in his arms, her body molded against his, her fingers clutching his shoulders. Her mouth was sweetness and fire, and he wanted more. They had minutes, but he needed hours to press kisses over every inch of her skin. Gods, it would be so easy to lose himself with this woman.
The music was still playing, but was it the same dance? How long had they stood wrapped in each other’s arms? With effort, he broke the kiss.
Lily looked up at him, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in the universe. He watched as the dreamy look faded from her expression. She smiled unsteadily.
“A singularly effective way to get warm.”
Warm? Did she have any idea how warm he wanted to make her?
Above, a lone cloud ghosted across the sky, shadowing the moon. Lily’s smile faded with the light, and she stepped back, pulling off his coat. “Mr. Huntington, we really must return to the ballroom before we become a subject of speculation.”
“Of course.” James shrugged into his coat. She hadn’t fled this time, but the sudden return to formality stung. In an instant the fire had been banked.
The light in the ballroom dazzled them as they entered.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I must visit the ladies’ retiring room.”
James watched her go, then turned away. He could not spend the evening staring at the spot where she had disappeared.
“There you are, Huntington,” Sir Edward hailed him. “Come, let me introduce you around. There are several people you should meet—and the delicacies at the refreshment tables are starting to disappear. I promised you a fine repast, but we’d best hurry.”
“To the refreshments.” James hoped he sounded adequately enthusiastic.
“I trust Lily has made your evening more pleasant. She is acquainted with almost everyone—practically grew up here.”
“How is it that she has spent so much time with your family? Don’t her parents live in London?”
Sir Edward laughed. “Indeed they do, but as you have no doubt discovered, Lily has a will of her own. London is not entirely to her taste—especially these days.”
“Why is that?” Viscount Fernhaven
“Her mother. She is quite set on Lily making an excellent match—drags her around to all the balls and whatnot. Lily would rather paint. A pity it has to end. Lily’s parents have made it clear that her—rusticating, they call it—will no longer be tolerated. They intend to take her in hand, poor girl. Ah, here we are.” Sir Edward gestured to the sideboard loaded with platters of meats, oysters, chilled salads, and various pastries. “Didn’t I tell you there would be fare to rival London’s finest? Do try the lemon tarts. Splendid things.”
James took a bite. “Delicious. You were saying about Lily…?”
“Oh, yes. Whisking her back to London tomorrow is part of the new program. Lily’s mother sees matrimony as a battlefield, with spoils to the victor. I never understood that, although she certainly married well by her standards. My brother Michael’s rise in the House of Lords has increased her matrimonial investment many times over.”
James nearly choked on his lemon tart. “Lord Michael Strathmore is your brother?”
Sir Edward nodded. “Yes, although he knows next to nothing about botany.”
James cast about for an empty chair. To think, five minutes ago he had been kissing the daughter of one of the most influential men in Parliament. Lord Michael Strathmore, Viscount Fernhaven. The name was a fixture in the London papers. And Lily, with her paint-spattered blue apron and her botanical illustrations, was his wayward daughter.
It was not good news.
Sir Edward selected another tidbit from the table. “Say, don’t these oyster croquettes have a fine flavor? I doubt even Lily’s independence will stop her mother this time. Unique as Lily is, she is still a catch, particularly for one with political ambitions. My sister-in-law will have her sights set high, you can be sure.” He broke off. “There you are, Charles. I have someone I want you to meet. Huntington, this is Mr. Crawford.”
James shook hands with the elderly gentleman sporting a bottle-green velvet coat at least two decades out of fashion. “Mr. Crawford, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. The weather this evening is unseasonably warm. Are such early springs common here?”
“Common?”
Sir Edward pointed to his ear and nodded significantly toward the older gentleman.
“Are early springs common here?” James repeated.
“Springs? Why, back in ’08 we had such a spring. The fruit trees were blooming in March. Unseasonably warm, that. There was an abundant run of herring that year off the coast of Cornwall. When the herring come, you can count on a mild winter. Now, in ’14 we had just the opposite…”
James set aside his plate, appetite gone.
Lily was Viscount Fernhaven’s daughter. Strike him for a fool. It was a good thing that her father was sending a carriage to collect her tomorrow. If he slept late enough he might never have to see her again. He certainly would not seek her out. In fact, he would go out of his way to avoid her until her mother had married her off to the highest bidder.
This attraction to her was more of a mistake than he had thought—and it had to end. Now. He’d had the misfortune of falling in love with a woman of Lily’s status once before, and had no intention of repeating the blunder.
He had just turned twenty when he met Amanda Granville, the daughter of a peer, a man very like Lily’s father. James had been introduced to her in the swirl of her first Season and they had fallen instantly and madly in love. The two of them had exchanged fervent kisses whenever they could slip away, and she had promised to be his.
Unfortunately, her father had very different ideas. How had he put it? “I will burn in hell before I allow a landless, title-less orphan of a second son to marry my daughter.” There had been quite a scene when James had come to press his suit. What a miserable young fool he had been.
“You are nothing! You are so far below her it’s laughable.”
“Amanda, tell him,” James had pleaded with her, but she had only sobbed into a handkerchief, not even daring to look at him. Her father had summoned his menservants and ordered them to seize the young man who had the audacity to ask for his daughter’s hand. James could still recall the shame of being forcibly escorted down the stairs and tossed out on the street.
“If you come near my daughter, or my property, I will have you arrested and flogged.” Lord Granville had been in such a rage that he had shouted it from the open window of his study, heedless of anyone who might overhear. “Drive him away!” he had called to his men, and to his everlasting humiliation, James had run down one of the most fashionable streets in London chased by servants in Granville livery.
The next day he had used the money left by his father to purchase an officer’s commission with a posting in India. Better that than be the laughingstock of all London. Amanda had promised she would follow him anywhere. If his suit failed, they had planned to begin a new life together far from England.
But love was not enough. Love was never enough.
Soon after his arrival in Bombay he had read of her marriage in the Times—a brilliant match to the Duke of Trentley.
James ran a hand through his hair. Thank the gods he had found out about Lily in time.
Sir Edward had abandoned them for a serving of lobster salad, but Mr. Crawford seemed to take the loss of half his audience in stride. “A spring this early puts me in mind of ’27—that was the year of the great sheep blight.”
“Indeed.” James gave him a hollow smile. He scanned the room behind Mr. Crawford. It was not difficult to spot Lily among the lesser lights. She was beautiful, and spirited, and completely unobtaina
ble.
What to do? There really was only one course. He would dance their final dance, bid her good night, and pray the bitter prayer that he might never set eyes on her again.
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Crawford. I have promised this waltz to a particular lady.”
“Ah, go on then, me boy, go on.”
James made his way across the ballroom to her as the musicians signaled the waltz.
“Miss Strathmore, I believe this is our last dance.”
***
Lily’s heartbeat sped as she gazed up at James. Didn’t the man realize how confusing everything became when he stood so close to her?
Fixing a smile on her lips, she allowed him to lead her into the center of the room. The musicians played the opening bars, the violins first sliding then soaring into the notes.
When he gathered her into his arms, she stiffened.
“Relax,” he murmured. “It will look very odd if I have to haul you around the floor like a sack of flour.”
He was right, drat him. Lily focused her gaze on his lapel and gradually let herself fall into the rhythm of the dance. He was looking at her, she knew, but she could not meet his eyes. She had regained some of her composure since they had returned from the terrace, but now that she was back in his arms she could feel it slipping away. What was it that made her susceptible to the charms of this man when so many others had left her cold?
James swept her around the room in such perfect time to the music that it seemed they were lifted, propelled not by muscle and bone, but by a swell of spirit that carried them. All around them couples swirled in a riot of color, yet the two of them moved together in the heart of the music, alone in the pure, sweet center of the waltz.
She relaxed into the movements—it seemed her heart offered no choice. Hand resting on his shoulder, she felt the play of muscles tensing and releasing beneath his evening coat. His arm circled her, guiding her through another turn. She was floating, and when his thigh brushed hers in passing, she felt the impression burning against the silk, against her skin, for long moments after.
Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1) Page 8