Chapter 25
The low sun bathed the gardens with a rosy glow when Lizzie ventured outside, feeling rather naked in her Greek costume. The viscount was waiting for her near the door, where roses perfumed the air. He bowed gracefully, his costume an oriental splendor with deep purple beaded tunic over black, open at the neck and slashed in the sleeve to reveal his bare arms when he moved them.
For some reason this seemed strangely disturbing, though she had seen his arms in bed, or could have if she’d opened her eyes.
He’d been deep in conversation with Harry Felmont, his disreputable young cousin, who glanced about nervously before he tried to kiss her cheek. Lizzie offered him her gloved hand.
Harry kissed the air above it with a rueful laugh. “I thought you were going to make your bride like Felmonts, Dace. What went wrong? Surely you’ve had enough time to work your Felmont magic.”
Lizzie changed the subject, well aware the magic involved was of a licentious nature. “Who is looking after your mother?”
“Uncle Bertram offered to take care of her. He wanted me to be able to....” He hesitated and glanced at her husband. “He wanted me to be able to accept the duke’s kind invitation. It seems Saint Sirin lacked a tenor.”
The viscount clapped his cousin on the back. “Give my friend a message from me. Tell him to keep out of sight or suffer the consequences.” He led Lizzie into a ballroom conjured from towers of flowers and gauzy swags, where guests dressed in exotic costumes watched the dancers.
He answered her questioning glance with a wicked smile and a murmured, “Rax can be such a nuisance. Can’t sing but loves music, somewhat like you, Lizzie. He’s a neighbor. Sneaks over without an invitation.”
Lizzie knew he joked, but she had no idea who was being given a warning from him. Not that she cared, not when he led her onto the dance floor. Lizzie held his hand. A month married. One bed, one bedroom. How was she to manage? Loving him in such close quarters meant he’d discover it, if he hadn’t already. Felmonts were romantic creatures. They enjoyed love and passion, though they rarely found it at home.
“May I have the honor of this dance, my love?”
Lizzie allowed him to take her gloved hand. Not that one of Lord Elgin’s foreign statues wore gloves but this Greek goddess was not inclined to fast behavior. She’d noticed several women were gloveless.
Demi-reps were by definition immoral. Naked hands were the least thing they worried about.
“You look very lovely in your costume, my dear,” he said, as he led her into the dance.
Gladys had reassured her that the thin strips of cloth binding the light muslin to her body did not look indecent, though the mirror showed it made her breasts stick out shamefully. Not that she’d ever had much to worry about, but they were distinctly bigger than before.
The viscount’s glance made parts of her stick out even more in tiny peaks of shame.
How embarrassing!
“My love?” He smiled at her.
He looked too handsome for words. She had seen disreputable females pointing him out, whispering behind his back. Well, they could not have him, he was hers.
“The waltz, my love. If you’d dance with me, we’d look less conspicuous. I might have to kill some of your admirers, if I don’t hide at least the front of you from them.”
Lizzie hastened into his arms. She had a view of his chest. Her feet moved with his, her body guided by his light touch. Round and round they flew until she could not stop a gurgle of delight escaping.
“What a compliment you pay my dancing, Lizzie. Forgive me for taking the liberty.” A warm hand slid beneath the lacing at her back. “Just to rest my shoulder,” he professed innocently while stroking her.
Lizzie stepped closer, bridging the gap between them. Pressed against the length of his body, they danced on in perfect unison with each other. Her breasts rubbed against him, her whole body inflamed with desire.
Suddenly he stopped. She tried to urge him on.
“We must wait for the music, dear heart,” He rubbed her back. The lacing broke.
“Drat!”
“Drat indeed,” he agreed. “Come, I’ll hold you together as we go to the retiring room. One of the maids will fix it.”
He walked with his arm around her, then waited at the entrance to the house as he listened to the music. His shoulder ached like the devil from the heavy beading on his costume. At least that was his excuse for divesting himself of a troublesome tunic that prevented him from feeling Lizzie pressed so fervently against him. He threw it onto a chair.
A harried steward bustled over to him. “Lord Felmont?” The man consulted his list. “You are to sing after this. If you’d come with me.”
Dace summoned a footman. “Wait here for Lady Felmont. Tell her she is missing the musical event of the century. I shall return as soon as I can.”
Lizzie Tempest Ruins A Viscount (Felmont Brides Series Book 1) Page 39