“Oh, my goodness me. Look at that one,” one of them said, staring towards the grand entrance of the ballroom. Another of them turned her head to look, and her eyes opened wide and her lips parted with a sigh.
Curious, Natasha followed the women’s gazes. At the top of the short, broad flight of steps down to the ballroom proper, a man stood visually searching the room.
Her heart gave a fierce, odd little tug as she stared at him and something low in her stomach seemed to roll over slowly. Even from across the vast ballroom she could tell he was not comfortable here.
Though he looked like any other peer of the realm in his black suit and snowy white shirt and cravat, there was a ruggedness about him that told her he fit an outdoor environment more naturally. There was an animal-like restlessness in his pose, which was at odds with almost every other man she knew. It made him different from all of them.
He stood a good head taller than most of the men present and his hair was quite black. He had a breadth of shoulder that spoke of a man who enjoyed physical activity. As Natasha watched, he spread his jacket so he could plant his fists on his hips and the tight trousers clearly displayed a flat stomach and muscled thighs.
She could not see what color his eyes were, but they were striking even from this distance, piercing in intensity as he surveyed the crowd. Who was he searching for? She felt a sudden jab of jealousy, as she wondered who it was.
Then her breath caught as she realized that his roving scrutiny had almost reached her. His gaze skipped past her. Natasha let her breath out with a rush, venting her acute disappointment, even as she mentally chided herself. What had she expected? That he would cross the room, bow and ask her to dance?
No, I want him to kiss me. And more. She felt a touch of shock at her own daring thought, but with the honesty she had been forcing herself to cultivate these last few years, she acknowledged that yes, one glance at him had reduced her to a carnal wantonness. Oh, to be taken by a man like that! He would satisfy a woman in all ways.
And that was when his gaze checked…and returned to her. Her heart stood still. He was staring at her with frank openness, with no alleviating smile, no nod of acknowledgment, not even a bow. He just stared, his gaze pinning her like a butterfly to the mount. She thought she could see a hint of puzzlement in his expression, but the idea faded under the onslaught of wicked thoughts flooding her.
Yes, much more than a kiss! Her books, the ones hidden in the secret drawer at the bottom of her bureau, had been frustratingly unclear on exactly what happened to a woman who was “taken”, although many of the heroines she read about seemed to enjoy the process as much as the dashingly handsome heroes. She had supposed, when she puzzled over the lack of details, that she might draw parallels from the rutting sheep and other farmyard animals she had observed growing up in the country…but the idea had not thrilled her when she applied it to men and women. It had seemed ridiculous and physically uncomfortable.
But now, with this man staring at her, she thought she understood the passion that drove such acts, if not the actual physicality of it. That passion burned in her chest, made her breasts tingle and between her legs an aching throb began. She could feel each breath draw down her throat. His eyes would not let her go. They seemed to be drawing her soul out of her body, bringing her towards him across the room.
He was so different! So…alive. His whole body radiated his emotions. He is a dangerous man. But the caution did not calm her at all. On the contrary, recognizing the uncivilized edge in him made her heart beat faster. She could feel herself sway towards him, her breasts pushing against the bodice of the dress. Her nipples rubbed with delicious pressure against her camisole.
He took a step towards her and Natasha’s breath caught again and her heart leapt.
Another group of people pushing in through the double-doored entranceway brushed up against him, tearing his gaze away from her. He was forced to deal with them, accept the fellow’s well-meant apologies and Natasha could feel his frustration, could see it in every line of his body. Then he turned away, searching her out again—she knew he searched for her with utter certainty.
A thrill raced through her body when his gaze caught hers once more, however, he did not come towards her. He smiled a little, and it was almost a grimace. Her disappointment this time was a tangible thing. It swept through her like hot acid, leaving her trembling. As clearly as she had read his frustration, his impatience and the shock her appearance had wrought upon him, she read now his regret.
The corners of his perfect, full lips lifted in a little smile. His hand rested against his breast and he gave a small bow, merely an inclination of his head. I regret, that bow told her. It cannot be.
She could not muster even a smile in return. She felt like weeping. She swallowed hard, forcing back the tears, and managed to give a small nod of her own. She kept her shoulders and back very straight, determined not to let him see how his silent rejection had devastated her.
But he saw through it. His smile grew warmer, showing the edge of fine, white teeth and the warmth touched his eyes, bathed her in his good regard. Then he turned his gaze away, returning to quartering the room.
She felt chilled, almost ill. The trembling had worsened. She stood very still, waiting for the sick moment to pass. Did he look for his lover, a wife, a mistress, or a friend? A business associate perhaps? Let it be the last, she wished silently, but knew it could not be. Whoever he looked for had been the reason he could not speak to her—kiss her—and a simple business associate would not make such demands.
The quadrille ended and dancers began to drift from the floor. The man on the stairs took advantage of the clearing dance floor to hurry down the steps, heading towards the other end of the long ballroom, away from her.
Natasha tried to bring her hurried breathing under control, to calm her heart, which beat at her stays with an alarming, almost painful flutter.
Lord Shelburne, the host of the annual ball, stepped up onto the musicians’ dais, and acknowledged the polite applause of the assembled people. A hotel butler hurried over to him, and handed him a long golden rope with a big tassel on the end. The rope soared up to the ceiling, where it was attached to the huge swan hanging over the heads of the dancers. There were squeals of delight from debutantes, as they hurried to clear the floor, while all the young single men scrambled to stand beneath the swan.
There was a lot of good-natured jostling and shoving to find the perfect position beneath. Shelburne pulled hard on the rope and with a loud crack, the swan split apart, showering the men beneath with hundreds of nosegays made up of thornless red roses and sweet peas.
The guests oohed and ahhhed in delight, laughing and clapping as the men fought to pick up as many of the small bouquets as they could.
Then the little squeals and giggles began as each man sought out a favored lady and offered her the nosegay. To accept the nosegay also signaled agreement to be escorted to supper by the gentleman.
Natasha released a heavy sigh. It was all quite ridiculous, really. Why had she ever found the custom exciting, even thrilling? It was an expensive gesture that meant nothing at all. Did the rich have nothing better to spend their money on?
She pursed her lips together and shook her head slightly. If only the duke had put his money toward helping those less fortunate. No doubt what he had wasted on this extravagance could have helped an entire poverty-stricken village.
Then her breath caught in a painful mass in the base of her throat, for skirting the mass of young men in the middle of the dance floor was him. And he was coming towards her.
Chapter Three
He was carrying a single rose, letting it hang from his hand carelessly, with none of the formal delicacy the others used to present their bouquets.
He stopped in front of her and Natasha saw the debutantes beside her pause from their fluttering over the bouquets they had received to send her a sharp glance.
She didn’t care.
H
e was studying her, that same thoughtful expression. His eyes were silver, framed by long, thick lashes. He was so tall, she had to tilt her head to look up at him. As she was quite tall herself, there were not many men tall enough to make her lift her chin.
He was absolutely striking in his beauty. The most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. The breathlessness and the painful fluttering of her heart returned. She found she was completely without words, could not even dredge up the polite nothing-sentences she often mouthed at these affairs.
He held out the rose, letting it lie across his palm like an offering. “Sweet peas are not for the likes of you. But this one…this…is you.” His voice was low. It caressed her mind, swooped through her body, made her toes tingle.
She picked up the rose by the head. “It still has thorns.”
“Yes.” His voice dropped even deeper. “The danger beneath great beauty.”
She looked up at him again, unable to keep her gaze from his eyes for longer than absolutely necessary. He was drawing her to him again. Standing this close to her, his body seemed to be tugging her even closer, a silent compulsion. “Who are you?” she whispered.
He shook his head a little. “A lost soul, alas, who has just these last few minutes wished it were otherwise.”
“Is that why you refuse me?” The need to ask that question! It had uttered itself despite her desire not to abase herself with a demand for explanations.
There was a smothered giggle to her left and Natasha grew abruptly aware of their audience—every matron, debutante and male companion within earshot was gaping at them, scandalized by the raw conversation.
Resentment burned in her, for she knew that this man would not linger in her life— his unfettered attitude hinted that this society had no hold on him and he would soon be gone. These people twittering around her were destroying the few moments she would have with him. For a moment she was tempted to turn to them and tell them exactly what she thought of them all. It would be such a relief to speak the truth and walk away, bringing him with her. But she could not.
As much as she chafed under the restrictions of her life, they were all she had. She wished she could explain it to him, yet knew she could not because of the people around them. She hated the dilemma.
Perhaps he understood—enough to dissemble a little, to play to the people watching them. He was, in a small way, protecting her reputation. He straightened himself, squared his shoulders and gave the small bow acceptable for someone who is unsure of the rank and titles of the person he was meeting. “Seth Harrow at your service, my lady.”
Seth Harrow. No title. A commoner. Oh, mother would not approve! The thought sent a little shiver of delight through her.
“Natasha Winridge,” she replied, deliberately not adding her antecedents, which included her father’s titles and estates and those of her mother’s.
She extended her hand. He took her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips, gently placing a kiss on her fingers. Heat and moisture touched her knuckles and something deep in the core of her tightened, strummed pleasurably.
“You’re new to London?”
“You are very astute, Miss Winridge. I have only just arrived in London.” He released her hand. “My ship is at port, and even now my crew awaits me.”
A tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped sea captain with too-long dark hair, tanned skin and incredibly exotic light eyes that were framed by long, black lashes. The man’s eyes were gray like a winter sky—so pale compared to his dark hair and skin.
She folded her trembling hands together. “Tell me, do you fare from England?” It was a deliberate probe for any and all information.
He shook his head, and her hopes were dashed. Damn, why could he not live here?
“Actually, I am heading home to Ireland.”
Ireland. Then he was not English. Her father would have an apoplexy if he knew she was conversing with an actual Irishman.
“I would have thought, Harrow,” came a third voice, “that you would call the antipodes home.”
Natasha hid her frustration at the untimely interruption. It was Sholto Piggot, carrying two glasses of champagne. He stepped up beside them.
“Albany,” he said to Harrow. “Is that not what you call that quaint little whaling town from where you hail?”
He offered Natasha the second glass, which she refused with a curt shake of her head, before looking back at Seth Harrow.
“Australia?” she asked.
“Indeed, Mr. Harrow has spent at least the past decade in Australia,” Piggot said. He smiled thinly. He was standing far closer to her than necessary, to the point where she felt an overwhelming desire to step away from him.
Seth’s gaze shifted from her to Piggot and back again. As she had been able to read other emotions from him, this time she sensed a sudden wariness from him.
“Although why one would want to live there is quite beyond me,” Sholto Piggot continued. “The colonies are full of convicts and savages.”
Instinctively, Natasha changed the subject. “I thought I detected an accent,” she told Seth. “I just couldn’t place it. Were you born in Ireland?”
“Aye, I was,” he said, his brogue thick. His gaze shifted to her throat, and she knew he had spotted the visible pulse throbbing there.
He turned slightly and she caught a glimpse of gold at his ear. Her pulse skittered. “You wear an earring?” Shock pushed the indelicate question from her before she could censor her words. She smiled inwardly. Oh, her mother would have vapors!
Seth gave a small, wry grin. “It’s a custom amongst seafarers,” he said, almost apologetically.
“I thought it was a custom amongst pirates,” Piggot said, with a laugh.
Seth shook his head. “For anyone who lives upon the open seas, it’s customary to mark the first crossing of the equator this way.”
Natasha shivered, with more than the tingling anticipation and excitement of his presence. This man really did live a life of utter freedom. He had crossed the equator, had seen the other side of the world. No wonder he seemed so ill at ease in this stifling little society he moved amongst tonight.
“You must find all this terribly boring then,” Natasha said, waving her hand around the room.
“On the contrary.” His gaze dropped to her lips. And with that simple glance, all the hard, hot pleasure rushed back through her again, leaving her breathless and faint. She grew aware of her breasts rising and falling with each constricted breath she took, and was astonished to realize that the flesh between her legs had grown moist and seemed to swell and throb. Beneath her skirts, she moved her thighs restlessly.
Oh, how she wanted him to sweep her up into his arms, to plunder her with kisses, to run his hands over her!
Movement beyond his shoulder caught her eye, and she refocused. A tall man was standing there, staring at her, and for a moment she felt a rush of confusion.
It was Vaughn Wardell, Marquess of Fairleigh and Viscount Rothmere, the man who had crushed her heart, three years ago.
She had always thought that meeting Vaughn again would be the hardest challenge she had yet faced in her twenty years and that her pride would be sorely tested when that meeting occurred.
But now, with Seth Harrow in front of her, she merely felt an odd sense of disjointed consciousness. She frankly assessed Vaughn—his rugged good looks and the endearing, cavalier smile she had fallen in love with…had it been love, though?
For suddenly, she was glad to see both him and the achingly beautiful woman on his arm—Elisa Wardell, now his wife.
She realized in that moment of recognition that neither of them suffered fools gladly.
She beckoned, with a delighted smile and Vaughn’s smile broadened and even a brush of relief touched his expression. Perhaps they had dreaded meeting her again as much as she had agonized over the meeting.
It all seemed so trivial now. She almost laughed at the whispers around her. It seemed everyone was braced for a confrontation
except her.
Vaughn and Elisa came towards her. Both Piggot and Seth turned to look behind them, alerted by her gesture and smile. Vaughn had not changed in the few years, save for a few pronounced lines around his eyes that to her consternation, made him even more appealing.
Despite a wicked father, Vaughn had been a man who knew how to laugh and enjoy life to its fullest. She had heard rumors that he and Elisa were content to live a quiet life, far away from society. She wondered what had brought them to London.
Vaughn smiled genuinely. “Lady Natasha, you have grown into an exquisite beauty.” He lifted her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “What a pleasure to see you after all these years.”
Natasha trembled, feeling very much like the seventeen-year old girl who had been rejected. Then she looked Vaughn in the eye and all her fear fell away. He dared her even now to be strong, to hold her head up high, to be that girl who had stood in a room full of people while her betrothed had sworn his love to another woman.
This was Vaughn—the man by whom she measured all other men. And he was smiling warmly with reassurance and kindness. “Lord Fairleigh—” she began.
“Vaughn,” he said, his tone telling her that he would not accept any formality between them.
She laughed under her breath and grinned. “Very well, Vaughn, it is wonderful to see you as well.” It was the absolute truth. She was deeply glad of his company at this moment, for it reminded her of the promise she had made herself three years ago, when Vaughn had publicly declared his feelings for Elisa.
At that time she had sworn an oath to herself to never play the hypocrite again. Truth would be the only coin she would use. Now, with Vaughn standing before her, she was reminded once more of the courageous example he had given her that had led to that promise. “What brings you and Elisa to London?”
Elisa kissed Natasha on the cheek. “Raymond is attending Eton this year, and I can’t bear to be apart from him. We’re staying a while to help his transition to boarding school. It can be a frightening experience for young boys.” And she smiled up at Vaughn, sharing a private moment.
Dangerous Beauty Page 3