“Everyone watched you. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
She hardly knew what to say, so she said nothing and shook her head.
His hand—the same powerful hand that had once reached through a crowd for her—beckoned now. His proximity made her feel as though she were back in the ballroom crush, heated, pressed in upon, breathless. The darkness carved his features with a brutal beauty. His ebony tailcoat, ivory knee breeches, and glowing white shirtfront seemed sculpted from the smoothest stone.
“With your permission, may I prove a point?”
“I . . . that depends entirely on the point you intend on making.”
His smile became devastating in its exuberance. “Can you hear the music from here?”
“Of course I can hear the music. I am not deaf, sir.”
He relieved her of both the champagne glass and the gloves she still held in her other hand, and set them on the balustrade. When he returned, he positioned himself toe-to-toe with her, his wide shoulders and broad chest blocking out everything beyond, including the safety to be found through the doorway.
His left hand claimed her waist, settling open-palmed just above her hip. His other hand closed around hers. Heated awareness pulsed through her as she realized that he, too, was gloveless, that his palm lay brazenly naked against her own.
“Madam, prepare yourself as we endeavor to discover the full extent of your talents.”
Before she could think of a response to that bit of cheek, she found herself swept in smooth, flowing circles, the crisp breeze filling her skirts, stirring her hair, and uplifting her soul.
He partnered her flawlessly, even over the bumpy flagstones, never once stepping on her foot . . . never once looking away from her eyes. His own eyes, shadowed and fathomless, smoldered with unspoken suggestions, untold implications. She felt keenly aware of everything about him: his superior height, his muscular build, the searing brand of his palm at her waist. . . .
The notion struck her—stunned her—that they were doing something more than dancing, something much more intimate, more sensual.
More forbidden.
As abruptly as they had begun, they came to a halt. Or rather he did, catching her in his arms when she stumbled from lost momentum. His hands slid to her shoulders and he held her at arm’s length.
“I do see what the problem is. You, Mrs. Sanderson, do not dance as other women do.”
“Yes, I told you. . . .” Her heart sank at the prospect of having proved his earlier conclusion sadly wrong.
Laughing, he shook his head. “You are no clod, Mrs. Sanderson. But most men will have a devil of a time keeping up with you because they fail to understand the obvious. Am I mistaken, or do you prefer to lead?”
Laurel’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what I am doing? I never realized. . . .”
His observation made perfect sense. All her life, whenever she had practiced dance steps with her sisters, she had always assumed the lead. She was the eldest.
“Mystery solved, I suppose.” She laughed ruefully. “I must learn to curb my assertiveness.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Sanderson. I fervently beg you not to do that.”
His hands were on her still, the caress of his fingertips on her upper arms generating wicked little waves of heat. A ghost of a smile played about his sensuous mouth.
A sudden notion warmed her nearly as much as his fingertips. “You had no trouble dancing with me. None at all.”
“We do seem . . . well synchronized.” His hands drifted away, falling to his sides. Yet the continued force of his scrutiny all but made her squirm.
“What?” she finally asked, bewildered.
His features smoothed. “You seem rather familiar to me, Mrs. Sanderson. Have we met previously?”
She drew a breath. Here it was then, the moment that would determine the success or failure of her mission.
His choice of words struck her. She seemed rather familiar, did she? Just as scores of people might seem rather familiar to a man whose sphere encompassed the most fashionable society in England. To him, hers was one more face in a sea of thousands.
She should have been thankful, reassured. But it was neither relief nor gratitude that poured its bitter taste down her throat, but rather disappointment and a quelling sense of foolishness.
All these months of enamored dreams . . . and she had meant nothing to him—nothing. Merely an incident on a crowded street. Their kiss had made no more lasting impression on him than if he’d kissed a . . .
Refusing to finish the demeaning thought, she arched a brow in her best imitation of Viscountess Devonlea. “No, Lord Barensforth, I cannot think where we might have become acquainted.”
“And yet you know my name.”
Her heart gave a thump. “Oh . . . I . . . Yes, of course. Lord Wentworth pointed you out to me earlier. As he pointed out several others of note,” she hastily added.
“Is that so?” When she nodded, his lips turned up in a pensive smile. “Then this is a circumstance we surely must remedy, Mrs. Sanderson, for I believe I should very much enjoy becoming better acquainted with you.”
As when they had danced, he seemed to be implying far more than his words suggested. Something sensual and shocking and perhaps a tiny bit dangerous.
The very sort of thing about which Victoria had warned her.
The sort of thing about which she had fantasized ever since that summer’s day in Knightsbridge.
Aidan watched the widow’s eyes fill with moonlight and a world of uncertainty. He had shocked himself with his less-than-decent innuendo. Christ, what had he been thinking to blurt his desires like a fledgling fresh out of the schoolroom? He liked to believe he possessed more flair than that when it came to the art of seduction.
Typically, he did. But just as this woman sent otherwise-competent dance partners stumbling, she somehow had him tripping over his own intentions. And for the life of him he couldn’t fathom why.
For several moments punctuated by her rapid breathing, he could not decide if she might smile or slap him. He found himself bracing for the latter and wishing with all his heart for the former.
Oh, he was not so foolish as to believe in love at first sight, or even, in this circumstance, at second sight, but in the last few minutes he’d found himself tumbling head over heels at her smile, at how one corner of her pretty mouth slanted higher than the other, how her eyes became exotic crescents, and how a single dimple in her right cheek flashed and disappeared, making it a game for him to coax its appearance.
Yet in the end she neither smiled nor struck him, and the lack of either left him unaccountably disappointed. Her gaze veered over his shoulder and her expression changed, became set and determined. She lifted her hems clear of the paving stones.
“I am here tonight in the company of the Countess of Fairmont,” she announced as if the words served as armor against him.
“Splendid. I know the lady well.”
Her green eyes sparked with alarm, but she replied with composure, “Then please do excuse me, for I see her ladyship inside. One can only suppose she has these many minutes been searching for me.”
He allowed her to circle him. Before she stepped through the doorway, she paused, turning to speak over her shoulder. “Thank you for the champagne.” Her steely resolve had softened. “And for the dance. Both were most considerate of you.”
He was glad she thought so, even if his motivation stemmed more from self-interest than kindness. The same incentive prompted him to ask, “May I be so impertinent as to ask something in return for my consideration?”
She bristled in a way he found delightful. “That depends upon what you would ask of me, sir.”
“A trifle, merely. Your name. Mine is Aidan. Will you tell me yours?”
“Oh . . .” The request clearly took her aback. She hovered with one toe pointed toward the doorway as if she might at any moment cut a hasty retreat. One hand absently reached up, fingertips tracing a sheer gold chain that dis
appeared into her décolleté. His eyes were drawn to the mystery of that chain as he wondered what dangled at the end, lying warm and hidden between her lush breasts.
Realizing the recklessness of such thoughts, he instantly lifted his gaze back to her face. She seemed not to have noticed his lapse. Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue darting out to leave a trace of moisture at the corner of her mouth, another enticement he forced himself to ignore. “Laurel,” she whispered, then turned and left him.
Chapter 6
“Laurel.” Aidan smiled, liking the sound of the name.
He watched her until the crowd inside enveloped the last sweep of her amber skirts.
He liked, too, that he had met Beatrice’s challenge. Yet he should have upped the wager by raising the stakes.
He should have kissed the widow, as he had kissed her that day on William Street. After all, hadn’t he rendered her a service tonight just as he had done then?
But no, he could see from their brief encounter that, despite having been married, she was too genteel for that sort of dalliance, that she was not a woman who allowed clandestine kisses on darkened terraces. Or on crowded London streets. He could only imagine the fury his impulsive gesture had generated, because he had not lingered long enough to witness her reaction.
No, unless he missed his guess, Laurel Sanderson was a woman who needed gradual and gentle coaxing to . . .
He stopped himself. As Beatrice had obligingly noted, being a widow made Laurel Sanderson all too available, and he did not pursue available women—ever. His work for the Home Office was too important. More to the point, it was often dangerous—too dangerous for him to consider taking a wife.
Besides, he liked his life the way it was. He had purpose, goals. That hadn’t always been the case. There had been empty, aimless years following his parents’ deaths when he’d stumbled through a haze of alcohol and the occasional opium binge, trying to forget the explosion of a pistol behind a closed door, to blot out the horror he’d discovered after shouldering his way in. . . .
In a way, Lewis Wescott and the Home Office had saved him—saved his very life—by recognizing his talents and insisting he put them to use. Ever since, he had savored the game of ferreting out evidence, piecing together clues, and seeing that bastards like the one who destroyed his father got exactly what they deserved.
Sighing, he raised a gaze to the sky. The constellations took immediate shape. Most people needed time to discern the figures, if they saw them at all. But for him, he supposed due to his uncanny ability with numbers and patterns, they appeared like eager hounds to their master’s call: the Big Dipper with the diamondlike Arcturus glittering to the west. Leo to the south. A little to the east, Virgo . . . the maiden.
Mrs. Sanderson could be no maiden, yet in his arms she had seemed as inexperienced as a young virgin. Why was that?
She had been so adamant about their having never met that he had begun to entertain doubts, to believe he had merely mistaken her for the lass he had saved . . . had kissed. His error would have been understandable. He had been exhausted that morning, worn-out from a night spent drinking, gambling, and keeping Fitz in tow.
Tuning out the music and voices from inside, he concentrated on the morning the queen had driven from her childhood home at Kensington Palace to her new home at Buckingham. Frantic shouts for help all but filled his ears. The sight of glittering emerald eyes peering out from a cloud of golden hair filled his vision.
With a wink at Virgo, he shook his head. The similarities were too striking to be a coincidence. Which meant either she didn’t remember him—possible, but unlikely—or she had lied.
Back inside the jarring confusion of the octagon room, he spotted Beatrice and Devonlea. Near them stood Lady Fairmont—Melinda to him, for he had known her all his life. She was talking to Fitz. . . .
Mrs. Sanderson stood at his side, seeming to hang on his every word. She gazed up at him as though he were conveying the most fascinating piece of wisdom ever divulged.
The stab to Aidan’s gut caught him off guard and momentarily stole his breath.
Jealousy? For a woman he barely knew and had no intention of pursuing?
No. For a woman with the spirit to wade into a dangerously tight crowd and risk her life to save a child because, as she had so ingenuously stated, someone had had to do something. By God, she’d shown remarkable gumption that day.
He started toward them, then came to such an abrupt halt that a gentleman ran into him from behind. Aidan absently apologized while another memory crashed through his thoughts. If Mrs. Sanderson was that woman from London, then something was wrong. Very wrong.
She hadn’t been wearing black crepe. He couldn’t say with any accuracy what she had been wearing that day, but . . . yellow. Not amber like tonight but sunny yellow sprigged with a leafy pattern. He specifically remembered because the dress had torn at the waist, revealing an enticing scrap of petticoat.
How could she be recently out of mourning for her husband now if she had not been in mourning then?
“Aidan! Aidan, dearest!”
Melinda Radcliffe, Countess of Fairmont, stretched her silk-clad arm high and waved her fan above heads. With a speed that belied her years, she wound a circuitous path to him. Upon arriving, she seized his wrists and, with all the license of an honorary aunt, kissed his cheeks.
“Is this how I am to learn of your arrival in Bath, by literally running into you in the midst of an assembly crush? For shame, young man.”
Until he had gone up to Eton at the age of eight, he had accompanied his mother on her frequent visits to the home of her closest friend, and afterward at least once a year during the summer months. During those final, dark days of Eugenia Phillips’s life, Melinda had been at her side, even when—especially when—Aidan’s father could no longer bear to be in the room.
“I arrived only this afternoon,” he told her. “Upon my honor, I’d have come round tomorrow.”
“Well, I’ve got you now, my boy, and there is no getting away.”
Beyond her shoulder, he saw Fitz and Mrs. Sanderson set off together into the ballroom, the “widow’s” hand firm in the crook of his arm.
Jealousy lanced him again, this time adding a barbed twist.
With a sharp intake of breath, he steeled himself against the unwelcome sentiment and smiled at Melinda. “I have no intention of going anywhere, or of dancing with anyone else for the duration of the evening.”
“Think of the scandal we’ll provoke!” Laughing, she poked her fan toward the receding backs of Fitz and Mrs. Sanderson. “Did you notice that charming young lady on the arm of your friend?” She must not have seen the ironic twist to his lips, for she went on, “I am her escort into society while she is in Bath. A favor to the queen, no less, for the service her mother once rendered to the Duchess of Kent as a lady- in-waiting.” Melinda’s brow puckered.
“Don’t tell me you find the task distasteful?” he asked. He fervently hoped not, for here had arisen an unexpected opportunity to discover more about the mysterious widow. Playing the domestic spy with his mother’s dearest friend probably didn’t constitute the most honorable of tactics, but in the interest of national security, or so he told himself, he must seize whatever advantages came his way.
“Indeed not,” she quickly replied. “Laurel Sanderson is a lovely woman. It is just that Beatrice introduced her to Lord Munster and . . . oh, I hope you will not be vexed with me, but . . .”
“Yes?”
She pursed her lips. “I know he is your friend, Aidan, but even you must admit that George Fitzclarence’s attentions are not entirely suitable for respectable young ladies.”
“It is only a dance, Melinda. I am sure no harm will come of it.”
But as they trailed Fitz and Mrs. Sanderson onto the dance floor, a trace of the young widow’s perfume left him with a sense, stronger than ever, that the situation was not as it should be.
Laurel carefully schooled her gaze to avo
id Lord Barensforth as she hurried past him on the Earl of Munster’s arm.
Oh, but she couldn’t help comparing the two men. Where Aidan Phillips was tall, elegant, and well-defined, George Fitzclarence sagged and bulged and slouched. Why, his stomach threatened at any moment to pop his waistcoat buttons.
Even his large Hanover eyes and rounded chin, which Laurel had always found charming in Victoria, failed to provide any benefit at all to his masculine visage and in fact lent him the aspect of a very large housefly.
And while Lord Barensforth’s wit sprang razor sharp from his tongue, Lord Munster’s speech was labored and halting. Not that that mightn’t lend him a certain tender charm, if only his discourse exhibited more brains than bosh.
It wasn’t kind of her, singling out his faults, and she never would have done so if not for the presumptuous way he had planted himself at her side once his sister made the introductions, or how unceremoniously he had placed her hand in the crook of his arm even before she had finished voicing her consent to dance with him.
Odd, but while Lord Barensforth’s actions on the terrace had left her unsettled and out of sorts, his forwardness hadn’t irked her nearly so much as this man’s. And, oh, the whiskey on his breath!
“Another w-waltz, madam. How fortuitous.” A smugness in Lord Munster’s tone suggested he might have influenced the orchestra’s selection, and Laurel suddenly understood the significance of his having quietly addressed an attendant in the octagon room. “Just the opportunity to become b-better acquainted, my d-dear Mrs. Sanderson.”
Ouch!
His heel caught the edge of her satin slipper, pinning her smallest toe, yet, apparently oblivious, his lordship continued reeling her about in an awkward, halting pattern that produced a concerning queasiness in the pit of her belly. This time, however, she credited not her tendency to lead but Lord Munster’s tipsiness as the root of the problem. He, however, continued unperturbed, or perhaps he believed the occasional lump beneath his foot to be the product of an uneven floor.
Most Eagerly Yours: Her Majesty's Secret Servants Page 7