by Stacy Reid
“I will retire for a few moments, I believe,” Phillipa murmured. She turned then froze. She blinked twice, but Anthony’s tall form remained. A shot of excitement raced down her spine making her grip the glass of champagne too tightly.
Damn!
She’d thought Anthony’s appearance that morning at the park had been the devil tempting her. He had featured in several dreams last night that had left her shaken and needy. She had gone for an extra-long morning ride to rid herself of the sensual visions she couldn’t shake. Only to find her body all too sensitive to the feel of the muscular horse beneath her. And then to run into the man himself… Lord. It had been pure torture.
She groaned as his gaze swept the crowd and zeroed in on her.
She emptied her drink in a single swallow, and glared at him.
His gaze caressed her lips, and despite herself, she shivered. Averting her eyes, she scanned the ball, hard-pressed not to notice the many feminine gazes aimed his way. Her lips curved. They all thought they were being so sly, whispering behind their fans.
Her mother threw her the most delighted smile as he sauntered toward her with animalistic grace. Damnation. He was singling her out!
Excitement burned inside at the realization that he deliberately sought her from among all the beautiful young ladies swooning over him. She knew nothing good could come of a closer acquaintance with him, but for the moment she banished the thought and simply watched him with a soft hunger nipping at her insides.
He gazed at her with a determined intent that frightened her more than a little. She’d felt his intensity that night in the garden at Lady Graham’s ball, and had been intimidated. He looked dashing in a single-breasted purple waistcoat, black tails, and well-fitting trousers. His buttoned shoes shone, and the severe style of his haircut did not detract from his raw masculine beauty.
“Are you given to stalking, Lord Anthony?” She surprised herself by inquiring. The scent of him aroused the most curious sensation inside her. He smelled of sandalwood and an elusive fragrance she could not place. The deep sensual pleasure she felt at such a mere acquaintance staggered her.
His emerald eyes traced her figure. She wore a deep golden silk gown, cut low above her bosom. Phillipa knew she looked fetching with her tresses tamed into an artful cascade, tendrils caressing her nape and forehead. However, she got the feeling he’d mentally stripped her bare, and it unnerved her.
She ignored the pleased smile from her mama, her aunt, and the wink of Payton.
“Stalking, Miss Peppiwell? I think it a grand coincidence that we frequent the same social events, don’t you?”
Despite herself, a smile teased her lips at the rakish grin he threw her way. “I suppose I could accept your presence at the park this morning.”
“I really happened to enjoy my early morning run through Hyde Park.”
She narrowed her eyes as she met the mocking in his gaze. “And why, pray tell, are you at Lady Blade’s soiree?”
“Pleasure, Miss Peppiwell. Solely for pleasure.”
She told herself she would not ask.
He moved closer and said in an undertone. “Since you are so rigidly holding onto the question you are bursting to ask me, I will be a gentleman and enlighten you. I find I am intrigued by a certain redheaded ice maiden with freckles and the most delightful lips I have ever tasted.”
She found it difficult to maintain her cool facade in the face of her thundering heartbeat. She stood at a loss. She had no idea how to respond, without betraying the physical desire his words elicited. Her hands tightened even more on her glass. He gently removed it from her hands, handing it to a passing server.
“Wouldn’t want it to crack,” he said mildly.
A prickling sensation raced down her spine. Her eyes slashed from Anthony’s, and she saw Orwell watching her from his post at the refreshment table. She stiffened. He had not been invited, Elisabeth had sworn. Her hands shook. His persistence was becoming terrifying.
She had allowed Lord Anthony to sweep her from his clutches at Lady Graham’s ball, but she admitted she was not sure Anthony’s grasp was any safer. He was a far more sensual and sneakier predator, one she should avoid at all cost. Especially so, considering that she feared that she might be his willing prey. He provoked the most alarming desire with a mere caress or the gentle brush of his lips across hers. The invitation to sensual indulgence she saw in his eyes shook her to her core.
“Would you care to take a twirl in the garden?”
Her gaze whipped from Lord Orwell to meet the dark invitation that shone in his expression. He had the most beautiful, expressive eyes—dark and rich, holding secrets like the forest. “I cannot. Not without inviting unwelcome speculation.”
“I thought speculation incapable of affecting you.”
She arched her brow sharply. “Why would you think that, my lord?”
“You rode astride.”
She did not miss the dip in his voice. “You have formed conclusions about me from the way I ride?” she asked, nonplussed.
“Was I wrong? I thought you were not one to bend to conventions.” His voice lowered further still. “Had dared to hope the freedom you seek to indulge in…lay in more than riding without a sidesaddle.”
Her breath strangled. Perhaps she was mistaken, but the wild beat of her heart told her she wasn’t. His eyes had stripped her to the skin, and she couldn’t understand how, from a fleeting encounter, he could have gleaned something so profound about her. It was as if he sensed her weakness, like a wolf saw a lamb.
A glitter shone in his eyes, and she fought the leaden heat surging through her limbs, recognizing it as desire.
He wanted her. Possibly enough to pursue her. But to what end? Suddenly, she was petrified. “My lord, I—”
“Anthony.” His gaze never once wavered from her face.
She swallowed, and persisted. “Really, I—”
“Come now, Phillipa,” he chided, “I want to hear my name on your lips. Are we not friends? Intimates, even?”
She stared at him mutinously, but the teasing that danced in his eyes pulled a reluctant smile from her lips. It wasn’t as if she could deny the shocking extent of his knowledge of her person.
And the miraculous thing was, he didn’t condemn her for it. Didn’t consider it an open invitation to disrespect her, as did Orwell. Lord Anthony seemed to…enjoy…her adventurous nature.
“Very well. Anthony.”
His obvious pleasure at her capitulation warmed her, and she was afraid her protective shields were lowering much too rapidly. Not that they’d stopped him before…
“Now, if we are unable to twirl the garden, what other pleasures may we partake in?” he mused.
“If we are to be friends, my…Anthony, there must never be a repeat of what occurred in the garden the other night.” She hated to speak of her indiscretion but she must be firm.
His brows lifted and a rueful smile edged his lips. “Forthright little thing, aren’t you?”
“I assume honesty is frowned upon amongst your other acquaintances?” She slid him a sidelong glance from under her lashes. She did not wish to be coy, but she thought if she gazed at him openly, her desire for him would be far too evident.
“On the contrary. Honesty is welcomed.” He held out his arm. “A dance, then?”
She did not trust his slow sensual perusal of her. Not knowing how to deal with him, she could only nod. She followed mutely, her heart thumping as he escorted her into the ballroom, her dance card dangling from her glove.
Why had he singled me out? Not tonight, for that was fairly clear. But the very first time, at the Calverts’ ball, where she’d kept herself so carefully cold and closed off, doing her best to stay aloof and unapproachable. She burned to ask, but truthfully, she feared his answer. She had already blundered erroneously with Orwell, and it was a miracle that she was not already bleeding from the vicious claws of Society. Another slip, and she would be finished for certain. And she coul
dn’t do that to her family. To her father, and her sister, who both needed her to succeed.
Anthony swept her into a waltz, the strong grip of his arms easing her into the beautiful dance. She twirled gracefully, the arousing strains of the violins igniting delight in her. The smile that burst from her lips could not be contained as she hummed to the captivating music.
“You like to dance?”
“I love dancing and music. It is one of those rare times when I feel alive.”
He focused on her face and she lowered her gaze, fighting the urge to converse freely.
“Please do not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You seek to hide behind that high wall you have erected around yourself. Please, for tonight, if only for this dance, I beg that there be honest discourse between us.”
Her hand tightened on his reflexively. It unnerved her that he knew she had erected a barrier. Lord Hoyt had surprised her with his assessment of her at Lady Graham’s ball, but Anthony’s keen perception terrified her. She had only encountered him a few times. He should not be able to see into her so deeply.
Of course…his fingers had already been deep inside her. She shouldn’t really be surprised his understanding could follow.
She hesitated, loath to expose any more of herself. However, if she could trust Elisabeth’s judgment—and she felt she could—he was an honorable man. Her friend had warned her Orwell was untrustworthy even before he had so blatantly revealed his nature to her.
So, she risked lowering her shields a bit further. “My greatest passion is for music. I agree music gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, charm and gaiety to life…and to everything else, I wager.”
His approving nod had her relaxing in his arms. “Thank you.”
She returned his smile. She tried to warn herself not to sink into the sensual invitation that radiated from him. He was a fantastic dancer, lissome, but with a raw, untamed power.
“So, the sincerest way to your heart lies in dancing and music? How is it your legions of suitors have not discovered this?”
Was he interested in the way to my heart? She studied him carefully and only saw teasing and objective interest. She relaxed further still, banishing the warning bells that clanged in her head. And her heart. “None of them understand my spirit.”
He tilted his head. “Your spirit? Pray, tell me.”
“Sometimes London is so…stuffy. Stiflingly so.” She chortled. “Just once I would love to dance something scandalous and exciting and play a bawdy tune on the pianoforte.”
Anthony barked out a laugh. “Good God, gel.”
Lord, he was so different from Lord Hoyt’s staid and quiet composure that she wondered if Anthony were real. Some months ago, she had regaled a small gathering at Hoyt’s house with a rowdier version of Czerny, for which she had received the severest of tongue-lashings from her aunt. She’d been shocked to see that she had embarrassed and mortified Lord Hoyt’s mother. She was actually surprised she was still welcomed in their home.
“The waltz is not scandalous enough for you?” Anthony queried.
Phillipa gave an inelegant snort. “The waltz, Anthony, is certainly not scandalous. It may have been considered indecent a few years ago, threatening the morality of innocent women, if you can believe that. But it is now as banal as the two-step. I fear I may have been born in the wrong time. I either belong to the past…or to the future.”
“The past?” Anthony asked, seeming enthralled. “Elaborate.”
“Like the primitives I’ve seen pictures of. Even in Boston I could immerse myself more in dancing and music than in England. It is as if the joy of the rhythm that pulses in the body has been crippled here. There is no adventure. Dances should be exciting and creative,” she said firmly.
“You don’t find the country-dances creative?” he asked.
“Are they? I’ve never been to a country-dance in England. I have attended a few London soirees, and the only things danced are the cotillion, polka, and frequently the waltz. It is as if all the exuberance has been choked under puritanical rules. One day, I hope to experience a dance that is wickedly indecent and adventurous. Failing that, I shall have to dream of being transported to the primitive past in my imagination. Or perhaps the future will be less strictly laced.”
She held her breath in an agony of anticipation for his response. She felt as if Anthony’s reaction to her treatise was the single most important thing she had ever waited for. Never had she wanted so desperately to trust a lord.
And prayed this one was not like all the rest.
Chapter Eight
Phillipa’s golden eyes glittered, alight with excitement, intoxicating Anthony in the most curious of ways. Nothing else could account for the light-headedness he felt.
He shook his head to clear it of his fanciful notions. She waited for his reaction, and at his lack of response, vulnerability seeped into the depth of her eyes as she lowered them in embarrassment.
He tipped her chin back up with a finger. “Your passion for music is inspiring. I would love to dance the mazurka in private with you,” he drawled. “And anything else you desire. The more exciting the better.”
She gave him a radiant smile, and he accepted then and there he would court her. He would delve beneath her reserves, strip her layers, and whatever she wished for, he would offer to her gladly.
“I’m afraid I have always been scandalous, Anthony. I’ve ridden in several buggies without a chaperon.” She nodded as if he’d said something. “Shocking, I know.”
He liked that she teased him. “Very.”
“Oh, dear. I’ve mortified your noble sensibilities.”
They chuckled together, and more than a few frowns of disapproval were thrown their way. Anthony liked her so much like this. The icy wall of reserve had thawed to reveal a woman of warmth and passion. Need slammed into him instantly, and he cursed his weakness for her.
“I assume this explains your banishment to our rigid soils.”
Shadows chased her face, only to vanish as quickly.
His curiosity deepened. “Ah, I see I’m right. Tell me, what scandal did you leave behind in Boston, my sweet?”
Her eyes widened, and he watched in fascination as she tried to erect her wall of coldness. He decided to topple it before she succeeded.
“I am twenty-eight,” he declared. “And I, too, must lack noble sensibilities since I don’t subscribe to the stilted nature of British society, either. I’ve had three mistresses, and several lovers of whom I have not, and will not, speak, as I hold the utmost respect for all women.”
Phillipa spluttered at this bold confession, staring at him aghast. “I—”
He grinned back at her. “Hmm. I didn’t think you capable of being shocked. Didn’t you say you like living on the edge?”
Her eyes narrowed. Then a rueful smile curved her lips. “You are incorrigible, my lord.”
“I decided I must inform you of my own licentiousness before you would tell me about whatever happened in Boston to darken your eyes so. Now that you know all my secrets, I am waiting to hear yours.”
Her laughter tinkled, and she shook her head, dismissing him. “I believe I have no secrets from you, Anthony.”
He was intrigued more by the naked need he saw on her face than anything else. No, her body kept no secrets from him. But it was her soft laugh that truly stirred him—fresh, crisp, and utterly captivating.
He wanted to give her everything she desired, and more. The compulsion burned deeply and powerfully.
He would have her. And soon.
…
Phillipa had to admit that Anthony was an amazing dancer, his movements embodying raw masculine power and beauty. He swung her, and she swiveled, and the heat of his hands on her lower back, burned through her gown. Just being held in his arms was sinfully delicious.
The next waltz started, and she was thrilled when he did not relinquish her. He was dancin
g with me twice?
She felt the eyes of assembled guests upon them, and for this moment in time, she cared not one jot what they thought.
She tried to ignore his questioning that hinted she might have a truly disgraceful past, but he was having none of it. So she relented, and gave him a half-truth.
“I distressed my family by attending women’s rights conventions and meetings. I think they feared my wild ways would have led to my disastrous downfall. My aunt recommended dancing to soothe my excessive passion—or so she told my father.”
“You chose to focus your passion on dancing. Pity.”
She probed his features to ascertain his meaning. “I adore dancing, and I find it to be the only thrilling thing offered to women by society. The restrictions heaped on young ladies are frightful,” she declared.
Her curiosity about him drummed at her, but she reined in the questions that buzzed insistently in her head. He had several secret lovers of whom he didn’t speak, so their scandalous actions in the garden were safe from the gossips?
“Restrictions do not exist in Boston?”
“I daresay they do.” Rueful laughter spilt from her lips. “However, the pretense is more subdued. I could have wed a banker or a lawyer back home, and I would have brought my family esteem. Here, my aunt is appalled at the mere notion. There, I could attend a picnic without the need for a chaperone. Here, to visit my dear friend Lady Elisabeth, my aunt insists I travel with a ladies’ maid and a footman at all times. The most ridiculous thing is, it is not for my protection, but because it is appalling for a young lady to be seen walking alone. Well, a virtuous female, at any rate.” She could not prevent the incredulity that rang in her tone.
He pursed his lips. “And this is what you seek to be free from?”
“False propriety, yes. It all seems incredibly pretentious, don’t you agree?” Phillipa smiled at the surprise that etched his features. “I had already felt suffocated in Boston, and now in London, I am truly fit for Bedlam. It is a daunting task to understand what is acceptable by the haute monde and what isn’t.”