Entranced for an instant, she had a difficult time remembering he wasn’t her partner for the third set. Then she felt his hand at the small of her back as he guided her to the dance floor. Before she could open her mouth to object, he already removed it, grinning down at her with a knowing air.
She paused on the fringes of two lines of dancers. “Sir, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
Sure of himself, he smiled in a way that made her feel like the only woman in the room. “Of course we have.”
“No,” she said, somehow managing to stay clearheaded. “I would have remembered.”
Apparently, this intrigued him because he studied her more closely. “Would you now? I can see Rathburn has his hands full with you.”
“Rathburn has nothing of the sort. We are not married.” Much to her surprise, the words came out like a challenge, as if she were flirting with him, bantering with a complete stranger the way she bantered with Rathburn. This was wrong, a voice inside whispered. Yet, it was the truth. She was not betrothed to Rathburn.
The stranger chuckled, the sound rich and alluring. Completely hedonistic. “Would it be too bold if I said I like you already, Miss Danvers?”
She tried not to blush as she took her place across the aisle from him for the quadrille. “Yes, far too bold.”
He held her gaze as the music started and they began the motions of the dance, crossing in front of each other, circling, bowing. When he was near, he spoke again. “Good, because I do like you. Perhaps even more now that we have Rathburn’s undivided attention.”
The warning flared to life again. This stranger was far too bold. Far too familiar. She was about to walk away and leave him standing in line without a partner. But then she caught sight of Rathburn when she circled. He was livid. Murderous.
She felt her lips curl into a grin. After saddling her with those first two partners, it served him right. “I’m afraid I can neither chastise you nor return the sentiment without knowing your name.”
“My friends call me Bane,” he said with a bow that was perfectly timed with the dance. “Although, in more formal circumstances, I suppose it would be Lord Knightswold.”
“Then while we are dancing, I’ll refer to you as Lord Knightswold.”
He grinned at her. “And when I deliver you to your betrothed?”
“I think we shall be fast friends.” She couldn’t help but smile in return, which drew his focus to her mouth.
“I’ve never been a jealous man, but for you I might make an exception.” They were still for a moment, waiting for the other dancers to cross and turn and bow. “Wherever have you been all this time? Locked away in a convent? Hidden away in the country?”
“Lurking among the potted trees in ballrooms all over the city.” She laughed. “Truly, this is my third Season.”
Too bold, yet again, his gaze drifted over her in appraisal, renewing her blush. “I don’t know whether to hate myself for not having discovered you first, or hate Rathburn for making the marriage noose so appealing. I must warn you, honor does not bind me to hate myself.”
Unused to such glances from anyone other than Rathburn, she felt positively exposed. Where she always knew Rathburn was merely flirting, she was equally certain that Knightswold . . . wasn’t.
“I’m afraid,” she said as the dance ended and he escorted her to the balcony doors where Rathburn stood, “honor does bind me.”
With one last simmering satin look, he bowed. “I understand. A pleasure, Miss Danvers.”
As if feigning jealousy, Rathburn settled his hand at her elbow and drew closer. A muscle in his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth. “The infamous Bane in attendance at the Dorsets’ ball? I seem to recall a declaration, not long ago, to the effect of you never bowing to the whims of society.”
“When societal trappings are so tempting, how could I resist?” A devious smirk toyed with the faint crease at the corner of his mouth.
Rathburn tensed and made a move toward him, but then stopped and lifted his gaze to the gallery. “Ah. I see your friend, Lady Eve Sterling, is watching our exchange with more than common interest. Up to your old sport?”
Knightswold lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Perhaps.”
“Marking me as a jealous beau? I wonder what the odds were in the betting book at White’s.”
Bane inclined his head, his grin widening.
Instead of being angered by the confirmation that he’d been targeted for some sort of game, he chuckled. “Well played, even if I was an easy target for your scheme.”
Bane turned his gaze to Emma, holding it for long enough to make her blush. “That was a poor attempt at a compliment to you, Miss Danvers. However, if you were mine—”
“Now, you’ve worn out your welcome,” Rathburn growled, his good humor vanishing.
Without tempting fate or friendship any further, Lord Knightswold bowed. “Perhaps I’ll find your cousin in the card room. After all, Gabriel still has a sense humor.”
He gave her a wink and then left without another word, leaving her feeling exposed by the incident. Of course, not every eye in the ballroom was glued to their tête-à-tête, just those around them, as well as a few in the gallery.
Not for the first time, Emma wished Rathburn wasn’t so good at pretending. It might even have been nice if he actually were jealous. She held back a sigh for her foolish thoughts and made a move to step away.
“I believe the waltz is mine.”
A tide of uncertainty washed over her. Penelope’s promise that dancing changed everything resurfaced, and Emma was abruptly face to face with her greatest fear—to be judged and found wanting. What if dancing with Rathburn did change everything, only to fracture their friendship in the process? Then again, what if dancing with him changed nothing? At the moment, she couldn’t decide which outcome frightened her the most.
“Yes, it is. However, I wonder . . .” She hesitated to find the right words, but decided a small lie would save her the embarrassment of revealing her fears. “I’m exhausted, Rathburn. I wonder if you might allow me a moment to catch my breath.”
Concerned, Rathburn searched Emma’s face. In her expression, he made no notice of exhaustion. Her chocolate eyes were bright as ever with no marring red lines. Her cheeks bloomed with a healthy glow. And yet, there was something guarded in the way she didn’t hold his gaze and worried the corner of her mouth. “Of course. They have benches on the patio. Would you care for a breath of night air?”
Apparently believing he didn’t plan to ask her about whatever she was hiding, she breathed a sigh of relief. “That sounds lovely.”
They made their way past three other couples who shared the same idea of enjoying the cool midnight air. The sweet scent of evening dew drifted on the breeze. On the large stone patio, fragrant juniper topiary trees in large clay pots stood beside curved benches to allow for privacy without impropriety. Yet, even then, he couldn’t stop himself from choosing the bench farthest from the door, farthest from the reach of moonlight reflecting off the fountain pond.
Emma had never been guarded with him before. Or at least when she’d tried, he’d been able to see through it. Not knowing why she was now bothered him more than he wanted to let on.
Then in an instant, epiphany dawned. Most likely, she was cross with him over the partners he’d chosen for her. “Did you enjoy dancing this evening?”
“Not until the last, but I think you know that,” she said with a castigating look as she settled her skirts around her. “After all, you ensured my partners were the dullest in attendance. I imagine Lord Amberdeen would have been as well if not for his sudden absence.”
“Yes,” he growled low in his throat. That had been the plan, until Bane’s unexpected arrival. “Peculiar. Even more so considering Lord Amberdeen is a particular enemy of Lady Sterling’s. It wouldn’t surprise me if she made sure Amberdeen was indisposed simply to allow Bane to sweep in, forcing me to make a spectacle of myself.”
&
nbsp; And he nearly had, right there in full view of his grandmother. The heated wave of jealously had been unexpected. For an instant, he’d pictured his fist connecting with Bane’s jaw with enough force to knock him to the ground. And then, his imagination had produced him standing over Bane’s prone body and boldly declaring that Emma was his. He’d never had such an urge before.
“Lady Eve and Knightswold are two bosom companions, after all,” he murmured absently, but soon felt a fresh wave of jealousy assail him. “Which reminds me,” he said with another growl, “I nearly murdered two men this evening for ogling yours.”
She blinked. “My . . . companions?”
“If that’s what you call them.” He lowered his gaze, letting it slide over the exposed swells of her flesh in a way to make it very clear to which he was referring.
She blushed and opened her mouth to speak—to change the subject, no doubt—but no sound came forth. Which left him with the perfect opportunity to admire her mouth. The memory of their kiss tormented him day and night. Here, on their partially secluded bench, he could easily imagine leaning in a fraction more, feeling her breath against his lips, teasing her flesh apart, tasting the flavor on her tongue—
Emma turned away, her shallow, rapid breaths betraying her thoughts.
He grinned, knowing that they were of like mind. “The only thing that saved them was your response.”
Returning her gaze to his, a worried frown puckered the flesh above her nose. “Did I appear cross with my partners?”
“Your expression, at least to everyone else, was perfectly pleasant and very pretty. You move gracefully, as well. No one could find fault in your dancing or demeanor.” He wished she wasn’t so concerned about what people thought of her. They were too alike in that regard, both fearing that a single scathing remark could ruin their futures. For now, they must keep up appearances.
“No one other than you.”
“It isn’t that I found fault, darling,” he chided softly. To him, she needed no improvement. “It’s merely that I know when you’re pretending to enjoy yourself for the sake of your partner. And I also know when you are truly content.”
She blew out a breath. “You’re teasing me again.”
“There’s a particular way you tilt your head when you’re deeply enthralled.” He lifted a finger to trace the edge of her jawline to reveal the subtle tilt of her head toward him. “And your cheeks flush to a becoming rosy hue.”
Emma reached up to swat him away, but he took hold of her hand instead and held it. She started, studying him closely as if trying to take his measure. “What are you about? That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. Yet, there is no one near enough to admire your pretense of flattery.”
“If you haven’t noticed, I always compliment you.” And he realized with sudden truth, that it wasn’t merely about flirting either. It was different with Emma. Perhaps it had been different from the very beginning. After all, he’d gone to her with his scheme, knowing that—if nothing else—she wouldn’t judge him for it. Judge him and find him wanting. No, not Emma.
“But you’ve always been teasing.”
How could she still believe that, especially now when he felt she must surely see the truth in his gaze? “Perhaps you merely wished me teasing so that you wouldn’t risk your heart,” he whispered, hoping to draw her out.
“Rathburn, I—”
“Oliver,” he said with a grin, pleased to see that she wasn’t as good at hiding from him as she thought. He wasn’t wrong, after all. The tenderness in her gaze told him everything he needed to know. He could see it plainly, as if it had been there all the while. “I told you, I only like it when you say my name. The sound of it from your lips is the only way I’ll ever get used to it.”
Her eyes widened in panic for a moment. “I . . . don’t think the night air agrees with me.”
“Coward,” he murmured, his amusement humming in his throat. “What of our waltz?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
The moment she opened her mouth and her gaze shied away from his, he knew she was going to attempt to veil her response.
Tucking his finger beneath her chin once more, he brought her focus back to him and arched a brow. “There is nothing you ever need hide from me, Emma. We’ve come too far for any more pretense.”
She held his gaze and then let out a breath, as if resigned. “It will sound silly, I’m sure.”
He waited, his attention fixed on her.
“It all started when Penelope said that dancing changes everything. From that moment on, I’ve been dreading the Dorset ball. I knew that you”—she pointed at him and glared without malice—“would request the waltz.”
“Which I did,” he said, tugging on her gloved finger and closing his hand around hers. A pleasant warmth enveloped him at the simple touch. The whispered What if . . . returned, stirring a fragile longing within him.
“Yes, and even before tonight, I’ve thought about it.”
“An obsessive preoccupation, to be sure.”
She nodded, but her attention was diverted to the lazy sweep of his thumb across the area between her thumb and forefinger. However, she shook her head and shifted slightly—though not enough to dislodge him—and refocused on his face. “I imagine, you can understand how much is at stake if we should waltz?”
“Completely.” He turned her hand, moving his attention to the center of her palm and noted, with pleasure, how her eyes darkened and her lips parted. “I’ve had a similar preoccupation of late. It keeps me awake at night. I’m a fairly useless creature during the day. I can’t even go more than five minutes without thinking about it.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, as if believing they were of like mind. “Then it was a good thing we avoided the waltz.”
“Oh, I wasn’t speaking of the waltz.”
“You weren’t?”
He leaned close to whisper. “No, Emma-mine. I was thinking about our kiss.”
“Which only happened to seal our bargain. Perhaps it would be better if we forgot . . .” Her words trailed off when he shook his head.
“Our next kiss,” he clarified with a slow, promising grin.
She glanced down to his mouth, her head tilting in such an inviting way. It took all of his control to keep what little distance remained between them. He wanted her. Ached for her. He could easily imagine slipping his hand beneath her skirts and touching her most tender flesh with the same unhurried strokes his thumb was now circling into the center of her palm.
She shifted slightly, pressing her knees together as if he’d spoken the desire aloud. The rake in him plotted an escape from scrutiny, calculated the number of dark alcoves, practiced excuses that would allow him to escort her home early—
“Oliver . . .” His name slipped past her lips and he nearly convulsed at the breathless, throaty sound.
She wanted him, perhaps even as much as he wanted her. Yet, no matter how much he wanted to pleasure her and then take his own, he couldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t rob her of the right to choose her fate. He’d given his word that she would come away from this mock betrothal unscathed. Already, the kiss had pushed some boundaries. He couldn’t risk another, not until she knew the risks and realized she was making a permanent choice to be his.
After a moment, Emma shook her head, opened her eyes, and slowly pulled free of his grasp. “Rathburn, you could tempt a saint into ruin, I’m sure. Every breath you expel is a flirtation meant to entice and seduce. I have only recently discovered just how far from sainthood I am.”
His eyes widened at her confession and a breath holding the last shreds of his control staggered through him. “Emma . . .”
She held up her hand. “Please remember that part of our bargain was to keep my reputation intact, so that I may find a suitable husband when this has finished.”
He flinched, feeling as if she’d struck him with a block of ice. His ardor cooled
in an instant.
A suitable husband. Never before had an admonishment stung so much. From anyone else, it wouldn’t have. Any hope he’d had that she’d never judge him and find him wanting vanished like a pickpocket in St. Giles.
A suitable husband, indeed. If nothing else, she deserved one of those.
Before he gave himself away, he schooled his features. “Of course,” he said pleasantly as he stood and offered his hand to assist her. “We should return before anyone else gets the wrong impression of my intentions.”
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
Twenty-one days, Emma thought. Twenty-one days of no mistakes. Twenty-one days for Rathburn to gain his inheritance. Twenty-one days to break the betrothal.
She stood on a pedestal in the blue room at Rathburn’s townhouse, staring at her guilt-ridden reflection. It was a shame the dowager was wasting all this money on a gown she would never have the chance to wear. It was such a lovely gown, too. Wearing it, she felt regal. Not at all like the twin to a potted tree.
Lady Valmont’s modiste fitted the under portion of her dress, pinning it beneath the gathers covering her breasts, and nipping it in at the curve of her waist. “This satin will embrace your form,” the woman said with a nod. Even through a mouthful of pins, her French accent was thick. “The outer robe will drape nicely from the line of your shoulders to the floor. Elegant, no?”
“Oui,” she said, nodding, feeling conflicted.
Yet there were a few moments, when she’d been ordered to stand very still, that she’d let her mind drift off in a dream. She imagined Rathburn dressed in his finery, standing at the end of a long aisle, his eyes focused solely on her, his gaze filled with the blatant desire she’d witnessed at the Dorset ball. Or at least until she’d opened her mouth and those foolish words tumbled out. Oh, how she hated herself for saying them.
Daring Miss Danvers Page 9