She really must do something to control her murderous impulses toward this year’s crop of debutantes.
“Who are you engaged to partner for the next dance?” Celia asked her a few minutes later.
“Your husband,” Verena said with a smile. She turned to Freddie. “My lord, shall we proceed?”
“With pleasure.”
As Freddie held out his hand, a deep voice spoke from behind her. “I believe this is my dance.”
Shock and unwelcome pleasure rippled through Verena. She turned slowly to meet Eliot’s steady gray gaze. As was always the case when she encountered him in public, his expression was all cool composure. Only she saw the fire blazing in his silvery eyes.
“Lord Colville, I don’t recall you asking me.” Because he hadn’t, the rogue. The reckless rogue, which was something she’d never thought to call him before this. “I promised this dance to Lord Edgecombe.”
Freddie, who was twenty years older than Eliot and half a foot shorter, cast Eliot an uncertain glance and let his hand drop to his side. Eliot, as ever, was all that was polite, but his air of determination hinted that he had no intention of retreating.
“We arranged things yesterday in the park. I’m devastated that you don’t remember, my lady.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. They’d exchanged a few words in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, but they hadn’t ventured beyond pleasantries. He’d certainly never warned her that he intended to risk dancing with her under society’s gaze. “As I don’t recall that conversation, and Lord Edgecombe has—”
“Verena, I’ve danced with you already tonight,” Freddie said with a cheery lack of chivalry that she couldn’t help but resent. “If there’s been a mix-up, I’m happy to yield to Colville’s claim on this occasion.” He beamed, as if he’d sorted everything out to general satisfaction.
Which was far from true.
Verena bit back an irritated response. Celia’s inquisitive stare made the hair prickle on the back of her neck.
“Thank you, Edgecombe. Very gentlemanly of you.” Eliot extended his gloved hand. “My lady?”
The orchestra played the introduction to summon the dancers to the floor. It had to be a waltz, didn’t it? Verena smoothed out her expression, although inside she was fuming. Didn’t Eliot realize that this mad gesture put seven months of hard-won discretion in jeopardy?
When she met his eyes, he smiled at her, which made her want to hit him with her fan. Or something heavier, like a club, if only she could lay hands on one. The ballroom was sadly lacking in suitable weaponry.
Any further objections to partnering Eliot would only draw more attention. So she plastered a smile on her face and took his hand. “Then I accept with pleasure, my lord.”
Was she alone in noting the wolfish satisfaction that lit Lord Colville’s face? It was a very un-Eliot expression. At least in public.
“Excellent.” His fingers curled around hers, and even through two layers of gloves, she felt a zing of heat. She might be annoyed with him, but that didn’t lessen the animal attraction raging between them.
She didn’t speak, as he led her out onto the dance floor and put his arm around her waist. Over his black-clad shoulder, Verena saw Lord Deerforth shoot them a disapproving glare. He’d consider Verena an unsuitable partner for his much-admired son. A faint whisper rose above the music. She and Eliot had never waltzed together before. The pairing would strike the ton as bizarre. And infernally interesting.
“You’re creating a spectacle,” she hissed under her breath, as she set her other hand on his shoulder. “What on earth are you up to, you lunatic?”
His smile didn’t falter. “I’m dancing with the woman I want to hold in my arms. It isn’t a crime.”
The music turned to a lilting melody, and she and Eliot began to move in time. “It mightn’t be a crime, but it’s certainly a mistake.”
He glanced down at her, and as ever, the warmth in his eyes made her silly heart squeeze tight and flip over. “It doesn’t feel like a mistake.”
“It will in the morning, when the world is gossiping about the saint and the sinner, and your political backers are asking themselves whether you’re really such an upright character after all, or whether I’ve managed to corrupt you.”
“It’s a dance, Verena. I’m not copulating with you in full view of the beau monde. You’re overreacting.”
She scowled. “No, I’m not. Because now that we’ve danced together, people will start to speculate about what else we might do together.”
“I can cope with a bit of talk.” He kept smiling, plague take him. “I’m sick of other people setting the agenda for my life.”
They might be conducting a furious argument in murmurs, but the physical compatibility that produced such fireworks in bed held true here, too. She felt like their bodies moved as one. Freddie Edgecombe danced like an arthritic cart horse. Her toes at least appreciated Eliot’s bold invitation.
“So you’re setting the agenda for my life instead.” The dangerous sweetness in her tone should warn him of her displeasure. But then, he was aware of that already, wasn’t he? He was the most perceptive man she knew, and she wasn’t doing much to conceal her crankiness.
“You’re making too much of this,” he said lightly. “Although if you don’t start looking just a tad happier, you really will have people asking questions about what we mean to each other.”
He was right, to blazes with him. She might be lecturing him on decorum, but she was doing very little to maintain it.
Verena sucked in a tattered breath and struggled to restore an appearance of long-suffering boredom. It was harder than it should be. What she wanted most of all was a chance to give Eliot a good shake. She could weather a little – or a lot – of gossip. After all, she was already the notorious widow. But Eliot had a reputation to uphold. Not only that, his sister was on the marriage mart this season. His behavior mattered even more than usual.
It was odd, and surely a figment of her imagination, but as she drew breath, she caught Eliot’s spicy scent. He was holding her at a proper distance, and the overheated air was sickly with the perfumes the women wore and the fragrance of wilting hothouse flowers. Not to mention a good dose of upper-class perspiration.
Her senses were so attuned to Eliot that the drift of male musk set her pulses racing. In the last six months, that rich scent had become the aroma of paradise.
A purely private paradise.
“What in Hades do you hope to achieve with these antics?” Her voice remained stony, despite the forbidden longing that found a home inside her.
Still he smiled, the scoundrel. She wanted to kick him in the shin and remind him that she wasn’t a fit partner. It was the smile that he gave her when they were alone and nobody was watching. It was the smile that told her he judged Verena Gerard to be the most marvelous being in creation and he knew how lucky he was to hold her in his arms.
Even in private, that smile always made her skin itch. Partly because it made her nitwit heart flutter like a trapped linnet in a cage. Here, where hundreds of eyes focused on their unlikely pairing, it betrayed far too much about his penchant for the naughty widow.
“Antics? I’m a gentleman dancing with a lady at a society event. All perfectly acceptable.”
Except it wasn’t, and he knew it. Imogen waltzed past in the arms of Anthony Comerford, the Lumsdens’ oldest son. As she stared at her brother, her features were vivid with curiosity. She’d been in Town a mere fortnight, and already she’d heard of the wild and willful Lady Verena, it seemed.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, struggling to maintain her pretense at ennui. Eliot might have lost his mind, but she could still do her best to convey an air of distance.
“How am I looking at you?”
Her eyes narrowed again, then very deliberately she glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Shelburn, who was dancing with Elizabeth Tierney. The devil had the temerity to wink at her and sha
ke his head in theatrical commiseration at her incompatible partner.
If only he knew how compatible she and Eliot in fact were. Physically at least. But of course, she didn’t want Shelburn to know that. She didn’t want anyone to know that.
“Like I’m a chocolate éclair, and you’re a man with a taste for good pastry.”
His low laugh vibrated under the hand that she’d placed on his shoulder. She might be annoyed with Eliot. She was annoyed with Eliot. But that rumble of a laugh always sent pleasure rippling through her. Tonight was no different, although she heartily wished it was.
“That’s just how I feel.”
She’d very much like to tug at the crisp golden curls at his nape to bring him back to reality. But if she did, it would look like a caress. Verena tried to stiffen and pull back, but the hand at her waist wouldn’t budge.
Most of her lovers did her bidding. She’d learned early in their affair that Eliot had a mind of his own. However much he desired her, she’d never managed to turn him into a lapdog. “How much longer will this pestilential waltz last?”
He laughed again. Her ill humor didn’t seem to depress his spirits at all. “Long enough.”
“I’d like to sit down.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
No, she wouldn’t. Because despite her worry and fluster and irritation, waltzing with Eliot was like flying.
Verena had always loved to dance, ever since her first season. She rarely had a partner to match her, though. Eliot was just right, so that she became part of the music, a feather floating around the room without her feet touching the ground.
It was a pity that they were arguing. It was a pity that they would never dance together again. Eliot was the best dance partner that she’d ever had.
The devil was the best lover that she’d ever had. It was even more of a pity that the affair had to end. He was becoming reckless, and she couldn’t bear the thought of his association with her causing him lasting harm.
“Smile, Verena. The éclair is glaring at me as if it’s got murder on its mind.”
He performed a dizzying circle and when he reversed direction, they’d edged closer. The evocative smell of his skin made her head swim, even without taking account of the whirling movements of the waltz. His hand was warm at her waist and made her wish that he was touching naked skin. The layers of his glove and her silk gown and all the petticoats beneath were an annoyance. She fixed her gaze on his snowy white neckcloth and reminded herself that she was angry with him.
“The éclair does,” she retorted, to her relief hearing the music proceed to the coda. The dance was nearly done, thank goodness. She could go back to showing the world that Eliot Ridley meant nothing to her.
He tightened his hold and sidestepped with a grace that under different circumstances, she might have admired. Too quickly for her to realize his strategy, let alone do anything to stop him, she found herself twirling into a corridor leading off the ballroom.
“Eliot, what the devil game are you playing?” she asked, as she realized that they were now alone.
He stopped moving but kept hold of her. “I want to talk to you.”
She wanted to talk to him, too, to ring a peal over that handsome head and remind him of what was at stake in keeping their affair secret. But she remained conscious that they were in public. He seemed to have forgotten that. How the ton would laugh to know that right now, the bold widow counseled caution, while the saint tested the rules of propriety.
“Anything you say can wait until Friday,” she snapped, pushing back on the hand on her waist. But Eliot was in a commanding mood. That chiseled jaw was set in adamant lines. Even more than usual, he looked like Galahad resolved to seize the Grail.
Despite the promptings of good sense – and whatever her flighty reputation, Verena possessed her share of practical intelligence – she couldn’t suppress a reluctant thrill at how masterful he was. If they’d been on their own, she’d have melted into his arms and begged him to take her hard.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? They weren’t on their own. Although when he ushered her down the corridor and into a small salon, they were as unobserved as a crowded ball permitted.
The hand on her arm was implacable as he shut the door behind him. Sconces lit the room. It wasn’t bright, but there was enough light for Verena to make out Eliot’s urgent expression and the muscle flickering in his cheek.
He’d kept up his urbane manner when he danced with her and fended off her demands to cease this outlandish behavior. There was nothing urbane about the man who now faced her down. He looked like he’d reached the limit of his patience. What on earth was wrong with him?
“Yes, I can wait until Friday if I have to.” His voice wasn’t that easy musical baritone either. It was rough with intense emotion.
She frowned as she pulled away. “Eliot, what are you doing?”
She wasn’t even sure that he heard her question. He flattened his elegant hands against the gleaming wood of the door, and the expression in his eyes scalded her. His behavior all night had unsettled her, worried her. But as she stared into his taut features, for the first time, she was afraid.
Because for six months, she’d tried to ignore the tensions between them. Right now, she had a sick feeling that those tensions had reached breaking point. Eliot certainly looked as if he was close to shattering.
It was colder in the small room than it was in the overcrowded ballroom. But the chill that iced Verena’s blood had nothing to do with the spring night.
His voice vibrated with feeling as he went on. “But aren’t you sick of always having to wait until Friday? Aren’t you sick of squashing our real life into a couple of hours a week, then spending the rest of our days barely surviving on a word here and there? A few moments as partners in the line of a dance? A glimpse across a crowded room with a silent message that neither of us can acknowledge? Don’t you feel like you’re starving to death, Verena?”
Dear God, he really was going to smash everything. She supposed she should be pleased. If he kept going like this, she’d have the perfect excuse for sending him away.
She wasn’t pleased. She was devastated to think that all the joy between them came to a bitter end.
Licking dry lips, she backed away another step. A shaking hand lifted to where her heart raced as if it tried to escape the confines of her chest. “We decided when we came together that we’d keep our liaison secret.”
When he straightened, his glare cut through all the comfortable delusions that she’d wrapped around herself for more than half a year. Comfortable delusions that had threatened to strangle her as the weeks went on. “Then I’m deciding now that it’s not enough.”
“You have a political career and a family to consider.” She struggled to sound as if she had some control here.
“Compared to what I feel for you, I don’t give a rat’s arse about either.”
“You must. Imogen…”
“Imogen is pretty and rich, and far from convinced that she’s ready to marry anyway. She’ll do perfectly well for herself, whatever scandal her brother causes.”
Shocked, Verena studied his expression. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
Yes, he did. She had no doubt that he was in earnest. “What about wanting to be prime minister?”
“Fuck that, too.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Eliot rarely used strong language in front of her. He mightn’t be the plaster saint that she’d once called him, but at heart he was a gentleman.
Verena scrambled for some way to head off the disaster that she saw rushing toward her. “We can…we can meet on a second afternoon each week. Even three.”
Although the more often he called, the greater the likelihood of discovery. On the other hand, the thought of having Eliot in her bed several times a week was appealing.
Too appealing.
“Fuck that as well,” he grated out. “Don’t you und
erstand, Verena? We’ve gone past the point where a few hours here or there are enough. I love you.”
Her breath stopped. Her heart stopped. By heaven, time itself stopped.
He loved her?
The room and everything in it faded to a gray mist. Even Eliot’s face became a blur.
“Eliot…” she forced out through a throat that felt like it was lined with broken glass.
Surging forward, he fell to one knee before her. He grabbed her shaking hand and kept hold of it, despite her frantic attempts to pull free. “Verena, I love you, and I want to make you my wife. Will you marry me, my darling?”
Chapter 5
Eliot wasn’t a stupid man. He knew that Verena was skittish on the subject of marriage. Even to someone she liked.
She was reluctant to entrust herself to a man. Why shouldn’t she be? Her life offered a freedom that few women ever enjoyed. And hers was such a vivid, untamed spirit.
Not to mention that even before he came to her bed, he’d guessed that her first marriage had been a catastrophe. Her randy old goat of a husband had never been discreet about his dalliances, and there were also nasty rumors about the late Lord George Gerard’s taste for violence.
Eliot could cope without hearing an immediate and unconditional yes in answer to his proposal. It would be an uphill battle to convince her that they had a future together. But while for months, he’d told himself that he could live with what little she gave him, it wasn’t enough. He was ready to take the next step in life, and he wanted to take that step with Verena.
“Say something, sweetheart,” he said, trying to muster a smile, but failing miserably. He stared up at her from where he was kneeling and prayed that this wasn’t turning into a complete debacle.
Her throat moved as she swallowed. She’d gone as pale as paper, and not even the most optimistic fellow could read anything except utter horror in her expression.
This was his first attempt at a proposal. It was clear that he needed more practice.
She swallowed again. “Are you completely mad?”
Two Secret Sins Page 4