Hero Wanted
Page 28
He was tall and dark and—her heart tripped over the obvious—handsome. His face was framed on strong, patrician bones; he had a long, straight English nose; and his curved mouth bore a decidedly sensual cast.
“I agree with you, by the by. The butterflies look theatrical.”
Tall, dark, and clever.
In other words, trouble. She groaned privately. Men who eavesdropped and commented boldly on a lady’s appearance had no scruples. Much less what the Brits called “proper sensibilities.” Men like him believed that rules were made for other people.
When he reached for her hand and began to fasten her glove, she felt a tingle in places she wasn’t supposed to know that ladies possessed. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it fast.
“It’s almost impossible to do these one handed.” He slid buttons through loops with long, expert fingers. She glanced up and away, but not before she caught the way his dark hair lay in smooth, feathered layers. No sticky pomade there. Nothing but soft, silky—
She shook herself mentally, refusing to listen to the siren call of her own wayward impulses. She had come to England to marry a duke, and marry one she would. If it killed her.
Why, then, was she allowing this cad—the British equivalent of a “varmint”—to behave so presumptuously? Another of the Brits’ favorite words: “presumptuous.” The Brits were a wordy bunch.
“I believe I can manage the rest on my own,” she said, yanking her hand back and refusing to look at him again.
He took a step back, spread his coat to prop his hands on his waist, and watched as she smoothed the glove and fumbled with the buttons.
“You’re American,” he said, and she could tell from his voice he was smiling, probably the same superior expression she’d seen on so many English aristocrats. “But not from Boston.”
“Thank God,” she said from between clenched teeth. The damned buttons were putting up a fight. “Nevada. That’s out west.”
“I know where it is,” he said. “Next to California.”
“Give the man a prize,” she said irritably, regretting it the minute the retort left her lips. But he just laughed in low, mesmerizing tones that made her bones and determination both soften.
“At that rate, you’ll be here until the closing dance.” He brushed aside her resistance to finish her buttons. This time she looked up, which turned out to be a bad idea. He had long, dark lashes that she could almost feel against her skin. “If I’m not mistaken, that is a Charles Worth gown.”
“It is.”
“Not his usual work.” One eyebrow rose.
“It was made specially for this ball.”
“I imagine so. The duke is known to be a nature lover.”
She reddened. He knew exactly the point of her having bought and worn such an extravagant dress and was far too amused by it to suit her.
“So am I,” she said defiantly. “I love flowers. And butterflies.”
“Ah, yes. The butterflies. In your hair, were they?”
As the last button was fastened, she jerked her arm back and looked around for a mirror. The best she could do was a dark picture under glass that allowed her to see her reflection. She carried her reticule to the console below the picture, where she managed to settle two butterflies back into her hair and wrap the dangling threads of a third around some seed pearls in the flowers at her shoulder. She must have groaned aloud, because her fashion critic laughed. When she looked up, he stood nearby with a gold stickpin in hand.
“Try this.” His grin raised both hackles and gooseflesh.
“I couldn’t possibly.” She dropped her gaze and found the butterfly she’d applied hanging to one side, as if it had expired from the indignity of having to appear on that dog’s dinner of a dress.
“Well, I could,” he said, taking the butterflies from her and stabbing both through with the stickpin. She watched in disbelief as he pulled out the shoulder of her bodice, jabbed the pin through a flower, and threaded it through from behind.
When the butterflies were secured, his hand remained in audacious contact with her liberally exposed skin. He ran the backs of his knuckles slowly around the neckline of her bodice. She froze; unable to protest, unable to even swallow as he reached the exposed top of her left breast and paused, stroking, sensitizing that all too susceptible flesh.
She raised her chin to tell him just how vile his behavior was, but he was leaning close enough for her gaze to get caught in the hot bronze disks of his eyes . . . worldly eyes that advertised understanding of a woman’s deepest desires and the promise of pleasures well practiced and perfected. Unfortunately, there was more as well: humor, intelligence, and a piqued bit of sensual curiosity. A deep tremor of interest rocked her, awakening nerves and raising an alarm.
She should be kicking him like a Missouri mule, should be giving him a painful lesson in how American girls dealt with “bounders.” But, truth be told—tall, dark men with bad intentions had always been her weakness, and he was taller and darker than most, and from what she could tell, his intentions were spectacularly bad. Right now every muscle in her body was taut with expectation and her lips ached for contact of a sort she’d sworn to forgo until she had spoken respectable vows.
“There,” he said with a wry smile, lowering his hand.
“If you can overlook the fact that those two appear to be mating, you’ll be fine.”
“Mating?” Her eyes flew wide as she realized what he’d done. “You, you—” She caught herself before she uttered a curse and drew a fiercely controlled breath instead. “What is her name? This mama you slunk in here like a polecat to avoid.”
His grin dimmed and he paused a moment, studying her. She had caught him off-guard.
“A gentleman does not discuss the ladies in his life.”
“Is that so?” she said, lifting her chin as she headed for the door. “Well, I’m sure I’ll recognize her when I see her. She’ll be the one with the shotgun”—she raked him with a look—“and the horse-faced daughter.”
Betina Krahn
photo credit: Robert Rountree