They were alone—at least, as alone as two people could be in a crowd. Miss Fairchild had seized the opportunity to take to the dance floor with Raibert, a man who possessed all the fleet-footed skill Harrison lacked, while Mrs. Carmichael was chatting up a dignified man about the same age as Harrison’s father who wore a crisply pressed gray kilt.
Grace stood by his side, watching the dancers glide by. She’d grown quiet, and for some reason he couldn’t hope to explain, her uncharacteristic silence felt like a pebble in his boot.
“Your dress…the color suits you,” he remarked with a deliberate casualness.
Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Thank you. I was fortunate that Mrs. Carmichael was able to find a seamstress who could produce such a lovely gown on ridiculously short notice.”
“It fits you…exceedingly well.”
“Does it now?” she teased. “The seamstress certainly knew what she was doing. I take it she’s an old friend of Mrs. Carmichael.”
“The woman has a lot of those.”
Grace’s forehead wrinkled. “How well do you know her?”
“Well enough to tell you she’s a formidable woman with a good heart.”
“She is a friend of your family?”
“In a manner of speaking. She and my mother have been close for many years.”
A wistful look swept over her features. “I do miss having friends,” she said. “It’s been so very long—it feels like forever.”
“I find that difficult to believe. You’ve certainly charmed Miss Fairchild.”
She gave a little shrug. “And to what end? No matter what happens, I will go on my way after it’s over and that will be that. I’ve never had the luxury of staying in one place for long. My aunt and I had to keep moving.” No sadness touched her matter-of-fact statements. “Oh, enough of that. I’m turning into a Gloomy Gracie, as Aunt Thelma used to say when I’d pout.”
He tried to picture her pouting. He did not succeed. “I cannot envision that.”
“I was very young then, still toting around a rag doll with a face my mother had sewn herself.”
“Gloomy Gracie,” he teased. “I rather like the sound of that.”
“Perhaps I would not be so gloomy if I were whirling around the dance floor. Even one dance.”
“Believe me, your mood would not be lifted by the crunch of my heel upon your toe.”
She studied him as if genuinely puzzled. “You usually seem so confident. I could teach you.”
Harrison shot a glance toward the suit of armor that had been mounted and placed by the wall. “You’d have better luck with that fellow.”
“Don’t be silly.” She reached for his hand, curving lace-gloved fingers over his. “Come with me. I can teach you.”
He shook his head, even as he drank in her touch. “Impossible.”
“Give me ten minutes. That’s all it will take.”
“Is this some diabolical torment you’ve devised?”
“Of course not.” She flashed a smile that seemed to contradict her words.
“I’ve no intention of making an utter arse out of myself.” Truer words had never been spoken.
“I am shocked at your reluctance. I’d taken you for someone who does not back down from a challenge.”
“If we were referring to a medical procedure or employing some new type of weaponry, you’d be right.”
She hiked her brows. “Oooh, a new weapon. How very rugged.”
Blast the woman. She certainly was persistent. And she definitely possessed an instinct for getting under his skin.
“Grace, I am a realist when it comes to my strengths. And my weaknesses. And the ability to move my feet in some coordinated fashion in time to the music while synchronizing my movements with a partner’s is an ability I have not been fated to possess.”
“True courage is facing your weaknesses. Is it not?”
“Am I to believe you are now a philosopher?”
“No.” She shook her head. “To tell the truth, I’m merely a woman dressed like a princess who’d like to dance.”
He motioned to the floor. “There are any number of men out there who would seize the opportunity.”
“None of them are you.”
The sentence was simple in construction. Five small words. But it seemed a confession. Her words carried a force neither of them had expected.
She swallowed, her throat visibly constricting. “What I meant, Harrison—it would be unseemly for a newly married woman to take to the ballroom floor with a man other than her husband. We would not like to draw suspicion, would we?”
“Of course not.” He lowered his gaze, staring down at his feet as he gathered his thoughts. Meeting her eyes, he summoned his most dignified tone. “Very well, I will submit to this torture. But only once.”
She nibbled her lower lip, drawing his eye to that plump spot in the middle he most wanted to taste. “I have a solution…a compromise, if you will. Shall we find a private spot where I might tutor you before we take to the floor?”
“That would be acceptable.”
Blast it, he should’ve said No. He should’ve held his ground. After all, he was only here on a mission.
But when she looked at him like that, it was damned hard to remember she was a woman he wasn’t supposed to trust.
Wasn’t supposed to care for.
Wasn’t supposed to want.
She took her hand in his, and he led her from the ballroom. They settled upon a small, uncluttered study, a secluded space not far from the spot where the musicians had set up their chairs and stands. Muted notes drifted into the room.
“There now, we’re alone.” She glanced down at the delicate shoes covering her toes. “Perhaps I should have selected a pair of workman’s boots.”
“That would have been the prudent choice, given the circumstances.”
“At least you’re smiling now,” she said. “You looked rather like a man marching off to his own execution a few moments ago.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I will bear your words of caution in mind.” Warmth darkened her eyes to a rich cocoa brown. “Now, let’s get to work, shall we?”
“If this will be the end of the subject, yes.”
“Now, take my hand.” She frowned at his hesitation. “You do know how to position yourself for the waltz, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Even I was able to grasp that concept.”
Taking her hand in his, he lightly placed his other hand at her waist. A twinge of awareness shot through him. Damn the luck!
“Now, let’s think about footwork. It’s quite simple, really. Just count to three. One-two-three. One-two-three.”
She touched her toes to his, nudging him along. He followed along, focusing intently on the rhythm.
“That’s good,” she said, gracing him with a smile. Her hand rested on his shoulder. “A little faster now.”
“I’ve all the grace of a newly born ox,” he said with a chuckle.
“Might I ask how you know how graceful an ox is?” Mischief twinkled in her eyes. “I cannot imagine you have much call to observe the species in action.”
“Call it an instinct,” he said, laughing again.
“If you insist.” Those brown eyes of hers drew him in like a powerful magnet. A man could look into that soft, warm gaze for a very long time.
For a lifetime.
Her mouth softened into a smile, enticing beyond all reason. Her hand slid over his shoulder, toward his throat, then brushed the edge of his jaw. If she intended to tempt him, she was doing a damned fine job of it.
Suddenly, she yelped. “Ow!”
She took a step back, a small, deliberate stride. He stilled his feet.
“My apologies,” he said quietly. “But you cannot say I did not provide fair warning.”
Shaking her head, she met his eyes again. “I should not have reacted in that manner. After all, you are making progress.”
�
��And if I disagree with your assessment?”
“I’d say you were wrong. You are moving with the music. You are keeping the rhythm. The rest…will come in time.”
“In time, eh? I’ll be as ancient as a mummy in a crypt and I’ll still be treading on your toes.”
A smile that reached her dark eyes tipped the corners of her mouth. She was trying to encourage him. Bloody shame his body’s response had nothing to do with blasted one-two-three, one-two-three.
“Shall we try again?” Valiantly, she began to count again, urging him back into the dance.
Only a cad could deny her when she looked at him like that. So hopeful he’d move just the right way and not pummel her delicate feet in the process. If she was willing to take the risk, who was he to refuse to go on?
He led her in the waltz, smoother this time. But with movements so mechanical, a puppet with tangled strings might have been more graceful. How was it that he could perform surgery to remove a bullet, but he lacked the coordination to master a simple dance step?
The problem likely wasn’t with his coordination. Not entirely, at least. The problem lay in his motivation. He didn’t give a damn about stepping in tempo with the waltz. Or his ability to count to three over and over again, like some maddening litany. No, the blood surging through his body had stirred a hunger deep within, a longing he felt to the marrow—a longing that had nothing to do with the orchestra’s precisely played notes.
Peering down at her, drinking in the subtle smile on her lips, the delight in her eyes at her pupil’s smallest sign of progress, he wanted nothing more than to caress her, to touch every inch of the soft curves that tantalized him.
Nothing more than male instinct, he tried to tell himself.
But he knew better.
He’d held other women. He’d kissed other women. None of them had kindled such a hunger.
A desire for a woman he should not want. Could not want.
But he did.
He wanted her. In his arms. In his bed.
He wanted Grace.
Like a madness for which there was no cure, the yearning to taste her passion kindled from a spark to a blaze.
An impulse careened through him.
Definitely unwise. Definitely one he should rethink.
“Grace, I meant what I said earlier.”
“Referring to your mule-like grace? Or your oxen-like dancing ability?”
“No.” He spoke the word, not so much as the answer to her question, but as a warning to himself.
“No?” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Then what do you mean?”
“The way you look tonight…can be attributed to the woman wearing the gown, and not the gown itself.”
Once again, her top teeth grazed her full lower lip. “I…I don’t understand.”
He slid his other arm around her and pulled her close. She was soft and pliant in his arms. And she looked up at him, wide-eyed and questioning.
“I can think of a far better use of our time,” he whispered against her mouth.
“Can you now?” Challenge flashed in her gaze, and she drew her fingertips over the angle of his jaw.
“Definitely.” He held himself still, drinking in the look in her eyes like a man stranded in the Sahara would indulge on the contents of a miraculously found canteen. “A gentleman would conduct himself with restraint.”
“Indeed,” she said softly, her voice infused with a husky tone that stirred his desire. “Personally, I’ve always thought a gentleman should use restraint only when the lady in question wished him to do so.”
“And the lady in question—does she wish me to use restraint?”
She appeared to ponder his question, torturing him with each passing heartbeat. “That depends, I suppose.”
He hiked a brow. “You suppose?”
She smiled, soft and teasing. “If by restraint, you mean you will not carry me off to do despicable things like Bluebeard did to his wives, then, yes, I would appreciate restraint.”
His other brow shot up. “Bluebeard? I can’t say I’ve ever aspired to recreate that tale.”
Her eyes flashed with gentle challenge. “On the other hand, if you are implying you will not kiss me…or touch me…in that case, I would rather you did not exercise restraint.”
Did he have any idea how tempting she was when she played the minx? “Ah, I did mean the latter.”
Her fingers threaded through his hair, grazing his scalp. “I suspected as much.”
“In that case…” He dipped his head and claimed her sweet mouth.
Gently, slowly, he kissed her. Exploring the taste of her. The feel of her. The sound of her soft murmurs of pleasure, urging him on as his tongue slid between her parted lips.
God above, what sweet plunder. If he’d been a pirate of old, he would’ve hauled her off to his ship, sailed far away, and given thanks for the treasure he’d stumbled upon.
She smelled of lilies, a delicate scent, and she tasted of champagne and woman. Her arms curved around his back, bringing him closer. Pressed to him, she was warm and giving, canting her hips, cradling his arousal against her body. She tilted her hips a bit more, tempting him to the brink of control.
He grazed his hands over the flare of her hips, crumpling the delicate fabric of her gown between his fingers. The need to hold her—to adore her—crashed into him.
She deserves better than this—she deserves better than stolen kisses and caresses.
She deserves more…
The words plagued him, even as he cupped her bottom and held her so close, only their clothing separated their flesh. His cock throbbed with primal need. Much more of this, and he’d peel her gown from her body right there. Right then. So close to the ballroom the strains of a vigorous polka drifted to his ears.
Her fingers curved over his shoulders, holding him possessively, her nails lightly grazing him through the layers of clothing. She was temptation personified. He wanted her. The hunger went bone deep.
His need for her thundered over him, undeniable as the pull of a storm-tossed wave against the Aberdeen coast. Carrying him out to sea, to a point of no return.
What he wouldn’t give to feel her touch against his skin…again.
His good sense tried to take the reins. He put a fraction of an inch between their bodies.
“Don’t stop,” she murmured.
He drank in the taste of her mouth as he kissed her again. If she were wine, he would be a drunkard. My God, could he ever get enough?
Suddenly, awareness overtook him. The strains of music had quieted.
Had the orchestra stopped playing?
Blast it, what did it matter?
The squawk of the door hinges answered that question. Grace froze. And then she broke away.
Turning, they faced the source of the sound. A short, middle-aged man with a gleaming pate and an awkward half grin stood in the doorway, clutching a violin in his hand.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, clearing his throat for effect. “I’d thought to have a few minutes in a quiet space to tune my instrument. I’ll be on my way.”
The color had drained from Grace’s cheeks. Harrison reached for her, clasping her hand in his. As his fingers coiled around hers, she seemed to relax.
“No, we’re the ones who should be going,” Harrison said.
“We’re newlyweds, you see,” Grace added, fashioning an endearing smile.
“I can see that,” the violinist said with a good-natured tone. “The ball will be over soon enough. Then you can make your escape.”
“I’d appreciate your discretion,” Harrison said.
“Of course.” The violinist grinned broadly. “Believe me, I’ve seen far more scandalous sights. I was a newly married man once, two decades ago. Those were the days. Make the most of them while you can.”
Chapter Twenty
Lying on her back on what seemed a mere sliver of the bed she shared with Mrs. Carmichael, Grace stared at the ceiling. Amazing, really
, how her reality had shifted within the span of hours. She’d shared a delicious rendezvous with Harrison and had played the belle of the ball in a confection of a gown and delicate kidskin shoes.
But now, that was over and done. The bliss she’d experienced at the ball had swiftly evaporated into the reality of a snoring woman who’d had a wee bit too much to drink and hogged far more of the bedcovers than she was entitled to.
The clock in the chamber ticked away the minutes. It was nearly two o’clock.
Tossing and turning, Mrs. Carmichael flailed out with one arm. Grace scooted away in the nick of time. The back of the woman’s hand slapped against her shoulder. If she hadn’t moved when she did, she might well have ended up with a bloodied nose.
Heaving a sigh no one else heard, Grace pounded the pillow. At this rate, she would not sleep at all. She lay there for what must have been several minutes, staring at the shadows on the wall. Suddenly, it dawned on her.
The room had gone silent.
The snoring had stopped.
Could this be true? Had the incessant noise stopped for the night?
Rolling onto her back, Grace listened to the sound of rhythmic, soft breaths. Mrs. Carmichael had settled down. Now, finally, she could sleep.
She tugged the blanket over her and closed her eyes. A warm slumber eased over her.
“Harumph!”
The strangled sound wrested Grace from a dream. She closed her eyes again, wishing it away. Perhaps she’d dreamed that sound. It certainly sounded like something out of a nightmare.
A noise that seemed a cross between a grunt and a groan escaped Mrs. Carmichael. She sighed in her sleep, then stretched. Her long limbs splayed over to Grace’s side of the bed.
A chill rippled through her leg as a cold foot pressed against one calf, and she jerked away. Good heavens, were Mrs. Carmichael’s feet always like a block of ice?
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she clung to the side of the mattress lest she fall over the side. Squeezing her eyes closed, she thought of the warm bed in the room just beyond the connecting door.
A bed with a most desirable man under the blankets.
By thunder, she would be useless the next day if she did not get some sleep. She’d been invited to tea by Lady Sybil and Lady Edythe. It wouldn’t do for her to arrive with dark circles and puffy eyes.
Tempting the Highland Spy Page 18
