Somehow her feet managed to move, and she gave him a cool smile.
"Do you like the waltz?” he asked with a husky drawl.
"I suppose,” she demurred. “I seldom dance it, though it's beautiful when well done."
"You do it very nicely."
"Are you trying to flatter me?"
"Is it working?” He grinned.
"I am no ninny, Your Grace. I never succumb to flattery."
"Mmm. Perhaps then, I should tell you that your eyes are like violets?"
Unable to help herself, she smiled at his brash teasing. “African?"
Duke Haverton drew back his head and laughed, showing startlingly white teeth. “What else? Not very original, am I? Surely a woman as breathtaking as you has heard everything from Byronic prose to stricken male stammering. I apologize,” he said softly. He gave her waist a small squeeze that sent shimmers of pleasure racing over her back. “You deserve more than the mundane when a man sets out to win you."
The words sounded a warning through her brain and suddenly the dance seemed no longer pleasant beyond measure ... but frightening. She was not a woman to be won, wooed, or handled.
Christian felt her stiffen in his arms and realized he'd spoken of his intent too soon. Her withdrawal, both physical and emotional, was a tangible thing. Hoping to regain a place in her good graces, he went quiet and concentrated instead on the movements of the dance. She was a dream of a woman, he thought, buoyed by light touches of slender thighs and the inadvertent pressure of her breasts against his chest. A man of intense concentration, he drank in the scent of gardenia she wore, the feel of her body as he swirled her around the dance floor.
She was grace personified, he thought, as they waltzed together. Though others watched their flight across the marquetry floor, his attention focused solely on the beauty in his arms.
Her skin was softer than a dream, her scent mesmerizing. In short, the woman made his mouth water, but he knew a wary female when he saw one. She was afraid of something. Surely, he was not so frightening?
As the last strains of the waltz brought their dance to an end, he pulled her as close as he dared and bent his head toward her ear. “I wish to call on you, my lady."
A startled expression crossed her face, and once again she stiffened against him. A tremor shook her, making him more curious by the moment. For such a composed and cool young woman, she seemed completely thrown by his request.
"N-no,” she stammered, shaking her head. Lady Elizabeth cleared her throat and looked at him. “I should say, Your Grace, that I do not accept male callers unless they are close family friends. If you are searching for a wife, you would do best to look elsewhere. I shall never marry."
"So certain,” he murmured.
"Very certain. Please, take me back."
"As you wish."
Christian bowed cordially as he left her with her group, feeling a sense of frustration such as he'd never known. Women bowed and scraped for his attentions, and he knew Elizabeth wasn't unmoved by him. He'd even made her smile despite the haughty allure she wore like a mantle of steel. She trembled in his arms, and with every male instinct he possessed knew she felt the attraction that simmered between them.
Stephen approached her soon after, and Christian watched from the sidelines, feeling frustrated and jealous. The negating movement of her head pleased his sense of competition, and when Stephen took himself off to other prey, Christian smiled outright. Of a certainty, he hadn't given up, and Christian admitted to himself that he wouldn't have it any other way.
Certainly, he must marry and soon, but there was no reason to obliterate challenge from this courtship. Besting his old friend would be almost as invigorating as bedding the lovely Miss Temptation.
Both Potter and Bentley were taking a turn round the floor and, for just a moment, Christian enjoyed shutting out the dull roar of the crowd and lost himself in thought.
Tonight upon his return home, he might send out his man, Rawlins, and discover where Elizabeth lived. Perhaps, needing a bit of adventure, he might take on the task himself; spy out her friends and acquaintances, learn her interests and pursuits. Like it or not, he would call within the week in an effort to draw her out.
Deciding that further study tonight would be futile, he turned, intending to head toward the game rooms where men were wont to gamble. A low hush halted his steps as a slow murmur rumbled through the crowd. Groups began to separate like the parting of the Red Sea and though others still danced and talked, it was as if everything tumbled into slow motion. Words, names came to him on whispers.
"Murderer."
"Stanhope."
"How dare he show his face!"
These whisperings alerted him to the fact the man was neither liked nor wanted in this gathering of the elite. Working his way to a better view, Christian watched with narrowed eyes. The man was trouble; that was a certainty.
Edward Huntley, Lord Stanhope, stumbled through the doors and onto the dance floor like a man possessed. There was no finesse in his movements, and the cane he wielded made people step out of his way. Floundering, eyes burning with hatred, it was obvious the man was well in his cups.
The crowd, hushed and waiting for the advent of gossip, watched, eyes gleaming with speculation as he halted mere steps from Lady Elizabeth Grayson. Her entourage, all young, frightened mice, backed away from their heroine.
Christian moved slowly forward, never taking his eyes from the enfolding tableau. Though he barely knew her, pride soared within him at the sight of her cool manner.
Her chin lifted and her eyes narrowed; her nostrils flared slightly, as if offended by an odious smell. Straight and tall, apparently unshaken by the scene, she stared down the man as he stopped before her.
"Bitch,” he screamed piteously. “Daughter of a whoreson! Dare you show your face after the slander you've shown me?” Spittle formed in the corners of his down-turned mouth as he railed obscenities to the shocked awe of the assemblage. “Because of your filthy mouth, I cannot show my face in polite society. You should be beaten soundly; yea, whipped within an inch of your life."
Christian's eyes burned into the man's mottled face as he advanced. This was a ballroom. This was polite society and this was a woman he'd laid claim to. Possession was something Christian understood and in his mind, Elizabeth was his.
The hushed crowd impeded Christian's progress, but since he towered over most everyone, his view wasn't hampered. Elizabeth's lips tightened as she listened and despite his need to protect, he was impressed with her coolness.
"I did not murder your sister,” Stanhope cried. “She was a clumsy twit who couldn't put one foot in front of the other without falling. Clumsy and stupid."
The crowd gasped at the untoward display, but Edward Huntley appeared unfazed as he leaned closer, almost nose-to-nose with Elizabeth. “She knew her place, though, unlike you, you twisted bitch. Spreading your lies. Telling tales. I'll see you in hell before I'll let you ruin my good name."
The crowd fell silent as Stanhope heaved for breath.
"Ruin your good name? How can that be?” Elizabeth sneered. “You had very little to begin with, sir. As for knowing my place, my place is within me and not determined by the will of others. If you have fallen on disgrace, you have only your meanness and drunken violence to blame. Poor Charlotte was worth many more of you, you spineless, sodden wreck of a man. May you rot!"
Every strong word fell on the audience. A collective gasp ensued as she dashed a glass of red punch into his florid face and turned with queenly grace toward the open doors of the terrace.
"I'll kill you,” he screamed after her. “You and your bitch sister have ruined me.” As he was carried forcibly from the crowded room, his cry echoed over the stunned crowd.
His body pulsing with rage on behalf of Elizabeth Grayson, Christian watched her raise a trembling hand to her chest. Her face was flushed and pink as she turned and raced through the terrace doors. He had no choice but to follow.
Three
Struggling for breath, Elizabeth grasped the marble railing with both gloved hands and stared into the shadowy gardens. She didn't want to be followed, but knew it would happen if she didn't lose herself within the carefully sculpted garden beyond. Her evening, it seemed, was destined to be ruined by men.
Needing time alone to gather her thoughts, she caught up her skirts and glanced furtively over the twilight-shadowed lawn. Spotting an amorous couple to her right, she peered once more behind her, then dashed off in the opposite direction. Shadows edged the garden and teased her with the welcoming blackness beyond. In her new avocation, she was much accustomed to the night and thought nothing of finding the deepest recesses in which to hide.
Not hiding.
Not really.
Elizabeth had never hidden from anything or anyone in her life, yet composure was essential to her very being. When she returned to the ballroom, it must be with her usual aplomb. How could she gain confidences if she appeared weak and helpless?
It galled her that Edward still had the ability to shake her. And Christian Delaford? No, she couldn't let herself think about him!
Rushing on slippered feet, she ignored the slap of branches and the rustle of leaves underfoot. An oak, ancient and gnarled, presided over the back fence. Its leafy branches hung low, offering a modicum of privacy, so she ducked beneath the shelter and leaned gratefully against its trunk.
Since her return to society's fold, she'd never once stopped herself from telling the truth about Edward, Lord Stanhope, and his diabolical nature. Little did she care that he was a cripple and friendless. He was alive, wasn't he? As far as she was concerned, he still had a price to pay!
Her former brother-in-law deserved no mercy from her. No, Edward had not yet begun to feel the pain that she could cause a man so enamored with respect, fortune, and a proper place in society.
Elizabeth struck a clenched fist against the trunk, barely feeling the bite of the bark as it tore at her delicate lace glove. Anger and hatred took her breath as her mind filled with thoughts of her sister—her lovely face, her kindness and compassion, and of the way Edward had slowly and cruelly stolen her spirit over the course of their marriage.
Closing her eyes, she brought a hand to her throat and bowed her head.
"Elizabeth."
She started and turned with a jerk at the forbidding male voice, cringing at the sight of Christian Delaford cloaked in darkness. Her heart pounded out a quick tattoo as she instinctively pressed back against the tree, thankful for its sturdy balance.
There was definitely something sinister about a man dressed all in evening black, who wore his equally jet hair like a bloody pirate. Elizabeth tensed, fully prepared to flee if he stepped one bit closer. Spending even a moment alone with him could spell disaster in her current state.
"Your Grace,” she said stiltedly. “You startled me."
"Not any easy feat, I suspect."
He watched her with unnerving intensity. Was it a trick of light or did kindness seem to soften his fierce beauty? His lips firmed as he reached into his evening coat, withdrew a linen handkerchief, and held it out to her. “Though I would very much like to hold you now, perhaps this will do instead."
A lump formed in her throat. The evening had been far too upsetting, and she fought the urge to fall weeping into his arms. He was far too gallant when she wanted to dislike him. Steeling herself, she stared at the cloth, then firmly took his hand and forced the white linen away. “I am not crying, sir. I never weep."
His voice lowered as he tucked it away. “At least not in the presence of others."
"No.” She turned away. “Please go, Your Grace."
"Christian, my lady. I would have you call me by my name."
"You are forward."
He chuckled softly. “So they say, but nevertheless, I insist. It is the least you can do for a gentleman who has come to your aid."
Elizabeth spun to face him. She wanted him to leave. Now, before she lost herself completely. “A gentleman?” she said. “I've not known many of those, to be quite blunt."
"A man-hater, are you? Pity. Men can be quite useful on occasion."
"The very rare occasion."
"Perhaps this is one of those rare occasions, hmm? Wollstonecraft would be proud of your steadfast refusal not to lean on a man, no doubt, but I promise not to tell if you confide your troubles."
"Go away,” she said. “I wish to regain my composure before I re-enter the manse. You are not helping a whit. No, in fact, you infuriate me further with your insipid posturing."
Anger chased across his features, and she immediately wished she could take back her words. He stepped closer, threatening, big and dark in the shadows.
When he reached out, took her by the shoulders, and hauled her against him, Elizabeth squeaked. Her breasts flattened against the crisp, white linen of his shirt making her head reel. His body was surprisingly hot. Very inviting. When his arms snaked around her to draw her even closer, she trembled. Christian bent his head, trailing a warm breath over her naked shoulder as if he were inhaling her scent.
A shaft of heat shot straight to her core.
"Insipid?” he breathed. “Tell me, my beauty, what is insipid about this?"
Before she could do more than gasp, he took her lips in a thrilling kiss. Mmm. Oh, yes. Like a lusty pirate, he plundered the recesses of her mouth with a touch unlike any she'd ever imaged in her most wicked fantasy. Curving his hand along the line of her jaw, he mastered her, eating at her mouth with a voracious hunger she'd never before known. No, this was not a gentle first kiss. It was a kiss of ownership, of lust, of passion.
Hot and slow, he took her mouth. Her breasts ached and throbbed in tempo with his pounding heartbeat. His endless kiss continued to tear through her. Nibbling, sucking, he drew at her lips as if they were a sweet temptation.
Her head reeled at the possession of his too-beautiful mouth. Her senses exploded. Zinged and popped. Thrilled and pounded. Parts of her body heretofore unheralded thrummed to a pagan tempo.
Everything about him was hard and strong and perfect. Against her body, he felt like well-tempered steel. From the curves of his chest beneath the stark evening shirt to the thick, iron-hard ridge pressing at the juncture of her thighs, he was all male, powerful and frightening. At last and finally, she knew how it felt to need. Christian Delaford was, in truth, everything she'd always wanted but feared from a man. He was every dream and every nightmare wrapped into one. A savage but beautiful beast.
With a soft moan, she pulled back and stared into his smoldering eyes. A vivid mixture of fright and curiosity tore through her. “Don't,” she whispered shakily.
"Then tell me, Miss, why I should not? You are determined to hate me, so what have I to lose?” He took her chin, holding her in place as he looked into her eyes. The taunting, satisfied smile he gave her made her flush hot with embarrassment.
"Don't presume to judge me until you know me better, my sweet,” he whispered. “Putting people in neat little categories is a foolish and often dangerous business."
"How dare you!” Elizabeth stiffened and backed away. “You are a rogue and a lecher."
"And immune to insult.” He laughed. “Try your best, Elizabeth. I shall not be deterred from pressing my suit. Hate me or love me, but never presume to judge me."
"Leave. Now.” Tense and sick to the bone at her lapse in judgment for allowing this confrontation, she scowled at him.
Christian sighed and stepped back. In no apparent hurry to obey, he leaned casually against the tree and crossed his arms over his chest. “First, tell me why Stanhope bears such animosity toward you? I know about your sister and the family's belief that he killed her, but why would he come after you in such a public manner?"
Elizabeth lifted her chin and gave him a defiant stare. “I've made no secret about the sort of man he is. Shall we say I have been most vocal on the subject of his vile character. Society has chosen to be
lieve my version of what happened to Lottie."
Alarm flashed across Christian's face. “You are playing a dangerous game with Stanhope, Miss. It isn't hard to understand why you revile the man, but you seem oblivious to how dangerous your enemy might prove to be. Stanhope's behavior tonight smacks of desperation, and desperate men are capable of anything. If he did, in fact, murder your sister, what is to prevent him from harming you?"
Elizabeth spun on her heel and presented her back. “I plan to ruin his life as he has ruined mine. He is neither deserving of mercy from me, nor will he receive it. I shall do everything within my power to make him suffer for his misdeeds."
As Christian spun her to face him, she gasped in shock. Anger laced his voice as he loomed over her. “Little fool,” he spat, “you will stop this vendetta. Now, Elizabeth. Do you hear me?"
Though taller than most females, she was no match for Christian Delaford's strength. Furious with his presumptive attitude, she slapped ineffectually at his hands. “Release me, sir. I've had quite enough of your bullying. I am no missish woman who will faint at your heavy-handed tactics! I am not your sister or daughter and, thank the blessed Lord above ... I am not your wife!"
Christian's cheek quivered with an answering fury that startled her. “Not yet, sweet Elizabeth. Not yet. But, by damn, you will be."
With shocking abruptness, he released her and stalked away.
* * * *
Weary from the evening, his thoughts in turmoil, Christian stepped into the foyer of his Berkeley Square mansion. The three-story, Palladian-style manse was ostentatious in its display of wealth and good taste. The cool marble floors were made of creamy ivory and featured an inlay of the onyx and gold Haverton family crest. Matching columns, thick and heavily veined with gold and black, flanked the hexagonal-shaped entry like sentinels.
Molded ceilings arched upward, leading the eye to a distant grand staircase, which rose regally, veering both left and right onto the second-floor ballroom.
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