SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  "Indeed? How?"

  After a brief hesitation she said, "I joined a book club with Emily, Sarah, and Carolyn."

  "I hate to be the one to inform you, but that doesn't sound very rebellious."

  "Perhaps not."

  Something in her tone made it clear there was more to know, but before he could question her further, they turned a corner, and she paused before the first door. He stopped behind her. And clenched his teeth. Her ivory nape was so close…if he leaned forward, he could brush his lips over that tantalizing bit of skin that seemed to beckon, Kiss me, kiss me.

  He wasn't certain he wouldn't have obeyed the overwhelming urge, but she saved him from doing so by opening the door. Then she looked at him over her shoulder and smiled—a beautiful, shy smile that coaxed the shallow dimples in her cheeks out of hiding. "I hope this meets with your approval."

  She entered the room, and he followed. Then halted. And stared.

  Flames danced in a huge marble fireplace, casting the room in a soft glow that reflected off the glossy parquet floor. A dozen candelabras, their silver stems glowing with tapers that scented the air with beeswax, dotted the tables in the ballroom, adding to the soft light.

  "Are you hosting a ball?" he asked, looking around, noting how the gilt mirrors lining the pale yellow silk-covered walls made the already huge chamber seem enormous.

  She stopped in the center of the floor then turned toward him. The soft candle and firelight gilded her as if she'd been touched by an artist's brush. "Indeed I am. Are you ready?"

  "For what?"

  "Your dance lesson."

  He could only stare. "I beg your pardon?"

  She laughed. "Your dance lesson. To satisfy my part of our bargain. As I told you in the foyer, I thought it would be more enjoyable than a piano lesson, and, ahem, save everyone's ears."

  Ah. So that's what he'd missed while mentally planting her father a facer and consigning her mother to the privet hedges. And what he'd inadvertently agreed to. A refusal rose to his lips; it was ridiculous that he learn to dance. Of what possible use would such knowledge be to a Runner? Besides, he'd most likely tread upon her toes and make a complete fool of himself.

  But then an image flashed in his mind… of Julianne dancing with the duke at Daltry's party. He vividly recalled how beautiful she'd looked. And how he'd envied the bastard for holding her in his arms. How badly he'd wished for those few impossible minutes that he was the man whirling her around the dance floor. Holding her hand in his. Touching the small of her back. Looking into those incredible eyes while the room swirled around them. A useless, foolish dream he'd savagely pushed aside. But now… a useless, foolish dream that could become reality.

  "What if Winslow tells your parents?"

  She shrugged. "I promised to retire early—not immediately. And teaching a dance is really no different than teaching a song or a card game. 'Tis a lesson, nothing more. And the door will remain open so all is proper."

  Right. Except in a dance lesson he'd be able to touch her.

  As if caught in a trance, he walked slowly toward her, his boots tapping against the polished wood floor. "What about music?" he asked.

  "I'll hum and sing." Her lips twitched. "We won't need to call upon your, um, formidable vocal, er, talents."

  He stopped when only two feet separated them, a distance that at once felt far too great and much too small.

  In order to appear more imposing—and to make certain he didn't give in to the urge to yank her against him—he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "The way you say formidable leads me to believe that you mean something else entirely."

  Rather than looking intimidated, amusement gleamed in her eyes. "Perhaps I do. Indescribable might be a more accurate assessment of your abilities."

  "You said earlier I can't sing worth a jot. In other words, I possess no musical talent at all."

  A dazzling smile lit her face. "Actually no other words are necessary, as those words are perfect."

  He narrowed his eyes. "How is it that you issue such insults yet don't look frightened?"

  She made a dismissive gesture. "Pshaw. You don't scare me."

  He deepened his scowl and leaned forward to loom over her, more amused than he cared to admit. "No?"

  "No. Oh, you can be very intimidating, especially with that frown, which is quite fierce, by the way. But underneath that crusty exterior is…" She tapped her finger on her chin and gave him a thorough look-over. "Porridge."

  He leaned back and blinked, nonplussed. "Crusty? Porridge?"

  "Yes. Indeed, you remind me of a loaf of perfectly baked bread: hard on the outside, soft on the inside."

  "I've never heard such rot," he muttered, shaking his head, torn between mirth and masculine indignation. "Loaf of bread. Unbelievable."

  She hiked up a brow. "You disagree with my assessment?"

  "Heartily."

  "Hmmm. You sound … peeved. I assure you I meant it as a compliment."

  "To compare me to a loaf of bread?"

  "That's not nearly as bad as you comparing me to a drunken porcupine." Before he could say another word, she snapped her fingers. "That's an even better description of you. You're like a porcupine—all sharp quills on the outside."

  "Thank you. So much. And on the inside?"

  "Oh, still porridge."

  "What sort of porcupine has porridge on the inside?"

  "The sort I'm comparing you to."

  "There is no such thing as a porcupine with porridge on the inside."

  She planted her hands on her hips. A tapping noise sounded, and he realized it was her foot rapping against the wood floor. "Fine. On the inside you're porcupine innards—that are the consistency of porridge."

  "Oh, thank you," he said in his driest tone. "That's much better."

  "You're welcome. Has anyone ever told you that you don't accept compliments very graciously?"

  He couldn't help but laugh. "No, Princess, they haven't. I assure you I can accept them just fine—when one is actually given."

  A knowing look came over her features. "Ah. Now I understand. You prefer pretty, flowery words."

  "Certainly not. Bow Street Runners don't like anything to do with flowery words."

  "Then you'll have to make do with either a loaf of bread or a porcupine with porridge for innards."

  "I don't see why, as I don't agree with either description."

  "Fine. Has anyone ever told you that just because you disagree you don't need to be disagreeable?"

  "Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly fickle? A moment ago I was a perfectly baked loaf of bread. Now I'm disagreeable."

  A slow smile curved her lips. "Only because you disagreed with me."

  His gaze lowered to her full lips, curved in that captivating smile, and he felt as if he were being sucked into a vortex. Bloody hell, she was enchanting. Literally so, as it appeared he'd fallen under some sort of spell. A spell cast by a beautiful princess, but one who kept proving herself so much more than merely beautiful on the outside. This princess was beautiful on the inside as well.

  "Are you ready for your lesson?" she asked. "I thought we'd try the waltz—unless you already know it?"

  He shook his head—both as an answer and to shake off the stupor he'd fallen into. "No, I don't know it. But I must warn you: your toes stand in grave jeopardy of suffering as much as your ears did this afternoon."

  Her eyes went soft, and his insides seemed to turn to—bloody hell—porridge. "I suspect you'll be a marvelous waltzer. And I'm not the least bit worried about my toes."

  "Well, you should be. I'll be like an ox stomping about."

  "Then we have our work cut out for us and had best begin. After all, I must retire early. Can't have those unsightly dark circles under my eyes, you know." The grin she shot him was downright naughty, and he found himself smiling in return—and biting his tongue to refrain from telling her that she couldn't look unsightly if she tried.

  She reached ou
t and clasped his left hand, lifting it to chin height, elbow bent, then settled her other hand on his shoulder. "Set your right hand on my back," she instructed.

  Heat sizzled up one arm and down the other, and for several seconds he felt as if he couldn't breathe. Damn. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He looked into her eyes. She appeared expectant—and quite annoyingly nothing else. Certainly she didn't seem as if she were about to go up in flames as he did. Well, hell. If she could tolerate this, so could he.

  He settled his right hand on her back and forced himself not to drag her closer.

  "A bit lower," she said. "Right at the base of my spine."

  He slowly slid his hand down, his palm brushing over the smooth material of her gown, his mind's eye envisioning the gentle curve of her back.

  "Here?" he asked softly, pressing his palm to the small of her back.

  Her breath caught slightly, and grim satisfaction filled him. Good. She wasn't as unaffected as she'd like him to think. Why should he be the only one suffering? Of course, she chose just then to moisten her lips, a flick of pink tongue that increased his suffering far more than he would have liked.

  "Yes, right there." She cleared her throat then continued, "The waltz is a very simple dance, and done to a three beat. As the man, you are the leader, and as your partner, I shall mirror your steps."

  "Which means you'll be treading on my toes as well?"

  "You must cease this worrying about my toes. I'm not as delicate as I look. We'll go very slowly. Now, on the first beat, you step gracefully forward with your left foot. At the same time, I'll step back with my right. Ready? Begin."

  He stepped forward, but apparently not gracefully, because his boot landed squarely on her foot.

  "Bloody hell," he said, immediately releasing her and stepping back. "Are you hurt?"

  "My toe is fine. Not to worry, I have nine others."

  "Which I'll no doubt crush on beat two."

  "There are only three beats, Gideon. So how much damage can you possibly do?"

  The sound of his name coming from her lips gave him the incentive to at least attempt to redeem himself. "Hopefully not much."

  Once again she took his hand, and he settled his at the base of her spine. "This time take a smaller step," she said. "We're not trying to get across the room in a single bound."

  "Would have helped if you'd said that the first time," he grumbled.

  He managed to execute the first step without mishap. "Now what?"

  "For the second beat, you're going to step forward and to the right with your right foot—rather like tracing an upside down letter L."

  He tried but obviously traced too large of an L, because his knee banged into hers thigh, a mistake that arrowed heat up his leg. His gaze flicked to hers, and to his annoyance she once again appeared completely unruffled while he felt hot and uncomfortable and as if his clothes had suddenly shrunk.

  "Try again," she said, nodding in an encouraging fashion. "Just take a smaller step."

  He obeyed, and continued obeying her instructions, which she repeated with unfailing patience, in spite of his many missteps and toe crunches. At first he felt ridiculous and clumsy and utterly ungainly, and the only thing keeping him from quitting was that he couldn't walk away from this opportunity to hold her in his arms. Indeed, he might have done better if he'd had a different teacher—someone whose every touch didn't set his skin on fire. Made it bloody damn difficult to concentrate when a matter of mere inches separated their bodies. Could she feel the heat and desire pumping off him? Didn't seem possible she couldn't, as it felt to him as if it exuded from his pores like vapor rising from a hot spring.

  "Very good," she said, as they made their way around the floor at an excruciatingly slow pace. "One, two, three. One, two, three. Now let's add a slight turn to the left so we go in a circle."

  The slight turn to the left threw him off, and again he stepped on her toes. "Damn," he muttered. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually so inept."

  "There is nothing inept about you, Gideon," she said softly.

  He jerked his head up from where he'd been glowering at his feet and found her serious blue gaze resting on him with an expression that did nothing to cool his want of her.

  "All you need is a bit of practice," she said, giving his hand a gentle, encouraging squeeze. "A quarter hour from now, you'll be waltzing as if you were born doing so."

  "Doubtful," he muttered. A quarter hour from now he needed for this lesson to be over. Before he gave in to his ever-increasing desire to forget the bloody waltz and lower her to the hearth rug and end this hunger gnawing at him.

  Gritting his teeth, he tried again, counting one, two, three, one, two, three furiously in his head.

  "Excellent," she praised a moment later. "Now you need to do that very same thing, but looking at me—with a smile—instead of glaring at your feet. It is a dance, you know. Not a funeral march."

  He raised his gaze, looked into her eyes, and instantly stumbled over his own feet. And stepped on hers.

  He uttered what felt like his hundredth apology, but she didn't miss a step, just slowly kept going, around and around, counting softly. After they'd made a complete—albeit extremely slow—circle of the ballroom without mishap, she offered him a beaming smile.

  "Excellent. Now we're ready for some music." She began to softly hum a slow melody. After a moment he asked, "What song is that?"

  "Just one of the dozens of songs I know about flowers and sunshine and grass-filled meadows." Her lips curved in a mischievous grin. "Shall I sing 'Apple Dumplin' Shop'?"

  He grinned in return. "Shall I?"

  She laughed. "Good heavens, no. I'll hum another." She began again, and this time he recognized the song as the one she'd played earlier today. "That is the tune you composed," he said. "'Dreams of You.'"

  She stopped humming and nodded. "Yes." Her serious gaze rested on his, and she whispered, "'Dreams of You.'"

  Again she hummed the haunting melody, and with his gaze locked on hers, unable to look away, they slowly circled the floor. He found himself imagining they stood in a crowded ballroom, and he was dressed in the finest evening attire, and he had every right in the world to approach her, an earl's daughter, and ask her to dance. To take her in his arms where she fit as if made for him alone and circle the ballroom while every other man wished he were Gideon. Who was the luckiest man in the world to be waltzing with her. The most beautiful, desirable woman in the world.

  She reached the end of the song, and her sweet hum faded into silence. Their steps slowed then halted. Her eyes glowed up at him, and she smiled. And everything inside him seemed to simultaneously melt and go still.

  "I hate to say 'I told you so,'" she murmured, "but…"

  He had to swallow twice to locate his voice. "Actually, I don't think you hate to say it at all."

  "Perhaps not. You are a lovely dancer."

  "You are a lovely teacher." Unable to stop himself, he brought their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the backs of her fingers. Her breath caught at the gesture, and he felt a tremor run through her, one he longed to feel again.

  "Thank you," he murmured against her fingers. "For the most enjoyable waltz I've ever experienced."

  A breathless-sounding laugh escaped her. "That was the only waltz you've ever experienced."

  True. But he knew damn well that even if he'd experienced a thousand of them, that one still would have been his favorite. He wanted to tell her that, wanted to let her know how heartbreakingly beautiful she looked. How incredible she felt in his arms. How easy it would be to simply stand here all night long, just looking at her. Breathing in her subtle vanilla scent. How much he wanted to kiss her. Make love to her. Make her his.

  Bloody hell, he needed to get away from her. Now. Before a simple dance turned into something very complicated. Something they'd both regret.

  The memory of them together flashed in his mind … of Julianne lying on the drawing room hearth rug,
her skirts bunched about her waist, his head buried between her silky thighs, and desire slammed into him like a fist to his gut.

  He released her and quickly stepped back. "Our bargain is now satisfied," he said, his voice rough with the want he was trying desperately to hide. "And it's time for you to retire."

  There was no missing the disappointment that filled her gaze, but he refused to acknowledge it. "Very well," she murmured, "but first I need to snuff the candles."

  He suspected that was merely a stalling tactic—no doubt there was a servant whose sole responsibility it was to snuff out candles—but he didn't argue. Instead he walked to the opposite side of the room and grabbed a long-handled engraved brass candle snuffer from a side table and helped the process along.

  When they finished, he moved to the door and said, "I'll escort you to your chamber. Make certain the room is secure."

  She looked up at him, lit now only by the back glow of the fire, and he felt himself drowning in her eyes. "And then what?"

  "And then I'll do my job." He forced his gaze away and gave a soft whistle for Caesar, who'd been patiently standing guard in the corridor with his fur-draped cohort.

  "Gideon, I—"

  "Let's get you settled for the night," he broke in, his voice coming out harsh. Based on the yearning so obvious in her eyes, she planned to say something he didn't want to hear. Something that would surely tempt his already shaky resolve. "Now. Before your parents return home and find you haven't yet retired."

  He didn't wait for a reply, just began walking down the corridor. She caught up to him several seconds later.

  "Gideon, I—"

  "I meant to ask you something earlier," he broke in again, this time in desperation. He couldn't risk her saying what he saw in her eyes. Couldn't let her voice the admiration and longing he saw there.

  She hesitated then asked, "What do you wish to know?"

  "I'm curious about the book that was mentioned at tea. The Ghost of Devonshire Manor. The mere mention of it caused a very interesting reaction in you and your friends."

  "Interesting?"