At Last Comes Love
Page 35
Her lips were full, her mough on the wide side. It was probably one of the most kissable mouths his eyes had ever dwelled upon. No, it was definitely the most kissable. It was one more feature to add to a beauty that was already perfect.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping back at last so that he could make her a slight bow. “I am Merton, at your service, ma’am.”
“I knew that,” she said. “When one sees an angel, one must waste no time in discovering his identity. I do not need to tell you mine.”
“You are Lady Paget,” he said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Are you?” Her eyelids had drooped half over her eyes, and she was regarding him from beneath them. Her eyes were still amused.
Over her shoulder he could see couples taking their places on the dance floor. The musicians were tuning their instruments.
“Lady Paget,” he said, “would you care to waltz?”
“I would indeed care to,” she said, “if I had a partner.”
And she smiled fully and with such dazzling force that Stephen almost took another step back.
“Shall I try that again?” he said. “Lady Paget, would you care to waltz with me?”
“I would indeed, Lord Merton,” she said. “Why do you think I collided with you?”
Good Lord.
Well, good Lord!
He held out his arm for her hand.
It was a long-fingered hand encased in a white glove. It might never have wielded an axe, Stephen thought. It might never have wielded any weapon with deadly force. But it was very dangerous nonetheless.
She was very dangerous.
The trouble was, he really did not know what his mind meant by telling him that.
He was going to waltz with the notorious Lady Paget—and lead her in to supper afterward.
He would swear his wrist was tingling where her hand rested on his sleeve.
He felt stupidly young and gauche and naïve—none of which he was to any marked degree.
The Earl of Merton was taller than Cassandra had thought—half a head or more taller than she. He was broad-shouldered, and his chest and arms were well-muscled. There was no need of any padding with his figure. His waist and hips were slender, his legs long and shapely. His eyes were intensely blue and seemed to smile even when his face was in repose. His mouth was wide and good-humored. She had always thought that dark-haired men had a strong advantage when it came to male attractiveness. But this man was golden blond and physically perfect.
He smelled of maleness and something subtle and musky.
He was surely younger than she. He was also—and not at all surprisingly—very popular with the ladies. She had seen how those who were not dancing had followed him wistfully with their eyes during the last two sets—and even a few of those who were dancing. She had seen a few glance his way with growing agitation, as the time to take partners for the waltz grew close. Several, she suspected, had waited until the last possible moment before accepting other, less desirable partners.
There was an air of openness about him, almost of innocence.
Cassandra set one hand on his shoulder and the other in his as his left arm came about her waist and the music began.
She was not responsible for guarding his innocence. She had been quite open with him. She had told him she remembered seeing him yesterday. She had told him she had deliberately discovered his identity and just as deliberately collided with him a short while ago so that he would dance with her. That was warning enough. If he was fool enough after the waltz was over to continue to consort with the notorious Lady Paget, axe murderer, husband killer, then on his own head be the consequences.
She closed her eyes briefly as he spun her into the first twirl of the dance. She gave in to a moment of wistfulness. How lovely it would be to relax for half an hour and enjoy herself. It seemed to her that her life had been devoid of enjoyment for a long, long time.
But relaxation and enjoyment were luxuries she could not afford.
She looked into Lord Merton’s eyes. They were smiling back at her.
“You waltz well,” he said.
Did she? She had waltzed once in London a number of years ago and a few times at country assemblies. She did not consider herself accomplished in the steps.
“Of course I do,” she said, “when I have a partner who waltzes even better.”
“The youngest of my sisters would be delighted to take the credit,” he said. “She taught me years ago, when I was a boy with two left feet who thought dancing was for girls and wished to be out climbing trees and swimming in streams instead.”
“Your sister was wise,” she said. “She realized that boys grow up into men who understand that waltzing is a necessary prelude to court ship.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Or,” she added, “to seduction.”
His blue eyes met hers, but he said nothing for a moment.
“I am not trying to seduce you, Lady Paget,” he said. “I do beg your pardon if—”
“I do believe,” she said, interrupting him, “you are the perfect gentleman, Lord Merton. I know you are not trying to seduce me. It is the other way around. I am trying to seduce you. And determined to succeed, I may add.”
They danced in silence. It was a lovely, lilting tune that the orchestra played. They twirled about the perimeter of the ballroom with all the other dancers. The gowns of the other ladies were a kaleidoscope of color, the candles in the wall sconces a swirl of light. Behind the sound of the music there were voices raised in conversation and laughter.
She could feel his heat flowing into her hands from his shoulder and palm, radiating into her bosom and stomach and thighs from his body.
“Why?” he asked quietly after some time had elapsed.
She tipped back her head and smiled fully at him.
“Because you are beautiful, Lord Merton,” she said, “and because I have no interest in enticing you into a courtship, as most of the very young ladies here tonight do. I have been married once, and that was quite enough for this lifetime.”
He had not responded to her smile. He gazed at her with intense eyes while they danced. And then his eyes softened and smiled again, and his lips curved attractively upward at the corners.
“I believe, Lady Paget,” he said, “you enjoy being outrageous.”
She lifted her shoulders and held the shrug, knowing that by doing so she was revealing even more of her bosom. He really had been the perfect gentleman so far. His eyes had not strayed below the level of her chin. But he glanced down now and a slight flush reddened his cheeks.
“Are you ready for marriage?” she asked him. “Are you actively seeking a bride? Are you looking forward to settling down and setting up your nursery?”
The music had stopped, and they stood facing each other, waiting for another waltz tune to begin the second dance of the set.
“I am not, ma’am,” he said gravely. “The answer to all your questions is no. Not yet. I am sorry, but—”
“It is as I thought, then,” she said. “How old are you, Lord Merton?”
The music began again, a slightly faster tune this time. He looked suddenly amused.
“I am twenty-five,” he told her.
“I am twenty-eight,” she said. “And for the first time in my life I am free. There is a marvelous freedom in being a widow, Lord Merton. At last I owe no allegiance to any man, whether father or husband. At last I can do what I want with my life, unrestrained by the rules of the very male-dominated society in which we live.”
Perhaps her words would be truer if she were not so utterly destitute. And if three other persons, through no fault of their own, were not so totally dependent upon her. Her boast sounded good anyway. Freedom and independence always sounded good.
He was smiling again.
“I am no threat to you, you see, Lord Merton,” she said. “I would not marry you if you were to approach me on bended knee every day for
a year and send me a daily bouquet of two dozen red roses.”
“But you would seduce me,” he said.
“Only if it were necessary,” she said, smiling back at him. “If you were unwilling or hesitant, that is. You are so very beautiful, you see, and if I am to exercise my freedom from all restraints, I would rather share my bed with someone who is perfect than with someone who is not.”
“Then you are doomed, ma’am,” he said, his eyes dancing with merriment. “No man is perfect.”
“And he would be insufferably dull if he were,” she said. “But there are men who are perfectly handsome and perfectly attractive. At least, I suppose their number is plural. I have seen only one such for myself. And perhaps there really are no more than you. Perhaps you are unique.”
He laughed out loud, and for the first time Cassandra was aware that they were the focus of much attention, just as she and the Earl of Sheringford had been during the last set.
She had thought of the Earl of Merton and Mr. Huxtable yesterday as angel and devil. Probably the ton gathered here this evening were seeing him and her in the same way.
“You are outrageous, Lady Paget,” he said. “I believe you must be enjoying yourself enormously. I also believe we ought to concentrate upon the steps of the dance for a while now.”
“Ah,” she said, lowering her voice, “I perceive that you are afraid. You are afraid that I am serious. Or that I am not. Or perhaps you are simply afraid that I will cleave your skull with an axe one night while it rests asleep upon the pillow beside mine.”
“None of the three, Lady Paget,” he said. “But I am afraid that I will lose my step, crush your toes, and utterly disgrace myself if we continue such a conversation. My sister taught me to count my steps as I dance, but I find it impossible to count while at the same time conducting a risqué discussion with a beautiful temptress.”
“Ah,” she said. “Count away, then, Lord Merton.”
He really did not know if she was serious or if she joked, she thought as they danced in silence—as she had intended.
But he was attracted—intrigued and attracted. As she had intended.
Now all she needed to do was persuade him to reserve the final set of the evening with her, and then he would discover which it was—serious or not.
But good fortune was on her side and offered something even better than having to wait. They danced for a long while without talking to each other. She looked at him as the music drew to a close and drew breath to speak, but he spoke first.
“This was the supper dance, Lady Paget,” he said, “which gives me the privilege of taking you into the dining room and seating you beside me—if you will grant it to me, that is. Will you?”
“But of course,” she said, looking at him through her eyelashes. “How else am I to complete my plan to seduce you?”
He smiled and then chuckled softly.
AT LAST COMES LOVE
A Dell Book / May 2009
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2009 by Mary Balogh
Excerpt from The Secret Mistress copyright © 2011 by Mary Balogh.
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
This book contains an excerpt from The Secret Mistress by Mary Balogh. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the current edition.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33844-4
www.bantamdell.com
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