by Anne Gracie
Her twin spoke reassuringly. “Mrs. Jenner, you needn’t worry. Hope could never be interested in a man like that.”
Hope looked at her twin in surprise. Mrs. Jenner asked, “Why do you say so, Faith?”
Faith smiled. “It’s obvious. Change his face a little and give him another fifty years or so, and who will you be looking at? Grandpapa!”
Hope blinked. “He doesn’t look the least bit like Grandpapa.”
“He does, a bit. And physically he’s the very sort you and I most dislike.”
Hope had no answer for that. It was true. Or had been . . .
However, despite Faith’s words, Mrs. Jenner continued to watch Hope like a suspicious hawk. From the other side of the room the man kept glancing across; a bigger, much fiercer hawk. The provocation was irresistible.
She waited for the next time he glanced her way, and the moment he did, she fluttered her fan in a mildly flirtatious way, not enough to be an open invitation, but in a way that discreetly signaled she was not unaware of him.
He stiffened and abruptly turned away, his frown blacker than ever. Hope smiled to herself. So, Mr. Tiger did not approve of flirtation. For some reason that pleased her.
Mrs. Jenner laid an urgent hand on her arm. “Don’t you go playing with fire, missy, for that man is dangerous. Rumor has it he’s on the search for a wife, and I pity the poor woman who gets him.”
“Why?” Hope asked, a little disturbed by her chaperone’s vehemence. “Why would you pity her?”
But just as Mrs. Jenner opened her mouth to explain, two young men came up to the twins to fetch them for the cotillion, and the moment was lost.
As Hope moved through the familiar steps of the cotillion, she felt him watching her again. It was a tingle at the back of her neck, a heightened awareness that lasted through most of the dance, as if someone were breathing on the nape of her neck.
Why would Mrs. Jenner warn her off him?
He did look dangerous. But then a number of men here tonight were held to be dangerous company for a young, unmarried lady; gazetted rakes, fortune hunters, gamblers, drunkards, and other shady characters. Hope and Faith knew all about them.
After their sisters, Prudence and Charity, had married, Great Uncle Oswald had decided he needed someone to take the twins about while he concentrated on his courtship of Lady Augusta Montigua del Fuego. He’d employed Mrs. Jenner, some sort of distant widowed cousin. She was a silly woman in many ways, but she had a fund of worldly knowledge. Between them, Great Uncle Oswald, Lady Gussie, and Mrs. Jenner had educated the twins about the pitfalls and shoals of London society. But there were many things they thought were unfit for a young woman’s ear. Perhaps this was one of them. Hope frowned. It was irritating to be treated like a child.
The supper dance was about to commence. She glanced across the room. His attention was fixed on something or someone else. She craned her neck to see, and he moved. Like a dark scimitar, he began to cut a swathe through the colorful throng.
Straight toward Lady Elinore Whitelaw.
She blinked in surprise. Lady Elinore? Who’d have thought such a big, virile-looking man would be interested in a confirmed spinster like Lady Elinore? Hope shrugged and allowed her partner to lead her onto the floor.
He danced the supper dance with Lady Elinore. They made an odd contrast, he so big and dark and menacing, she so small and pale and helpless. And not a splash of color between them.
He danced the supper dance, then led Lady Elinore in to supper. They sat with Mr. Bemerton and his partner, a voluptuous-looking lady in a green silk dress. Surrounded by family and friends, Hope watched them surreptitiously as she ate. Mr. Bemerton and the lady in green did most of the talking.
Why would Mrs. Jenner pity his wife? She longed to ask, but the table was crowded, and there was no opportunity for any but the most general conversation.
After supper, she danced several more dances, performing her part gracefully enough, and if she was rather quieter than usual, her partners had no fault to find with that and were happy to regale her with tales of their adventures. Hope listened with half an ear, scanned the room for a tall, dark man, and hoped her responses made sense.
As the evening wore on, she became cross with herself. It was foolish to allow her evening to be dominated by a man who, after those initial piercing looks, had not even bothered to seek her out. She was here to enjoy herself, and so she would. She wouldn’t give the wretched man another thought. There were plenty of other men at the ball, many of whom she hadn’t yet met, and the last waltz was about to begin.
The last waltz was Hope’s special dance. One night, years earlier, when they were young and in the blackest despair, Hope and her twin had both dreamed a powerful, magical dream, a dream of love and destiny, sent to them, they were certain, by their mother. They’d woken up at the same moment in the middle of the night, and when they compared dreams, it was uncanny: the similarity and the small, significant differences . . .
In Hope’s dream she stood in clear, cold moonlight, surrounded by threatening shadows. She waited, alone and desperately lonely. Then from out of the dark shadows came a man. She didn’t see his face, but he took her in his arms and suddenly they were waltzing. And the shadows were banished, and Hope was never alone or unhappy again.
Faith’s dream was much the same, except in her dream, her man didn’t dance. He’d made music . . .
Such was the power of the dream, neither twin had ever forgotten. It had nourished their hopes throughout the grim years with Grandpapa, and it directed their actions throughout their first London season and again in their second. They’d received many offers, but none had been accepted. Their dream men had not yet appeared.
From the very beginning of her first season, Hope had refused to fill the last waltz on her dance card, leaving her choice open until the very last moment. She didn’t know who he might be or what he might look like, but the dark and dashing figure of her imagination wouldn’t tamely sign her dance card and wait his turn. So she kept the last waltz of the evening free, because one day he would come, and in the waltzing, she would know him. It would be the perfect waltz.
The practice was widely known—if not the reason—with the result that a small crowd of gentlemen approached her at the end of each evening and hovered, waiting to be chosen. She never chose the same man twice.
A light, pleasant voice at her elbow said, “Miss Merridew, may I present a friend of mine as a desirable partner for the waltz?”
“Perhaps—” she began flirtatiously, then broke off in surprise. It was Giles Bemerton with his big, fierce-looking friend looming silently at his elbow. A hollow pit opened up in her stomach, and for a moment she could not breathe. His gaze devoured her. She stared back, mesmerized.
“Giles, how very delightful to see you.” Mrs. Jenner bustled up, her wide smile belied by the militant chaperonial gleam in her eye. “How is your dear mother? And you wish to dance with Miss Merridew. Of course, dear boy.” She grabbed Hope’s hand and thrust it into Mr. Bemerton’s with genteel force.
But Giles Bemerton, well brought up though he may have been, was more than a match for any chaperone. He instantly transferred Hope’s hand to the black-clad arm of the big, silent man standing beside him. “It is my friend, Mr. Reyne, who wishes to dance with Miss Merridew, but it is so delightful to see you again, Mrs. Jenner. Let us catch up on old times while we dance, shall we?” And without waiting for her response, he swept the baffled chaperone out onto the dance floor, leaving Hope standing alone with the dark and somber Sebastian Reyne.
Up close he looked bigger and more intimidating than ever. His eyes were gray, dark-lashed and intense. Hope drew back.
“So, Miss Merridew.” His voice was soft and deep and seemed to resonate through to her very bones. “Will you grant me the honor of this waltz?” He held out his hand to her.
Hope hesitated, eyeing his big, scarred hand and powerful frame doubtfully. His potent physical presence wa
s disconcerting, yet something about him intrigued and drew her. The gentlemen surrounding them saw her hesitation and pressed forward to make their own claims for the coveted last waltz, and in that instant Hope decided. “Yes, Mr. Reyne, I will.”
Someone should have warned him, Sebastian thought. Someone—the French caper merchant or Giles—should have warned him that twirling around an empty room with a small elderly Frenchman in his arms was totally different to dancing with Miss Merridew.
Unspeakably, impossibly different.
Once he touched her, all notion of rhythm flew from his head. She’d extended her right hand, and it was simply the most beautiful arm in the world. He’d stared at it, entranced, for several seconds before he recalled himself. He took it in a firm grasp and felt her small, soft hand swallowed up in his great, ugly fist. He felt like an ogre crushing a fairy. And then he’d placed his other hand on the curve of her waist, feeling the warm resilience of her flesh beneath the delicate silken fabric of her gown. And was lost. The music swelled all around them. Sebastian stood like a rock, holding her, trying to master himself.
How could he possibly dance? He was supposed to take her in his grasp and yet not allowed to hold her in his arms. He was supposed to twirl her lightly around the room, making witty conversation, when all he wanted was to draw her close and wrap her hard against him.
Fearing he would forget himself, he held her rigidly at the correct distance and stepped out, as if stepping off a cliff. Not looking down. Sweat trickled down his brow.
He was intensely aware of her. Her touch, even lightly, even through her gloves, set off a reaction deep within him, rippling from the point of contact to the deepest recesses of his being, arousing his most primitive instincts. Instincts he had kept at bay his whole life.
Sebastian Reyne did not act on instinct. Logic and common sense were what he had always depended on.
He wanted her.
Wants were temporary, he told himself. They passed, as this dance would pass.
They twirled, and she bent and flowed gracefully in his arms, following the unspoken commands of his body.
“It is the usual custom to chat as we dance,” a soft voice said from somewhere below his chin.
Chat? Sebastian blinked. Chat? He could not think of a single thing to say. Even if he had the words, he wasn’t sure his voice would produce them. His mouth was dry, his tongue was thick, and every part of his body was reacting to her. He fought to conceal it.
“Ah. Indeed. Quite. Go ahead, then,” he managed. Brilliant.
A soft chuckle floated upward, and it was just like water in a fountain, like raindrops on diamonds.
His whole body tightened in response, demanding he act now. Hold her. Claim her. Crush her to him and kiss her until they were both senseless.
He was in the middle of a ballroom. One, two-three. One, two-three.
“I haven’t seen you at these events before. Are you new in London, sir?” Her voice was soft and musical.
“I am. Yes,” he managed. Her skin was like rose petals. Her skirt swished and rustled with every move, its delicate fabric brushing against his legs. Every one of his instincts clamored to draw her closer, to pull her close against him, to tuck her softness against his hardness—even now, he could feel his body pulling her insidiously closer. His grip on her tightened as he locked his right elbow, forcing his traitorous body to keep her stiffly at a proper distance.
“And do you intend to make a long visit?”
“Not long.” As long as it took to marry Lady Elinore.
“Oh, what a shame. There is much to enjoy here in London.”
There was much to enjoy in his arms right now. Sebastian tried to concentrate. One, two-three. One, two-three. Her delicate scent wafted to him in drifts, the scent of woman with a hint of . . . roses? Vanilla? The ballroom was crammed with people, thick with overheated bodies and a hundred different perfumes. How then could he possibly smell her? But he could. He could smell her hair, the delicate fragrance of rich, golden curls. He longed to bury his face in them. He twirled her around in a reverse instead.
She leaned back into the support of his hand, giving herself wholly to his leadership, responding to his every movement with feather-soft delicacy. Her lips were parted and her eyes half-closed. She sighed rapturously. “The waltz is such a divine dance. Don’t you just love to waltz, Mr. Reyne?”
“No. I do not,” Sebastian grated, unable to take his eyes off her parted lips. So close . . . and yet so far. The punishment of Tantalus.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise and then warmed with amusement. She laughed. “You intrigue me, sir. If you do not enjoy waltzing, then why did you invite me to dance?”
A couple twirled dangerously close, romping rather than dancing. The man, a heavyset fellow dressed in purple knee breeches and a spangled coat, was clearly drunk, and even as Sebastian warned him off with a cold stare, the fellow overbalanced. His partner, a raddled woman shrieking with laughter, tried to straighten him, but his reeling weight was too much for her, so she stepped back and left him to his own devices. Collision was inevitable.
Sebastian pulled Miss Merridew against his chest and turned in a protective half circle, keeping her safe within the embrace of one arm as he took the full brunt of the man’s toppling weight against the other.
The man lurched and clung precariously. With his free arm, Sebastian dragged him upright by the scruff of his coat, then thrust him firmly away. The man was noisily apologetic. “So sorry, dear fellow. Slipped, y’know. Demmed housemaids too free with the wax, y’see.”
“Demmed guest too free with the brandy, more like,” growled Sebastian and danced on, Miss Merridew still clamped to his side. He regained her other hand and frowned at her in concern. “Are you all right, Miss Merridew? That clumsy cod’s head didn’t bump you, did he?”
“No, not at all, thank you.” She was flushed but made no move to put a proper distance between them. She looked up at him with wide, blue eyes. “You sheltered me from any danger of being bumped. Are you hurt at all? Lord Streatfield crashed into your arm quite heavily, and he isn’t exactly a small man.”
He stared at her in astonishment. “Me? Of course not. ’Twould take more than a drunken bump to hurt me.” He twirled her around in a small circle.
She frowned, as if unconvinced, and her concern warmed him. Wishing to reassure her, Sebastian flexed his arm a couple of times. “See, no damage at all.” She just stared at him, a small, thoughtful smile on her face, her body warm against his chest as she danced on.
His body clamored awareness. Hold her closer, it demanded. Sebastian fought the urge.
Perhaps she was shaken more than she wanted to admit. Highborn ladies were supposed to be extremely delicate. Miss Merridew was slender and dainty and looked fragile enough to break. No doubt she’d been wrapped in cotton wool all her life. The encounter with the drunken lord had probably overset her. That was why she was leaning against him, unaware of the impropriety. It could be the only reason. A girl like her would never encourage the advances of a man like him.
The primitive, dishonorable part of him wanted to take advantage of her distress, to keep her there, nestled against him as long as possible—preferably forever. The sensible part of him knew it was a foolish fantasy and reminded him that his duty was to protect her reputation, as well as her body. He eased back, saying gently, “You must be shaken. Shall I fetch you something—a drink perhaps? Or do you wish to sit the rest of the dance out?”
She laughed. “Oh, heavens no! I’m not such a feeble creature. And I wouldn’t dream of wasting a single moment of our first waltz.” She gave him a dazzling smile and said, “I’m enjoying myself immensely, aren’t you?”
He stumbled and cursed silently. One, two-three. One, two-three.
She was enjoying it. Immensely. “Our first waltz.”
Not simply “our waltz.” Our first one. As if she envisaged a long line of future waltzes with him. As if this first dance meant
something to her, the way it did to him. His first-ever waltz. Perhaps his last. He had already resolved never to dance the waltz with another woman.
It took Sebastian several minutes to catch his rhythm again—her smile and her words quite robbed him of his concentration—but he prided himself on his self-control, and soon he had them twirling efficiently around the ballroom. He darted a glance at her to see if he could somehow divine whether or not she had meant it about the first waltz, or whether it was just a meaningless politeness.
To his surprise, she was watching him, an expression in her eyes he could not identify. She dimpled. He glanced around the dance floor but could not see what had so amused her. He looked back at her and frowned an inquiry.
Her eyes were brim-full of merriment. “It’s all right. I don’t mind that you’ve gone all silent again. It is difficult to dance and talk at the same time. I perfectly understand, and I promise I won’t bother you. When I danced at my first ball, I was terrified I would tread on my partner’s toes.”
Her voice was warmly sympathetic, but her words annoyed Sebastian. He was dancing quite efficiently. “It is not my first ball.”
“Your second, perhaps?” Her eyes twinkled at him, an impossible, glorious blue. His primitive instincts responded wildly. He grimly suppressed them.
It was true, of course, but he wasn’t going to admit it. She dimpled again, and as he twirled her onward in a precise, textbook manner, she added chattily, “I only recently learned to dance, too, you know. Monsieur Lefarge almost despaired of me at first, I was so inept. I could not get the rhythm right. I am so clumsy.”
Clumsy? It was ludicrous to imagine this dainty, thistle-down sprite as clumsy. Then her other words sank in, and he frowned. Lefarge. That was the name of his Frenchman.
Unaware, she continued, “For the longest time I had to count under my breath like this: one, two-three, one, two-three.” Her blue, blue eyes were almost dreamy as she added, “It was such an irony, to find myself such a dreadfully clumsy dancer. I so desperately wanted to learn to waltz, you see. To come to London and dance it in the arms of a handsome man was the summit of all my dreams.” She glanced at him, then looked away and blushed rosily.
