Abby sighed happily as Adrian drew her to a halt. “How magical.”
She felt Adrian’s gaze on her face; after a moment, she glanced at him.
He was studying her, her fascination, as if quite bemused, then he glanced about. And arched one brow. “If you say so.”
“You’re jaded.”
He glanced down at her, then inclined his head. “Perhaps.”
Esme and Janet had claimed seats on a chaise; Abby stood with Adrian beside them. Other guests approached; introduced, Abby found herself drawn into numerous conversations, most of which, in one way or another, came to touch on her connection with Adrian.
“Ah—a country neighbor.” Lady Hasleck switched her sharp gaze to Adrian. “How positively unexpected of you, Dere.”
As her ladyship was close to sixty, Abby assumed the comment could be taken at face value. Adrian mildly replied, “I’ve known Miss Woolley all her life.”
“Hmm. Very good.” Her ladyship glanced assessingly at Abby, then tapped Adrian on the shoulder with her fan. “Nice twist, m’boy.” With that and a regal nod, she swept on.
“What twist was she referring to?” Abby asked.
Adrian stared at the old harridan’s departing back, then shrugged. “Who knows?”
He did know what he thought of the next trio who stopped to chat. Lady Collinge had little interest in Abby; her escorts, Lord Farndale and Mr. Moreton, couldn’t take their eyes off her.
Off her white shoulders rising from the seafoam of her gown like Aphrodite’s silken flesh; off her eyes, wide and bright, gold flecks gleaming as she smiled. Off her lips, perfect rose, lushly sensuous. Moreton and Farndale stood transfixed; Adrian could have taken an oath on the thoughts passing through their heads.
His first sight of Abby coming down his stairs had hit him like a sledgehammer; by the time he could breathe enough to think, they’d nearly reached the Wardsleys—too late to think of some excuse, however crazy. As he’d escorted her into the ballroom, he’d soothed his unexpectedly primitive instincts—the ones that prompted him to wrap her in his cloak and whisk her away so no other man would get a chance to leer at her—with the reflection that, at this time of year, most of his peers would be deep in the snowbound country, warming themselves with other ladies.
Tonight should have been safe.
As he took in Farndale’s and Moreton’s fixed stares, Adrian inwardly cursed.
Lady Collinge pouted, and shifted closer to lay a hand on his arm. “Is that a waltz I hear starting?”
Adrian caught the flutter of her ladyship’s lashes from the corner of his eye.
“Miss Woolley, if I may—”
“My dear Miss Woolley—”
Between them, hidden by her skirts, Adrian ran a fingertip from the inside of Abby’s wrist up her arm. He heard her tiny gasp; she looked at him, eyes wide, lips parted—he kept his gaze locked on Farndale and Moreton. “Miss Woolley’s first waltz is mine, gentlemen.”
Farndale frowned. Moreton shot him a sharp glance, then, lips thinning, inclined his head.
Adrian smiled, all teeth. They’d thought Abby was merely a friend up from the country, one he had no interest in. They now knew better. “If you’ll excuse us?”
With the briefest of general nods, he steered Abby forward, one hand at the small of her back, fingers pressed to the layers of silk covering her satin skin. He could feel the supple muscles framing her spine shift as she walked; the sudden urge to feel them shift as he loved her shook him.
Abby glanced back, then up at him. “Lady Collinge is scowling at you.”
“I daresay.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—”
“Positive.” Adrian drew her around and into his arms, then stepped into the whirl of the waltz.
The activity grabbed Abby’s attention for the first few minutes; once reassured that she could, indeed, waltz creditably with him, indeed, that waltzing with him on polished parquetry was rather easier than on frosty grass, she relaxed and looked up at him.
He met her gaze briefly, then looked up, over her head.
For the first few circuits, Abby looked around them, eagerly nothing the various little scenes—the older gentleman paying court to the young lady; a young gentleman blushing furiously as he tried to impress a haughty miss; a dashing matron with her handsome cavalier. Vignettes—she unblushingly collected them, slotting them away for later use. She’d imagined that Adrian had to keep looking about to safely steer them around the crowded floor. However, as she gazed about, she realized most gentlemen were absorbed with their partners, experienced enough to judge the movement of the dance without constant checking.
If there was one thing Abby was sure of, it was that Adrian was experienced in this sphere.
She looked up at him. His gaze was still fixed over her head.
“Why won’t you look at me?” She glanced down at her breasts, half-exposed by the gown, at her shoulders, also bare. “Is there something wrong with the way I look?”
She looked up in time to see Adrian’s lips thin, then he deliberately lowered his gaze—to her eyes.
“I’m not looking at you because if I do, I’ll be tempted to live up to my name.”
She tried to keep a straight face, tried to stop her lips curving, and failed. “What, precisely, would you feel tempted to do?”
One dark brow arched. “Inveigle you into slipping out of the ballroom with me, then finding some quiet, private nook.”
He stopped; she couldn’t resist prompting, “And?”
“Kissing you until you’re witless, then slipping your beautiful breasts free so I can kiss them where it won’t show.”
His face hardened as he cut off his words. Her gaze locked with his. Despite feeling increasingly warm, Abby felt compelled to press. “And?”
His eyes flared. “Lifting your elegant skirts, slipping inside you and making love to you until you scream.”
Her lips formed an “Oh,” but no sound came out. Abby felt heat rush to her cheeks. The visions in her mind—vignettes she could see as clearly as the people twirling about them—nearly stopped her heart.
Her shock—at herself, at the sudden surge of wild longing that raced through her—must have shown in her face; Adrian drew her closer, his gaze now intent, his eyes…
His gaze felt hot; it slid from her eyes, lowered to her breasts.
He sucked in a breath. “Good Lord!”
The next instant, he whipped his gaze up; his eyes locked on hers. “You are very definitely not waltzing with any other man tonight.”
Possibly not ever. Adrian glared, and instinctively drew her closer. Tightened his hold on her. His hand slid lower on her back, holding her against him. As they whirled into the turn, their bodies shifted and swayed, his thigh parting hers, pressing against her as he effortlessly turned her.
He saw her golden eyes darken, saw sensual sensitivity cloud her mind; because he was in truth the master they called him, he pressed her no further, but continued to waltz—continued to seduce her—without words.
By the end of the dance, Abby felt light-headed, felt as if her skin was flushed and feverish. She’d experienced the sensations enough to suspect their cause; the knowledge only made things worse.
As Adrian released her, she risked a glance at his face. The speculation—the consideration—she saw there stopped her breath. She stared, then stated, “I am not leaving this ballroom with you, not until it’s time to go home.”
The declaration elicited a raised brow and an entirely purposeful, predatory smile. “There are more ways than one to seduce a lady.”
“And I expect you know them all.”
“Most of them,” he returned, anchoring her hand once more on his sleeve.
As they tacked through the crowd toward the chaise, numerous ladies and gentlemen hailed Adrian; with few exceptions, the ladies attempted to capture his attention while the gentlemen tried to capture hers. Adrian was ruthless at quelling all approaches,
in keeping all the gentlemen at bay. As for the ladies…their sulks and pouts prompted her to suggest, in a moment when they were relatively private, “Those other ladies were trying to attract your attention.”
“They failed.”
“But…” She was a novice when it came to the ton. “Shouldn’t you”—she fluttered a hand—“mingle?”
He caught the hand, studied it as if considering whether he should nibble. “One of the few benefits of my reputation: No one expects me to do anything other than precisely what I wish to do.”
She tugged; to her relief, he let go of her hand.
His eyes met hers. “I fully intend to stay by your side the entire evening.”
Possessiveness glowed, amber-bright; she still didn’t know—wasn’t sure—how much it meant, what it portended. She drew breath and lifted her chin. “If that’s for my benefit—”
“It’s not—it’s for mine.”
“Yours?”
He looked away, then gestured. “Look about you, at those women—ladies—trying to attract my attention.”
Abby looked. She didn’t have to look far. They were all around, sneaking glances at Adrian around the shoulders of their escorts, eyeing him measuringly, as if estimating their chances.
“How many of them do you think are married?”
Abby didn’t like to think, but she wasn’t an innocent. “Most of them?”
“Eighty percent, perhaps more. Do you know what they want of me?”
Her mind balked; luckily Adrian didn’t expect her to answer.
“They want a few hours of passion without strings attached. An empty exchange, neither giving nor taking. Just a physical encounter with no past and less future.”
He paused; her gaze on the colorful hordes about them, Abby did not look at his face.
“Do you have any idea,” he said, his voice low and flat, “what it’s like to be looked at as a body—a talented body perhaps, but still just a body—a body without a soul?”
Abby heard the bitterness in his voice, heard his plea, remembered all the warmth and the giving—his warmth, his giving—on the moor eight years before.
At Bellevere, mere weeks ago. Her fingers curled, nails scoring her palms; her gaze scorched, scorning, over the painted faces. How much had they taken from him, only to refuse him their own warmth in return? How long had he gone without the simple succor she knew in her heart she could give him?
How long had he gone without love?
Did he know—did he realize? Did he understand that that was what he’d missed, that that was what he instinctively sought?
She had to clear her throat to speak. “The others?” She wanted to know it all, hear it all.
“The ones who’ve decided it would be quite worth their while to become Viscountess Dere, now that the estate is in such robust health?”
She glanced up at him then, put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently.
His eyes met hers, the amber dulled, like the eyes of an animal in pain. “I’ve had ten years of this, Abby—if you have any mercy for me in your soul, don’t condemn me to more.”
They were in the middle of a ballroom, under the gaze of two hundred eyes. Abby knew her answer, heard it in her heart, but now wasn’t the time to speak. In the distance, she heard violins sing. Sliding her fingers to his hand, she twined them with his and smiled with her heart in her eyes. “You can waltz with me a second time without creating a scandal, can’t you?”
He held her gaze, searching her eyes, then his eyes brightened. His lips curved, and she knew he understood. He raised her hand briefly to his lips. “I can but try.”
How they survived that waltz without a major collision, she had no idea; it was a magical moment in a magical setting and they had eyes only for each other. She was more aware than she had ever been of the strength in his arms, in his body, of the effortless grace with which he moved and whirled her around the floor. More aware of the tug of the physical, the sensual, the flagrant invitation in his gaze.
A blush warming her cheeks, she let her lashes fall. She was tempted, so tempted, to let him have his way—to celebrate—to let him seduce her tonight, here, at the ball. She held the words back, but it cost her real effort. There were, she lectured herself, too many buts and ifs, too many possible disasters.
What if she screamed too loudly?
The thought shook her enough to make her bite her tongue.
The waltz ended. Adrian glanced at her face, then turned her toward the chaise.
Once again they were waylaid; they both chatted. For Adrian, it was purely reflex—he barely heard what was said. She would marry him—he was certain of it; that shining light in her eyes could mean only one thing. She would be his, totally his, committed in mind, body, and soul. Soon. Tonight, even if not here, at the ball, as he had, not entirely seriously, suggested.
Not at the ball then, even though his temperament was ill inclined to patience and an interlude with Abby here, at this ball, would, in a twisted way that appealed to him, be a fitting end to the tonnish career of “Scandalous Viscount Dere.”
But no, not if she didn’t wish it. Tonight, at Hawsley House, then. Could he persuade her to come to his room, so they could indulge to the fullest in his huge four-poster bed?
A clap on his shoulder rocked him. He turned, tempted to snarl at whoever had interrupted his daydream.
“Damn it, Adrian—get your mind back here. You of all men don’t need to plan.”
“Fitz!” Grinning, Adrian clasped hands with the lumbering giant beside him. Turning to see Abby, who had just parted from two curious ladies, glance at Fitz, Adrian smiled. “Permit me to present Mr. Fitzhammond, an old friend.” He glanced at Fitz. “Miss Abigail Woolley.”
Fitz bowed courteously and shook Abby’s hand. He mumbled the right phrases. Abby smiled; within seconds, she had him telling her about his sisters, both somewhere in the throng. Adrian listened, entertained, watching Abby captivate Fitz.
Then music swirled through the room, the introduction for a country dance. Fitz smiled at Abby. “My dear Miss Woolley, will you do me the honor of this dance?”
Abby went to accept, then glanced at Adrian.
After an instant’s hesitation, he nodded. “I’ll wait for you here. Fitz will bring you back to me.”
She smiled, and gave her hand to Fitz.
Adrian watched them go. He trusted Fitz where he would trust few others. Without thought, he wandered to the edge of the dance floor, the better to watch Abby dance.
He was standing there, his gaze on Abby’s smiling face, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
“Adrian?”
He looked down, ready to give any harpy who dared presume to use his given name in public a thorough setdown, only to find a sweet, enticingly pretty face looking hopefully into his. “Pamela!” Delighted, he took her hands in his. “How are you, my dear?”
She glowed up at him, pert and quite stunningly attractive in blue silk, her dark hair elegantly coiffed. “I’m very well, thank you, but I have some news for you.”
Abby was enjoying the dance hugely, until she saw the lady in blue talking to Adrian. She had rarely taken her eyes from him, transfixed by the sight of him in his severe black coat and ivory cravat and waistcoat. It was the first time she’d had a chance to view him from a distance that evening, the first time she’d been able to fully appreciate his glamour. He was among the tallest gentlemen in the room, but it was his broad shoulders and long, lean limbs, his graceful strength, that attracted feminine eyes.
That, and the blatant aura of sensual danger he projected so unconsciously. He must, she felt, have always been thus.
The fact he was smiling apparently sincerely at the lady in blue alerted her. Then she mentally shook herself.
Adrian had just opened his heart to her, or as near to it as made no odds. She had heard his sincerity, felt his need. She understood him now. As the dance drew her and Mr. Fitzhammond down the room, she relaxed and smiled g
loriously.
To Adrian, she was salvation. He wanted her not for any logical, practical reason, but for a deeply emotional one. He needed her love. With her, he could open his heart and allow that vulnerability. She could see that now. Just as being with him, loving him, had been and still was the one situation in which she could truly be herself, the complete woman without any part of her hidden or constrained, so it was for Adrian, too. She was the one with whom he could love and be loved, and so be free and whole. She could, and would, free him from the emotional prison his fashionable rake’s life had become.
He needed her. He needed her to love him; he wanted her to be his, his alone. And he would be hers. Hers alone.
Forever—for the rest of their days.
Her heart was singing, just waiting to fly. The dance brought them back up the room.
Adrian was no longer where he had been.
Abby’s smile dimmed. She glanced about. Sheer luck had her looking toward the main door just as the crowd parted, affording her a glimpse of broad, black-coated shoulders and shining brown hair following a fleeting flash of blue out of sight.
Abby’s heart clenched, then chilled and sank. She suddenly felt giddy, and ill. She’d refused to go apart with him. Had he…? Her steps faltered—she nearly tripped.
“Here—I say!” Mr. Fitzhammond was instantly solicitous. He drew her out of the set.
“Th-thank you,” Abby managed. Her heart was in her throat. “I…need to sit down.”
“I’ll find a chair—”
“No—perhaps the withdrawing room…” She smiled weakly at Mr. Fitzhammond. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…” She turned away. “I’m so sorry about the dance…”
She vaguely heard Fitzhammond’s reassurances; she barely saw the people she passed. The colorful crowd she had earlier admired was now a nightmarish sea. She fought her way through it. She found herself at the door through which Adrian had passed. She neither stopped nor thought; in a daze, she stepped into the front hall and looked to her right, in the direction Adrian had gone.
Secrets of a Perfect Night Page 11
