by Brenda Joyce
A dangerous anger uncoiled as they turned. She hardly belonged in his arms, so he could not be jealous. Then his anger vanished, for she was dancing with her brother.
Though relieved, he realized he was too intent to relax. His blood was too hot. One night of seduction had not been enough.
He watched them move across the dance floor in the waltz, a dance he thought elegant but far too staid. Her brother was a good dancer, but she was not. She had just tripped over her brother’s foot. He felt his lips curve. She was laughing about the error, too.
She was happy, and he was oddly glad. He watched them whirl about, her steps distinctly awkward, as if she was counting them. How could she dance so stiffly, when in bed she was so sensual?
His heart slowed dangerously, but every pulsing beat was heavy. He was recalling her body sliding beneath his, and he almost felt her sweaty, silken skin. If she allowed herself to feel the music the way she had felt him, she could dance superbly.
“My lord St Xavier,” a man boomed.
He turned. He did not recognize the gentleman holding out his hand, his smile wide and fixed. He inclined his head and took the proffered hand.
“A great pleasure to see you, sir,” the man said, pumping it.
Behind his back, he heard a man say in total disbelief, “St Xavier is here?”
He knew that whispers were beginning and that they contained more than speculation—they contained slurs.
“My lord, good evening.” A beautiful brunette smiled at him, her shorter, balding husband with her. She held out her gloved hand, and her eyes were warm with a far too familiar invitation.
Jane Addison had been in his bed every single afternoon in the month of April, but he hadn’t seen her in at least three weeks—nor did he wish to enjoy her favors again. He took her hand and bowed indifferently over it.
“My lord, sir, this is a great pleasure!” her husband cried, beaming.
Emilian smiled briefly at her husband. He had seen the man in passing over the years, but had no intercourse with him. He nodded, and as he did, he overheard someone say, “I can’t believe he’s come out.”
The tone was vitriolic.
He looked at his ex-lover’s husband without guilt or remorse. He was hardly Jane’s first adulterous affair, and he would not be her last. Besides, he hadn’t been thinking of any insult while mounting Jane on the floor, or atop his desk, or against the door. He glimpsed several women he’d enjoyed in the room. But their husbands had unknowingly paid a high price for their scorn and condescension.
“Is it really true?” a woman whispered.
He knew, without doubt, that they were discussing his Romany heritage. Annoyed, he turned. Three very pretty young women stood with his cousin, Robert, and his two ne’er-do-well friends. All the women flushed. Robert grinned at him, and he knew his cousin, in particular, had been enjoying the subject of his heritage.
“I see you’ve stepped out, finally.” Robert took his hand and shook it as if they were close. “May I introduce the ladies, Emil? Miss Hamlin, Miss Cutty, and Lady Haverford.”
Amidst blushes and giggles, they curtsied and simpered. They were so silly, and he had forgotten how annoying young virgins could be. He glanced across the dance floor. The music had ended and Ariella was slipping out of her brother’s embrace. His heart slowed dangerously again.
She was not annoying.
She was proud, intelligent, direct.
What if she didn’t hate him?
He realized the three young ladies were chattering at once, but he didn’t bother to look at them. He scanned the crowd. A dozen gentlemen were watching Ariella. He wasn’t the only one to desire her—of course not. More tension arose and he welcomed it, preferring to be distracted by potential rivals.
“Sir, sir, my lord!” One of the debutantes tugged on his sleeve. “Does this mean you will now come out with us? We should so love your company at the June fête!”
He didn’t look at the young woman speaking but restrained himself from flinching at her touch. There were no rivals. He shouldn’t have come, because he wanted to pursue her. Worse, he wished the company would vanish so he could watch her openly, in pure enjoyment.
He wouldn’t mind teaching her how to dance.
He shook himself. Dancing with her would be impossible now, after the night they had shared.
She was crossing the dance floor, her brother handing her off to her cousin and sister so he could join a group of men, most of whom were boldly staring at her. He folded his arms. He should leave. He wanted her back in his bed, and that was simply unacceptable. Tonight he intended to behave with honor. But maybe he would stay the entire night—just to see which buck thought to make inroads with her.
Ariella, her profile to him, stiffened. He knew she had felt his stare.
Slowly she turned, her expression bewildered. Her face went starkly white. Margery seized her arm. Then her cousin also saw him, and her expression turned incredulous.
Ariella’s hand covered her bare décolletage, where her heart obviously raced. Her distress was clear and he did not blame her. He despised himself.
Ariella turned and hurried from the room with her cousin. He saw them slip outside onto an apparent terrace or backyard.
“Do you know Miss de Warenne?” Robert asked blandly.
ARIELLA HURRIED across the dark courtyard, leaning heavily on Margery. She could not breathe. She had spent the past five days trying to forget him, but now he had appeared at the dance—dressed as an Englishman.
“You must sit down!” Margery cried.
Ariella fought for air, her heart pounding, as Margery led her to the edge of a low fountain. Ariella sat gratefully, but she was disbelieving. “What is he doing here?”
Margery sat beside her, putting her arm around her. “I don’t know! I will make sure he leaves,” she said fiercely.
Ariella felt her heart cracking apart. She covered it again with her hand. “I have tried to forget what happened. I have tried to forget him! I have been determined to be sensible. I have been reading about the Mongols!” she cried.
“I know,” Margery whispered.
But Margery didn’t know that the words on the written page blurred, and all she saw was Emilian looming over her, his eyes blazing with desire. Or she saw him seated in that chair, staring at her watchfully, distantly, already done with her. Margery could not know that the memories were so vivid, she could almost feel his hands on her and hear his soft voice, encouraging her—or his cold tone, abusing her. She had not been successful at holding the memories at bay. Even worse, the memories of their passion stirred her body, when she did not want any passion, ever again. The memories of his ruthless dismissal continued to hurt her.
She could tell herself a thousand times that they were both at fault and that she was the fool, but the memories were inescapable. She could pretend her heart wasn’t broken, but it was a very fragile pretense, indeed.
The stone scraped. Ariella tensed as the door she had come through opened. Emilian stepped onto the flagstone and into the courtyard.
Margery leaped to her feet. “Be gone!”
Ariella fought to breathe as she stood. She was so dizzy. What did he want? Why was he doing this? She had fallen in love. He did not return her feelings, but she might still be in love—as stupid as that was—because her heart was racing. She could not look away as he stood there, moonlight spilling over his perfect face.
“I’d like to speak to Miss de Warenne,” he said quietly.
Margery marched forward. “I think not!”
Emilian didn’t look at her. He stared at Ariella, his demeanor grim, awaiting her response.
Did he wish to twist the knife of his indifference into her already bleeding heart? Ariella began to shake. “Leave us,” she said to her cousin hoarsely.
Margery whirled. “Ariella,” she began in protest.
“No, leave us.” The anger appeared out of nowhere. It was huge and it stunned her. In the
past five days since their affair, she hadn’t been angry, not once. Instead, she had done her best to rationalize the hurt away and try to forget the entire affair. But Emilian was not the kind of man a woman could easily forget.
Margery slowly turned to Emilian. “You may not hurt her again,” she warned. “I do not like this.”
He finally glanced at her. “I only wish a word. Your charge is safe for the moment.”
His tone was derisive, but directed, Ariella thought, at himself. She couldn’t comprehend why.
Margery walked past Emilian and slipped into the house.
Ariella didn’t think. She strode up to him and struck his face as hard as she possibly could. He didn’t flinch, but the smack rang out loudly and she gasped, tears of pain instantly arising. She hugged her throbbing wrist to her breast.
“Damn it, you could break your wrist!” He took her wrist in his hands and held it tightly.
She looked up, aware of shaking wildly. Her wrist hurt so badly the tears streamed. “Let go! Don’t touch me! I can’t bear your touch!” But it wasn’t true. His grasp was shocking, yet somehow comforting.
They stood so closely her skirts covered his shoes. She could see his face clearly, and something flickered in his eyes. He released her and stepped back.
Her words had hurt him. She wasn’t normally vindictive and she almost regretted what she had said.
“You need ice on your wrist and it needs to be tightly wrapped.” He was firm. “Let me help you…Ariella.”
She stared at his face now, acutely aware that he had used her name. He had only called her by her name one time, when he had first pushed his hard body into hers, at the precise moment of their union. Slowly, she looked into his gray eyes, but there was nothing suggestive about the light there.
“I believe you have helped me enough,” she said thickly. He had hurt her, used her. She was angry, but she had never been as aware of anyone as she was of him. They must not prolong this encounter, she thought.
He was flushed. “You wrist is probably sprained.”
“I don’t want to talk about my wrist.”
His eyes were bright but impossible to read. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”
She stared at him. She didn’t hate him, but she had no intention of telling him so.
“I am sorry,” he said roughly.
She felt the world stop turning. “What?”
“I said, I am sorry. I came here to apologize. I am filled with regret.”
She was stunned.
He seemed uncomfortable now. He tugged on his stock, which was already too loose.
She took a breath. It was almost calming. “I don’t understand. What has brought this change of heart on?”
“I did not intend to hurt you.”
She thought about his skilled lovemaking, and her exuberant responses. She thought about awaking that morning, and being devastated by his coldness. “No. You only intended a pleasurable evening. You only intended for us to enjoy one another physically—and to quickly forget my name.”
His face tightened. “Yes. That was a part of it.”
Ariella knew she should walk away. His admission hurt, even though it was nothing new. But walking away was impossible. “I have realized how foolish I was. A more experienced woman of a different nature than mine would have enjoyed the encounter and escaped unscathed.”
His chest rose and fell. “Yes, that is true. But I knew your nature. I should have refused your offer. Instead, I seduced you. I realize you will not accept my apology, but I am resolved to make it.”
She certainly wasn’t ready to forgive him. “Was some small kindness the next morning impossible?”
His eyes flashed. “Yes. It was impossible.”
She shuddered. “So I have misjudged you. You are cruel, ruthless even.”
He did not answer.
Her logical mind turned this development over now. “Yet you have donned an Englishman’s clothes and entered an Englishman’s home, in order to apologize to me.” She could not make sense of him. His efforts to apologize were in utter contradiction to his behavior the morning after their affair.
He spoke slowly. “I have never seduced an innocent, unwed woman before. I have never thought of myself as cruel, yet obviously I am. But I came here tonight to make certain you had recovered somewhat from our encounter and to tender my apologies and regrets, even being certain you would reject them.”
She folded her arms. “Your actions indicate you are not entirely ruthless.”
“You may think what you wish,” he said, appearing angry. “I did not come to argue over my character. I realize you are inclined to think the best of everyone, instead of the worst.” He shrugged. “It is a mistake.”
Hugging herself, she stared at him and saw only pain and regret in his eyes.
“I did not expect you to accept my apologies.” He inclined his head and whirled away.
She seized his elbow from behind, astonishing them both.
He slowly faced her. “What are you doing?”
For one instant, in disbelief, she stared at her small, pale hand on his larger arm. Then she dropped it, inhaling. She did not know what she was doing! “We have all made mistakes,” she began.
How could she not accept his regrets? She had thrown herself at him—in spite of his warnings. She had wanted to go to his bed. “Thank you for your apology. It is accepted.”
His eyes widened.
She breathed hard. “I am not one to hold grudges.”
He choked. “We are not discussing a game of cards or a business affair! I took your virginity.”
She no longer hesitated. “I have thought long and hard about us. I was the foolish one, to harbor romantic feelings when you warned me this was not about romance. I refused to heed your warnings.” She felt herself flush. “I was compelled to go to you.”
His eyes locked with hers and she wondered if he really understood what she meant. Nothing could have kept her away from him—and his bed—that night. He said firmly, “The blame is all mine. I know how to look at a woman, Ariella. I am no stranger to pursuit and seduction.”
“I am aware that you have seduced dozens of women. I don’t want to hear about it.”
He hesitated as they searched each other’s faces. “It was unfair of me to play someone so innocent and romantic.”
“Yes, it was. But you are forgiven anyway,” she said thickly.
His eyes flickered. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “The truth is, your generosity and kindness does not surprise me. Are you ever mean-spirited?”
Were they really conversing without hostility? Without rancor? “I am not petty by nature and I am never mean.” She realized her heart was thundering. Where could such a dialogue lead? But, he had dared to come to the Simmonses’ ball, simply to apologize to her. She wanted to smile but the smile didn’t come, for her heart was too afraid to allow it out. The stakes had been returned to the table, and her heart knew how high they were.
He suddenly added softly, “I saw you dancing with your brother. I was pleased to see you smiling.” Then he shrugged. “Clearly, you were not in love with me after all. Your passion was awakened, but not your heart.” His regard slid back to hers.
She trembled. He was so wrong, but she would not correct him. Because she was in a whirlwind of emotion, confusion and even hope mesmerized her once again.
Why did he care if she was enjoying herself at the ball?
Did he wish for her to be happy?
She suddenly recalled the way he had urged her to take pleasure from him, time and again, while he waited for her. She turned away, hugging herself. That was different, she told herself. Wasn’t it?
So much warmth arose. She did not want or need those memories now, not until she comprehended Emilian exactly.
She felt him staring at her back. The night had shifted. Her anger had vanished, and that left bare the current that always seemed to charge and pulse between them. It was there now
, hot, hard and tangible.
She slowly faced him. “Alexi is a good dancer. I always enjoy dancing with him, as he doesn’t care if I tread all over his feet.”
He smiled. Her heart stopped and then raced wildly.
Instantly his smile vanished. The entire time they had been speaking, he had stared into her eyes, as if he wished to know her innermost thoughts and feelings. Now, finally, slowly, he looked at her mouth.
Her heart began a slow, thudding, dangerous dance. He looked up, his eyes silver and bright. His magnetism was inescapable—and it was entirely sexual.
What should she do?
A small voice in her head urged her to run.
Her heart simply beat out its new cadence, waiting and patient. If she continued to converse with him, the heat between them would ignite.
But she could never withstand the kind of rejection she had already suffered. No matter the heat his proximity generated, she must ignore it—mustn’t she?
Recalling his mouth on her throat, his powerful body deep within hers, she said, “You took a chance, coming here.”
It was a moment before he responded. “Although I was not invited to this ball, I have been invited to this house many times,” he said softly. “I expected a warm welcome.”
Confusion reared. “I do not understand.”
“It is hardly a secret,” he said, his eyes moving now to the lowest point of her bodice. “While my mother was Romni, my father was St Xavier.”
She gasped, recalling now his familiarity with Woodland and his utter arrogance in taking her into the house as if it was his. “You are a member of the St Xavier family?” Comprehension dawned—his aura of authority, his impeccable manners and speech. Her attention shot to his hand and she saw the emerald signet ring. “You are St Xavier?”
He bowed. “The Viscount St Xavier, at your service.”
She gaped at him, her mind racing, trying to make sense of this. “But you appeared to be with the kumpa’nia.”
