Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

I t took a moment, but she rested her hand on his, and satisfied, he whisked her onto the floor.

Her gloved hand was much smaller than his, and he clasped it gently, but his other drifted a little lower on her back than was appropriate. She stiffened, of course, but did not pull away.

He couldn’t prevent himself from gazing at the lovely curve of her cheek and her plump lips. Moving her onto the floor, he began the first forward step. She followed his lead without a falter.

“It has been too long since I waltzed,” she said quietly, breaking their uncomfortable silence.

“As for myself, but you haven’t lost the skill,” he replied. “Clearly, you have been taught well.”

As they glided over the floor, he cast around for a good question, finally remembering one he had uttered to Colin. “Are you a debutante? If you are, how is it that no chaperone gave me a quelling stare and warning to be utmost respectful?”

“I am somewhat of an anomaly,” she replied quietly. “Not a debutante nor am I married; but somewhere in-between, in the ether of uncertainty,” her lashes swept up. “Fear not, my lord, there is no chaperone to take you to task, though I do have a friend here that I must report to.”

The tops of his thighs brushed against hers and leaning in, he breathed in and caught the freshness of her, rose water and a hint of lilies. She looked up at him, and in her gaze, he saw a multitude of emotions.

“In the same vein, do you have a female companion here that would be problematic for me?” she asked. “I would hate to step on your wife’s slippers.”

A disparaging laugh left him. “ Wife ? Hardly. I am unencumbered, my dear, and yes, I do include children as well.”

“Why not?” she asked as he took her into a turn.

Once again, his eyes were drawn to her rosy and plump lips, and if how the lace mask molded to her delicate bone structure was any indication, she was a tiny little doll, and he wanted to see all her porcelain skin in his bed, under the moonlight.

My bed? Get a hold of yourself man, you never take a lady to your bed.

Any bed would suffice, he decided.

“Courtship is an endless circle of monotony,” he muttered. “The endless dances, curtained to two waltzes per night, the stifling strolls through the gardens and supervised carriage rides,” his top lips curled in derision. “Not to mention the visits with the parents, choking down dry watercress sandwiches, and discussions of the weather. No, thank you.”

“You are a bachelor then,” she said decisively.

“Confirmed and unwilling to change,” he spun them. “However, you must have beau’s clamoring at your door.”

“And that is where you are wrong,” she replied quietly. “I tend to fade into the wallpaper, my lord.”

“Sacrilege,” he murmured. “How can that be? You are gorgeous.”

“And how do you suppose that?” her lips curled. “My mask is covering my face.”

“What does show is enough to tell me you are devastatingly beautiful,” William replied as the music crescendoed. “ She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that’s best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes, thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. ”

“Byron,” she said. “Such sweet nothings. Do you use poetry as ammunition in your seduction, my lord?”

“You agree that I am seducing you?”

“I mean to say seductions ,” she stressed the s . “You do not go to be alone at night, do you?”

“You’ve avoided the question,” William replied.

“So have you,” she pointed.

“ Touché ,” he responded, “But am I seducing you?”

Her breath was shuddery. “Sadly, no.”

“I shall try harder then,” he said before taking them on a dizzying spin. “If you stay around for a few more dances that is.”

“You needn’t try,” she swallowed. “I won’t allow you to tempt me into your bed.”

His laugh was soft and smoky. “You misunderstood, my dear. If done right, seduction is not about me leading you into my bed. It is about me giving you enough reasons that you would want to do so yourself . Do you care for a wager?”

“And what would that be, my lord?”

“If by midnight, I don’t earn a kiss from you, I shall never bother you again,” William laid out the first term. “But if I do earn myself a kiss from those rosy sweet lips, you shall allow me to pursue you.”

His knuckles followed the trail of his words, a hot graze against the side of her face and neck, and he trailed his fingertips over her silky, rounded cheek, feeling the rising warmth of her blush down to her piquant little chin. Her eyes were wide and slightly glazed, like that of a doe confronted by a predator.

“Do you agree?” he asked. “It is just a little fun, my sweet, no harm will be done.”

“You lie,” her breathless voice drew him back. “If I do let this happen, I will be harmed.”

With deliberate insolence, he tucked the strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckles grazing the tender shell. Satisfaction flooded him when she trembled in response to his touch. “It is a battle of wills, then.”

“I—” she looked over his shoulder. “Everyone is staring.”

“Let them,” he finished.

“I—I must go,” she pulled away and curtsied before hurrying away. The flare of her cloak was the last thing he saw before she vanished in the crowd.

Oh yes, seducing the impetuous little goddess would be a simple matter. Almost too easy. He didn’t know which would be sweeter, chasing her or witnessing her succumbing to his wiles. By the time he was done with her, he’d have his cake and eat it too.

There was something unsettlingly familiar about the Devil in Red . Not only was he the same height and build as the man who kissed her that night in the alley—his voice evoked the same shivers up her spine too.

“The Beast of Brookhaven,” she whispered to herself while finding a refreshment table, and hastily picking up a glass of water. “Could it be…”

It was improbable… but not impossible.

For her first foray in a ton’s ball in so many years, she felt that she had not touched her toe into the water; no, she had jumped into the deep end without a care. Was she that unlucky that the first gentleman she had met was a rake instead of a decent, upstanding lord?

Seek out Graham Haswell, the Earl of Hansen, Eleanor had told her. They call him the new Bard of the ton. He’s a poet, smart, successful, and has not a smudge to his name. If there is anyone you should endear yourself to for a future courtship, it is him. And he is handsome, by the way.

Setting the glass down, she looked around the room, as another piece of advice from her friend flitted through her mind.

At masquerades, he is always dressed like Richard the Lionheart, and wears a stole with golden fur around his shoulders.

Banishing the rogue in red from her mind, she decided to look for the Earl and found him across the room, under a canopy with a Greek motif and a few ladies hemming him in like a mouse under a goshawk’s eye.

How could she bypass these women and hold his attention?

As she contemplated the conundrum, she passed under the arched entryway and someone bumped into her back, causing her to trip, gasping as she hurtled forward.

Her hand flew out, bracing for impact with the floor—but collided with something else entirely that was firm and solid…

Blinking, she found herself in a man’s arms—Lord Hansen’s arms.

“Easy there,” he said, amusement in his tone. “Are you all right, my lady?”

Mortified, Bridget thanked everything that was good and holy that she had not been holding a drink in her hand. “I—I sincerely apologize, my lord. I hope I have not…”

“Injured me?” He set her on her feet. “Hardly, my lady, you are as light as a feather. The only thing you have accomplished is interrupt a conversation.”

“I am in your debt,” she swallowed and tried not to pay attention to the glares digging into the side of her neck. “Pardon me.”

“Since you are in my debt, I will ask for repayment, and I ask you to stay with me, with us, and join our conversation,” he said, fixing his stole before gesturing for a waiter to come over to them. “I do not believe that I have seen you before. Do I know you, my lady?”

His short, coal-black hair topped a face more rugged than handsome, his nose a tad crooked, with kind, gray eyes.

“No, we have not met before,” she said, taking a fortifying sip of the smooth champagne over a tight throat. “I am Bridget Wycliff, daughter of Viscount Marchwood.”

“It is poor form to introduce oneself,” a lady with a plumed hat quipped nastily, her fan fluttering. “Where is your chaperone, girl?”

The snub was not subtle, but Bridget had formed a defense against such attacks; simply pretend that she did not understand them to keep her expression cheerful and feign ignorance.

The strategy, while effective, pulled out all of her willpower, determination, and composure, to keep her manner bright as the slights pierced her skin, their poison seeping into her innards.

“I came with a friend,” she replied. “Who is otherwise engaged.”

The lady sniffed. “Are you sure you are old enough to attend this ball, dear girl?”

“I am,” she notched her head up. “I have absented myself from the majority of the ton’s assemblies because the games the other ladies play exhaust me.”

The other lady narrowed her eyes as her hand fixed around the flute so strongly, Bridget feared it would shatter. “ Games ?”

“The mind games,” she said bravely, knowing she was going to rub a lot of people— perhaps these two ladies too—wrong. “Not to cast allegations on anyone, it is plain that the ladies of the ton undertake every avenue they have available to make sure they come out on top.”

Snapping her fan closed, Lady O ne glared. “How rude of you. You need to—”

“Actually, I would like to hear what she has to say,” Lord Hansen interrupted. “Please, go on, and don’t censor the truth for politeness.”

Nervous, Bridget looked to the ladies and ignoring their scowls, continued, “Cliques are formed, rumors are made and dispatched to cut another lady down and tarnish her reputation, so her prospects of marriage are null. No one is as hateful as a friendly face that desires what another has.”

Lady Two laughed, her tone high and brittle. “Oh, this one considers herself an original, I assume. That is quite a conspiracy you have, dear.”

“Utter nonsense,” Lady One tittered, but her eyes glimmered with malice.

“…No,” Hansen replied, giving Bridget a staying look. “She is right and we know it. There is no kindness when it comes to putting oneself ahead. Lady Bridget, do you care for a turn around the room?”

“B-But Lord Hansen, were we not having a conversation before this—this interloper came in?” Lady One spluttered, aiming brimstone and hellfire at Bridget.

“We were ,” Lord Hansen extended his arm toward Bridget. “But the topic was about the past balls, which lady was ruined by rakehells and who is definitely shoved onto the shelf and unmarriable. I find her points very poignant, now please, excuse us.”

The light from the chandelier reflected in his eyes, which were lighter than she’d expected, and she had the sensation of losing herself in everlasting moonlight. “Don’t worry, Lady Bridget, you will always be safe with me.”

“Thank you,” she said, stifling the shudder in her words. “I do feel guilty though, taking you away from your… companions.”

“You needn’t worry,” he shot her a soft smile. “They were not saying much. Many ladies here are precisely like you said, willing to tear another down not only to take their place but simply because their mean-spirited hearts enjoy it,” his head canted to her. “May I compliment you on your fine looks this eve, Lady Bridget?”

“You are ever so nice to say so,” she replied, her voice trembling.

Once again, she took the moment to discreetly gaze upon Lord Hansen, and her eyes dropped to his lips… out of nowhere, the memory of another mouth assailed her. Hard, sensual lips, made not for poetry but for sin.

Yanking her head away, she felt heat flood her insides, her nipples prickling beneath her bodice.

He chuckled. “You can look, my lady, I am not a cursed gorgon who will turn you to stone.”

“I—” she paused. “It has been a while since I have attended a ton’s masquerade. As I said before, some ladies are not nice.”

Especially since my father passed and my brother sunk us into debt.

“I am sorry you’ve suffered such discrimination,” Lord Hansen said, “And please, call me Graham.”

She laughed. “As much as I would love to, Madame Tillerman would rise from the grave and smack my knuckles with a ruler at the impropriety. Please bear with me as I call you my lord, until I feel comfortable calling you as you requested.”

“You attended that Madame’s school?” he peered at her. “My sister went there too and nearly buckled under the pressure.”

She blushed. “Perhaps it was because I stayed in the library most of my time there, and buried my nose in books, scrolls, and tomes as thick as that column over there.”

As she nodded to the column, her eyes glanced up to a balcony above, where the Devil lord leaned on the balustrade, overlooking his domain like a dark king. She swallowed and turned to Lord Hansen.

Ignore him. Lord Hansen is a staid choice and a sensible one. He is the sort of man I should be looking to be courted by. Forget the devil lord and the man in the alley, do the best for yourself, and choose a respectable man.

“My lady,” he smiled. “Would you like to dance?”