Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

" I t's you again," the siren scowled at Jonathan in a way that made him want her even more.

After all, he had come to this blasted event just so he could find her. And there she was as if waiting for him. She looked ravishing, truly like a siren. That pet name suited her in so many ways. And there were also so many ways in which he could suit her as well. He wondered how her naked body would feel pressed to his as her breasts heaved throughout her moans. He wondered about the color of her nipples. Would they be like delicate rose petals in the summer? How he longed to taste them, to flick his tongue over them while his eyes watched her in the throes of desire.

But he shouldn't be thinking about that right now. There were too many people around. His smile might betray him or perhaps even his words. He usually didn't mind his manners when he truly wanted something, and he truly wanted her. More than anything else in fact.

"It has come to my attention that we were not properly introduced last time we met," he grinned mischievously.

"Has it occurred to you that I did not wish to be acquainted with the likes of you?" she asked him, catching him off guard with her fire. Heat unfurled between his thighs, awakening profound desire.

"Actually, it has," he acknowledged, realizing that one would easily attract more bees with honey than with vinegar. "And that is because I have not properly apologized for my behavior, a mistake which I intend to rectify immediately." He paused, clearing his throat a little. "It was a mistake, madam. I should not have acted as I did. It was wrong of me in so many ways. But sometimes, I let the worst get the best of me." He grinned at his last comment then he offered a proper introduction. "Jonathan Whitlock, the Duke of Silverbrook, at your service, madam." He bowed down deeply before her in a most respectful way.

He looked down at her shoes, at the hem of her gown trailing on the floor. He lifted his gaze slowly, as if he were caressing her. Her legs, thighs, waist, her breasts rising and falling, and the delicate line of her exposed collar bones, finally reaching her lips and eyes. He refused to look away even for a second before he heard her siren's voice and found out whom it belonged to.

"Ciara Everton," she finally revealed her identity. "Daughter of the Viscount of Hartfield."

"Ah," he said with a smile, straightening his posture. "Miss Everton, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"

"No, thank you," she said without even thinking. It almost hurt his ego. Usually, women were that fast in giving him the opposite answer, but hers was a resounding no.

He knew that convincing her would yield no results. However, he could immediately tell that she wanted to run away and hide in the corner. Placing her in a situation where he would be the lesser of the two evils was the only way to get her to accept his offer.

He leaned closer to her, discreetly pointing at a group of older-looking gentlemen, who were all glancing in the direction of the dancing couples. "I noticed Lord Quentington looking at you a moment before I approached you. I suppose he is trying to do so now as well, albeit discreetly, as we are talking. He has probably set his mind upon asking you to dance. And then, there will be others." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. Then, he continued, "I bet they are all thrilling conversationalists, and they will not make you uncomfortable at all."

"You are not much of a conversationalist yourself, Your Grace," she said boldly, accentuating his title. He had to admit that it titillated him to hear her be so respectful of him. He wondered what else he could make her say in that melodious voice of hers.

"Oh, but I have not revealed all my secrets yet," he said mischievously. "We have barely spoken." He threw a cautious glance around then added the second part, "We were busy doing something else."

The pink blush on her cheeks turned to a fervent red. A strong desire seized him, to gently brush his fingers against them, but he resisted doing so, knowing how risky it would be. Besides, he wanted to convince her to dance with him, not to dissuade her.

"You look even lovelier when you are blushing," he smiled genuinely that time, offering her his hand. "I promise I am a much better conversationalist than Lord Quentington. Will you dance with me?"

She hesitated for a moment longer then she rested her hand on his. He could not resist the temptation to kiss her hand, bringing it to his lips for a chaste kiss.

The memory of their unexpected kiss in the garden flooded his mind, igniting a fire within him that he struggled to contain. He had thought of little else since that moment, his thoughts consumed by the image of her, the feel of her lips against his, and the sweetness of her voice.

Without a word, Jonathan guided Ciara toward the dance floor, his hand warm and reassuring in hers. The music enveloped them as they joined the swirling dance of the other couples, their movements synchronized with the graceful rhythm of the waltz.

"What's the matter, siren?" Jonathan asked. Only then did she realize that she had not spoken a word since they had started dancing. "Has that mesmerizing voice of yours abandoned you?" he asked again, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Ciara's pulse quickened at his words, a mixture of surprise and attraction fluttering in her chest. She glanced up at him, her eyes meeting his with a flicker of uncertainty. She knew she should maintain her guard, to heed the warnings whispered in the corners of London's social circles. But Jonathan's proximity, the warmth of his hand on her waist, and the undeniable chemistry between them blurred her resolve.

"No," Ciara replied softly, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. "No, it hasn't."

Jonathan's lips curved into a smile, his gaze intense yet tender as he continued to guide her through the dance. "Good," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the music, "because I find myself quite taken by your voice, Miss Everton." He paused for a moment, twirling her away from him, letting go of her, and her body mourned the loss of the sensation of his hands on her waist. Then, when she was back in his arms again, the thrill was back, even stronger than before. She was finding it difficult to control herself although she was trying her best.

"And with your name," he added playfully. "I find it quite beautiful."

"Thank you," she said politely although she tried not to sound amused or entertained. She didn't want him to think that she was like the other ladies of the ton, easily charmed into obedience.

"That song you were singing…" he asked. Was that actual interest she heard in his voice? Or was that a practiced skill? She realized that she could not tell the difference with such a man.

"Yes?" she replied, her hand becoming clammy in his. She could not believe that he had such an effect on her, making her body tremble with just one gaze.

"What was it?" he asked.

"Why?" she asked in return, lifting an eyebrow.

He smiled in a way that disarmed her completely. "I liked it. I could not get it out of my mind."

Once again, she wondered if he was telling the truth or if he only thought that was what she wanted to hear. Men like him knew how to tell ladies exactly what they wanted to hear. Yes, she decided to indulge him, at least for the duration of this one conversation.

"It is an Irish lullaby that my grandmother used to sing to me," she said softly, wondering if she was doing the right thing by revealing something so intimate, so vulnerable about herself to a man such as him.

"Oh, so it is an Irish name, Ciara?" he inquired as his fingers gently caressed hers during the dance. She wondered if that was an accident.

No. With him, nothing was an accident.

"Yes," she nodded.

"It is lovely," he said. "And so is your voice. I would love to hear you sing again."

She pouted before speaking. "That probably will not happen again, Your Grace." It helped her to keep repeating his title. It served the purpose of creating distance between them, metaphorical, if not physical.

"Why?" he inquired, sounding genuinely intrigued by her response.

"Because that might lead to a lady being alone with you," she reminded him.

He chuckled. "Well, what is so wrong with that?"

"No lady should be alone with you, Your Grace," she told him.

"Ah," he spoke, pressing his lips together, only to click the tip of his tongue against his upper teeth. "So, I take it you have heard of my reputation."

"Yes, it precedes you, I am afraid," she affirmed.

Although their conversation was playful, their dancing was even more so. He would pull her closer to himself when the music required it of him, and he kept their hands intertwined a moment longer than necessary when the music demanded of him to let her go. It all drove her slowly, silently mad. She could not tell why on earth this man had such an effect on her that she could not think of anything or anyone else.

"That is the reason why a lady must stay away from you," she clarified.

"And yet, here you are, dancing with me," he pointed out just as they faced each other, so close that their chests were almost touching. His eyes were mesmerizing, staring right at her, threatening to see right through her and steal all of her secrets for his own.

"Because I am the lesser of two evils?" he asked when he saw that she didn't know what to say to that.

"Exactly," she replied, unable to resist chuckling. He charmed her so easily. She wanted to scold herself for having so much fun with him, but it was impossible not to.

"You have a grace about you, Ciara," he murmured, his voice low and intimate as if they had just kissed again and there was no one else around. The thought made her blush even more than before, and she tried to banish it from the confines of her mind. "A grace that sets you apart from the rest," he added.

"I'm certain that is what you say to all ladies."

"No," he responded quickly. "I only say things I mean. Just like your eyes."

"My eyes?" she echoed.

"Yes," he nodded. "They say things your lips do not mean to divulge. Your eyes hold secrets I am dying to uncover."

Ciara's breath caught in her throat at his boldness, her heart racing as she struggled to maintain her composure. She knew she should resist his charms, to remind herself of the tales she had heard about him. But there was something about the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel desired and alive, that made it difficult to resist.

As the final notes of the waltz drifted into silence, Jonathan brought their dance to a graceful halt. He held Ciara's hand in his, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. He led her away from the dancing area where the guests were happily chattering, but Ciara could not hear anything other than the sound of his voice.

"Thank you for the dance, Miss Everton," he said softly, his gaze intense yet filled with a hint of uncertainty. "I hope to dance with you again this evening," he added, kissing her hand once more then turning around and disappearing in the crowd, leaving her yearning for more, against all reason.