Faith nodded, then allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
“I haven’t danced in years,” she confided, as they moved in time to the music. “I was afraid I had forgotten how. I must warn you to watch your toes, Mr. Alexander.”
David smiled. “I think they’re safe.” She was hesitant in some of her steps, but her natural grace kept her from stumbling. “May I say, Mrs. Collins, that you dance beautifully, despite your understandable lack of practice?”
“You may.” The lilting sound of her laughter drifted across the room.
Reese glowered at the couple on the dance floor. He hadn’t heard a word the senator had said. No matter how hard he tried to ignore them, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Faith. His gaze was continually drawn to the surprisingly lovely woman in burgundy silk. Reese wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to whirl her around the room. He wanted to hear her laugh and to bask in the warmth of her smiles. And he was furious with himself for wanting that.
“Don’t you agree, Mr. Jordan?”
Reese forced himself to concentrate on the senator’s words. “Sir?”
“I was explaining the points of the bill,” Senator Marcus Darcy said. “Don’t you think—”
“Excuse me, Senator.” Reese left his host as abruptly as he’d joined him. “I’ve promised this dance.” He pushed his way through the crowd of dancers until he stood behind his cousin. He tapped David on the shoulder. “I believe this is my dance.” Reese’s words were clipped and curt.
David looked at Reese and then at Faith Collins.
“Well?” Reese demanded.
David smiled an apologetic smile at Faith, then stepped back, releasing his hold on her.
Reese placed one hand on her waist, then took her hand. She was stiff, unyielding.
“I don’t remember promising you a dance,” she hissed at him as he guided her through the beginning of a waltz.
“I didn’t ask.” He winced as she deliberately stepped on his foot. He tightened his hold around her waist.
“You should have.”
“So you could refuse?” He smiled down into her stormy gray eyes.
“Yes.”
“You’re in no position to refuse.”
She trod on his foot once again, then smiled sweetly. “Slavery has been abolished, Mr. Jordan. Or haven’t you heard?”
“As long as there are rich people and poor people, Mrs. Collins”—he pulled her closer to him—“slavery will continue to exist.” He smiled back at her. “In some form.”
Faith’s wide, full mouth tightened into a firm, straight line. Her brows knitted together above her gray eyes. She gritted her teeth and waited for her chance.
They whirled around to the three-quarter rhythm. “If you step on my foot one more time,” Reese warned, anticipating her next move, “I’ll be forced to take retribution.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” Faith knew she was playing with fire, but she couldn’t resist the urge to taunt him.
He pretended to miss a step and jerked her up against the hard length of his body. “You should be.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she said with more conviction than she felt.
“Who said anything about hurting you?” he queried softly, his body pressing intimately against hers, his eyes devouring the sight of the alabaster mounds of her breasts framed by silver lace. The warm, musky, scent of lavender drifted up from the bodice of her gown to tease him.
She was pressed against him. She could feel the heat of his body through his clothing and hers. She could smell the clean, woodsy fragrance he wore and could feel his warm breath against her temple. And she could feel that hard, male part of him, pressing into her stomach. Her blood seemed to race through her veins. Her heart hammered in her chest. She forgot the steps of the dance and lost all sense of rhythm. She stumbled, lurching against him, trampling his feet in the process.
Reese held her firm, his fingers biting into her waist as he struggled to keep his balance. He muttered an obscenity under his breath. The woman was a menace on the dance floor.
He tilted his head, slightly, and Faith noticed the tiny, pale crescent marring his chin. His sun-baked skin and the faint shadow of his beard seemed to highlight the imperfection. It was a normal, everyday scar, the kind gleaned from a childhood fall, not a by-product of war. It drew Faith like a magnet. She wanted to touch it, to caress it with the tip of her finger, press her lips to it, pay homage to that tiny, almost indistinguishable imperfection.