“Marcus tells me he can be quite stiff-rumped on occasion, but always the true gentleman.” Adriana drew Miss Tiverton into the conversation with Sir Freddie; Lady Hertford smiled delightedly. “Such a sweet girl, your sister. Who knows? If Sir Freddie doesn’t fix her interest, perhaps he’ll look at Helen. Of course, there’s his age, but when men of his stamp look to take a wife, one can at least be sure they’re in earnest. And his estates are quite respectable, I believe—they’ve been in the family for generations.”
Alicia smiled easily; she let Lady Hertford’s chatter wash over her, nodding here and there. Eventually, her ladyship departed, leaving Miss Tiverton along with Adriana under Alicia’s watchful eye.
She did keep her gaze on her sister’s circle, some yards away, but the instant Lady Hertford’s distraction disappeared, Alicia’s thoughts focused on her own distraction.
Anthony Blake, Viscount Torrington.
Her reaction to his practiced
seduction surprised her; she’d assumed she’d be uninterested, disinterested, that repulsing any gentleman’s advances, especially those of a predatory nobleman, would be instinctive, a natural response she wouldn’t have to pause to consider, let alone battle to achieve.
It was a battle she was losing; she’d already lost significant ground. Quite why, she didn’t understand.
When she was with him, in his arms or even simply alone with him, the world seemed to shift, the frame of reference by which she’d lived her life thus far to alter. It swung to focus on him, to accommodate him, to center, not just on him, not just on his wishes, but on hers—those wishes she hadn’t known she had.
When with him, her attention shifted to a different landscape, one encompassing all that was growing between them. That change was unprecedented, unsettling, yet fascinating. Even addictive.
Something in him called to something in her; from the coalescing of those somethings grew the power she sensed, the power that was strong enough to suborn her wits, shackle her senses… and seduce her.
She shivered, and refocused on Adriana’s circle, and saw Sir Freddie successfully solicit her sister’s hand for a waltz. Noting Geoffrey Manningham’s studiously impassive countenance, she smiled.
Hard fingers, a hard palm, closed about her hand.
She turned as Tony—Torrington!—raised it; eyes capturing hers, he pressed a kiss to her fingers. Faintly smiled.
“Come and dance.”
Within seconds, she was whirling down the floor. She didn’t bother trying to resist; instead, she turned her mind to her most urgent need—trying to understand what was going on.
He seemed content simply to dance, to hold her in his arms and revolve about the ballroom, his gaze resting on her face, on her eyes.
Drinking her in.
She lowered her lids, screening her eyes, shifted her gaze to look over his shoulder. Smoothly, he drew her closer as they went through the turns, and didn’t ease his hold; abruptly she was aware of their bodies, the subtle brushing of their hips, of his thigh parting hers as they turned…as if he’d reached for her and enveloped her in a flagrantly intimate embrace. The memory leapt to her mind, instantly impinged on her wanton senses.
Instantly stirred her hunger.
She looked up, met his gaze. “This is madness.”
The words were low, breathy. He smiled, but his eyes remained on hers, his gaze intent. “If it is, we’re both infected.”
Beyond recall. She drew breath, read his eyes; their expression was openly predatory—his intent could not have been clearer. Realization, as inescapable as the dawn, burst upon her.
Deep within her, something quivered.
Tony looked up, over her head, wishing for once that she possessed a more definite mask, a countenance less easy to read. One long look into her eyes, and he was aching. If Cranbourne House had boasted any suitable room, he’d have whisked her off to it, there to pursue, however impulsively, the connection growing between them. Unfortunately, Cranbourne House was small, pokey, a totally unsuitable venue. Added to that, her sister was present, which meant she’d be distracted. When he finally had her beneath him, he didn’t want her thinking of anything else.
He noticed Geoffrey standing by the side of the room, not exactly scowling, yet clearly not happy. A quick glance about the floor located Adriana waltzing in the arms of a somewhat older man.
“The gentleman waltzing with your sister—who is he?”
Alicia had been studying his face; she answered evenly, “Sir Freddie Caudel.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you know him?”
One distraction was as good as another. Resigning himself to yet another night of escalating frustration, he glanced down at her. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Very old family. Why? Is he interested in your sister?”
Alicia nodded. “How interested, I’m not sure, and I doubt his interest, at whatever level, will be reciprocated, nevertheless…”
His lips quirked; he glanced again at Geoffrey. “Another iron in the fire?”