Stepping into the space rapidly clearing at the room's center, Vane confidently drew her into his arms. When her eyes widened, he raised a brow. "You do waltz in the wilds of Derbyshire, don't you?"
Patience lifted her chin. "Of course. I quite enjoy a good waltz."
"Quite enjoy?" The first strains of a waltz swelled. Vane's lips lifted wickedly. "Ah-but you've yet to waltz with a Cynster."
With that, he drew her closer, and whirled her into the dance.
Patience had parted her lips to haughtily ask just why Cynsters were thought such exponents of the art-by the time they'd revolved thrice, she had her answer. It took her three more revolutions before she managed to suck in a breath and close her mouth. She felt like she was airborne-swooping, sweeping. Effortlessly twirling, all in strict time.
Her startled gaze fell on the mulberry gown of the lady in the couple ahead of them, who was revolving every bit as vigorously as she. Honoria-their hostess. In the arms of her husband.
A quick glance revealed that all the Cynsters who'd been politely conversing with her earlier, had claimed ladies and taken to the floor. It was easy to pick them out among the crowd; they didn't revolve any faster than anyone else, but with greater enthusiasm, immensely greater power. Harnessed, controlled, power.
Feet flying, her skirts aswirl, compelled by the steely arms that held her, the powerful body that so effortlessly steered her, checked her, reversed her and turned her, Patience clung tight-to her wits, and to Vane.
Not that she felt in any danger of being released.
The thought brought his nearness, his strength, into sharper focus. They neared the end of the room; his hand burning like a brand through the fine silk of her gown, he drew her closer, deeper into his protective embrace. They swung into the turn; Patience dragged in a desperate breath-and felt
her bodice, her breasts, shift against his coat. Her nipples constricted, excruciatingly tight.
On a muted gasp, she looked up, and her gaze collided with his, silvery grey, mesmerically intent. She couldn't look away, could barely breathe, as the room revolved about them. Her senses narrowed, until the world she knew was encompassed within the circle of his arms.
Time stopped. All that was left was the sway of their bodies, caught in the compelling, powerful rhythm only they could hear. The violins played a minor theme; the music that played between them came from a different source.
It swelled and grew. Hips and thighs met, caressed, and parted as they shifted through the turns. The rhythm called, their bodies answered, flowing effortlessly with the dance, pulsing with the beat, heating slowly. Touching tantaliz-ingly. Teasing and promising. When the violins ceased and their feet slowed, their music still played on.
Vane hauled in a deep breath; the moment shivered about them. He forced his arms from about Patience, caught her hand, and placed it on his sleeve, unable, even though he knew too many were watching avidly, to forgo placing his free hand over her fingers.
He felt her slight shudder, took her weight as, for an instant, she leaned more heavily on him, blinking rapidly as she struggled to pull free of the magic.
She lifted her eyes and studied his face. Coolly, a great deal more coolly than he felt, he raised a brow.
Patience straightened. Looking ahead, she put her nose in the air. "You waltz quite creditably."
Vane chuckled through his teeth. His jaw was set against the urge to whisk her away, through one of the doors that led from the music room. He knew this house like the back of his hand. While she might not know their options, he did. But too many were watching them, and Honoria, for one, would never forgive him. Not so early in the evening, when sudden absences were too obvious.
Later. He'd already given up all thought that he could weather tonight without sating his demons. Not while she was wearing that dress.
Dashing, Minnie had termed it.
Dashed impossible, from his point of view.
He'd had every intention of toeing the line, at least until she'd accepted his offer. Now… There was such a thing as tempting a wolf too far.
He glanced down. Patience strolled serenely on his arm. The bronze-silk gown fitted snugly about her breasts, with only the tiniest wisps of sleeves, set off her shoulders, to distract from the glorious expanse of creamy skin, the ripe swells of her upper breasts, the delicate molding of her shoulders. The long straight skirts draped gently over her curvy hips, sleekly concealing her derriere; they fluttered elegantly about her legs, the hems ruffled to tantalizingly reveal her ankles as she walked.
While the neckline was low, there was nothing specifically outrageous about the gown. It was the combination of the woman wearing it and Celestine's faultlessly draped fabric that was causing his problems.
Only from his vantage point was it possible to see how deeply Patience's breasts rose and fell.
A second later, he forced himself to lift his head and look ahead.
Later.
He drew a deep breath, and held it.
"Evening, Cynster." An elegant gentleman stepped forward from the crowd, his gaze on Patience. "Miss…?" Smoothly, he looked at Vane.