Lady Meets Her Match (4 page)

“Are you always a flirt?”

Her eyes sparkled within the demi-mask. “Flirting, you say? I take it you refer to the conversation with the marquis and his brother?”

“Exactly.” Miss Tottenham's fingertips moved across his palm. The tantalizing connection quieted him, bringing to mind a cool breeze soothing overheated skin. What she did was correct for the dance, but on the fringe of propriety with so much fleshly contact.

“I like to think I helped calm obviously stormy waters between those two. Simply another one of my talents, if you will.” Her head tilted, revealing a flirtatious stretch of her neck. “And I am dancing with
you
.”

The procession stopped, and Miss Tottenham twirled under his upraised arm, smiling at him over her shoulder. Her reminder of the obvious calmed the covetous beast within. Miss Tottenham glowed, a mix of the coquette and a woman lost in the fluid freedom of dance. Dark blue-green eyes trifled with him, vibrant within her mask. Now he knew their color.

“Is it true?” she asked over the loud hum of music. “You don't like to dance?”

Their hands switched for another rotation. Her silk skirts brushed against him, sending a thrum of pleasure across his legs.

“I don't. Usually,” he admitted. “Never had the occasion until coming to London last year. And then I had to learn.”

She came out from under the arc of their arms, her body moving in time to the music. “Then I should feel especially honored.”

He bent his head, all the better to hear her, but it was her scent he craved. He tried breathing in her skin's perfume. Instead, Miss Tottenham circled away, her unique fragrance eluding him.

His body quickened when her lithe form spun around in front of him with both hands overhead. Her gown's false hips kept her from coming too close. The way Miss Tottenham's eyes shined, she grasped very well her maddening effect.

Two could play this game.

He wasn't good with words. Never had been. Nor was he ever the handsomest man in the room or the ugliest. His well-muscled size drew as many of the fair sex to him as repelled them. Yet he understood the power of the right stroke with a woman. Where flowery words failed him, touch succeeded.

They swayed together, their hands joining in a high arc. One hand slipped free and slid under the sack portion of her gown. The cloth draped high from her shoulders to the ground, hiding his calculated move. Throughout the room, partners paraded side by side…one, two, three. Behind the swath of fabric, he caressed the contours of her back, her sweet warmth flowing from the bodice.

Her torso stiffened under his hand. She kept their forward progress at his side, but jeweled eyes slanted his way, glittering brighter than the beads on her mask. Her pink-red lips opened a fraction as though she needed more air.

His veins drummed an insistent rhythm. The flat of his palm brushed a slow, meandering trail down her spine, finding small, silken ties. The single row cinched her bodice shut, each fascinating X softly abrading his fingers.

He imagined loosening each lace…one by one…all the better to explore the tender landscape of her body.

The move lured him into deeper enchantment. His vision went hazy on Miss Tottenham's blue-and-silver bodice. They turned and faced each other, their bodies closer than other dancers around the room. He didn't care. His limbs hummed with sizzling awareness.

He leaned in and whispered, “Tonight, with you, has been the best conversation with clothes on.”

Her pink-red mouth opened. “Because it's something of a sexual nature when clothes are off, Mr. Ryland.”

He stumbled, missing a dance step. His phallus clenched. Hard.

Recovering, he chuckled. “Indeed, it is.”

Miss Tottenham circled slowly for the dance, her skirts rubbing him, and glad he was for the longer, concealing waistcoat. His mysterious guest grasped well the game he played, giving better than she got.

His lungs expanded, drinking in much-needed air. There seemed to be so little of it in the room. He wanted to be alone with her in his dark study again. He hungered for connection with the woman beneath maddening layers of cloth, something physical and yet…something else.

Then, she took a deep breath, her small breasts straining the lace of her plunging neckline. The simple movement snared his vision.

Was she just as affected?

He itched to test the smoothness of her pearl-colored skin, and not only the plump parts about to spring free. He wanted to test her shoulders, her back, the legs hidden by voluminous skirts. Would the rest of her feel as soft as she looked?

Chattering dancers took two steps forward. He slipped his hand again under the sack and splayed his fingers across the small of her back. The silk gown slid against his skin. The scandalous move was lost in the crowd, but her dark lashes fluttered low within her mask.

“Should I worry you'll take advantage of me, sir?”

“Something tells me that doesn't happen easily with you,” he said, eyeing a lock of her hair falling loose.

His hand traced her spine to her shoulder, finding the warm flesh where the white-blond curl settled on her collarbone. Her body quivered, and the tender reaction shook him. Another arrow of heat shot to his groin at the image of his mouth planting a hot kiss where the curl met skin.

Miss Tottenham's blue-green stare reached his, dark and liquid. Her lips parted for him and him alone.

Across the room, violins sought soaring notes. Music stretched. Strained rhythms reached for high peaks, as taut as Cyrus was from head to heel. His abdomen squeezed behind the placket of his breeches.

Miss Tottenham's mouth was accessible…tempting. His head bent lower. The small, dark space between enticing pink lips captivated him—lips that said saucy things, lips that needed kissing. Her warm breath came faster, brushing his chin.

He inched closer. Ever so slowly, her mouth softened, opening more. His lids drooped. A fraction of space separated her lips from his.

A baron's booming laughter blasted them apart. The man spun by, his elbow hitting Cyrus.

He jerked his head upright, taking a half step backward. The oblivious man saved him from doing the unthinkable—kissing a woman for all to see in the middle of a ball.

Blood rushed his ears. He tugged his jabot, his body hot and constrained. His impulses galloped near out of control, running roughshod over rational thought. He stretched his neck and blinked at the ceiling, sucking in more air. The crowd of dancers pressed them. Everywhere light and noise jangled his singed nerves, and he lost the allemande's movements.

They weren't in a wharf-side tavern, nor was his dance partner a woman of coarse manners to be kissed in public display.

“Miss Tottenham…I…” His voice trailed off, his mouth pressing into a sober line.

She surprised him, taking a half step nearer to begin the next intricate turn. “Don't.”

She looked to where their hands joined for the dance, curling her fingers intimately with his. This was no delicate crossing of fingertips, but holding hands. Her simple, affectionate act wrapped around him.

Violins and voices, noise of a hundred shoes scraping the floor enveloped them, but Miss Tottenham's breath came heavier too, moving the inviting flesh plumped high from her bodice. She was just as caught up in the moment as he, yet offered tender forgiveness.

Her smile was part country maid and pure temptress.

“Of course, a woman could just as easily take advantage of a man, couldn't she?”

Her voice came low and warmly textured to his ears. Was she trying to take back some semblance of control? Encourage more blatant behavior? He grinned, ready to cede the night to the beguiling enchantress and find his way to the nearest bed with her.

His pulse throbbed. Flirtation spiraled in the space of one dance, turning the ground beneath his feet into hot and perilous quicksand. And he liked it. Each step invited another curious touch, another flirtatious move. He wasn't sure who had the advantage, but he wasn't about to back away from his intrepid exploration.

Short of kissing her now, how far could he go?

Emboldened, Cyrus traced one finger over the architecture of her collarbone. Her body twitched with a delicate shiver; a faint flush painted the upper curves of her breasts. Within the silken mask, her dark-fringed eyes turned a deeper hue.

They raised their joined hands for a new arc, all part of the dance, but they pushed the limits of contact that polite Society allowed. Intimacy shrouded them. He dipped his head close to hers, his breath fanning flaxen wisps of hair.

“If I had to trust a woman…let her have the advantage,” he murmured, “I'd choose you.”

Miss Tottenham gasped. Her lashes shuttered her eyes and she turned her face from him.

Is
she
in
pain?

“Mr. Ryland,” she whispered. “Please…”

His head jolted at the sudden change. Gone was the coy, confident woman. She slipped away in spirit as did her unfinished plea. In those few seconds, hot flirtation cooled. Rapidly. The rest of his body, however, hadn't gotten the message, his bollocks clenching with painful want.

Miss Tottenham looked beyond the doors into the black night, withdrawing from him though their bodies engaged in the dance.

The sensual hunt was over.

What
happened?

They made another rotation, this time in silence. Miss Tottenham twirled, coming back to him with a smile pasted on her face. An unseen wall erected itself between them.

Why couldn't he make the pieces to this puzzling woman fit?

Courtesan or not, he was certain the potent attraction was mutual. Equally diverting was his ease with her, an instant comfort. He wanted more.

Had he played his hand too much? Come on too strong? Or did something else vex her? Women were complex creatures, requiring a deft hand. Was her change because he'd been too forward in so public a place? Or because he said words of a more personal nature?

His limbs moved stiffly, compensating for the ache inside his breeches, but he'd take his time, alter his strategy. And that took him back to his original plan: learn more about his elusive guest.

“By looks and speech, you're a woman who can hold her own. But other than your name, hair color, and eyes, I know next to nothing of you.” They stepped together again, and he grinned at her. “Even a hunter gets a scent of the prey.”

“Want to sniff me, do you? I suppose that makes me the fox to your hound.”

She'd snapped out of her brief fracture of distance, but his fair-haired guest was decidedly cooler, despite the flush touching the exposed parts of her cheeks. Her life vein throbbed low on her neck. His stare fixed on the inviting spot, a spot in need of much kissing. He'd find a way to warm Miss Tottenham up again. Tonight. The first moment they were alone.

Their bodies brushed together. He breathed her in, or tried to. All of him knotted with want and frustration, causing his legs to move with sluggish determination through the allemande's steps. Patience, he needed patience.

“You've got to give me something before the unmasking. It's only fair.”

“Fair?” she asked, her eyes flaring. “Is that word in your vocabulary?”

Maybe she had him there. His gaze locked onto her lips and the tempting, creamy skin not covered by the mask. Miss Tottenham's skin…her softly angled jaw, her slender neck, down to her small breasts pressed upward—all of her glowed.

She vibrated with life and something indefinable he couldn't name. Around them the music swelled, reaching for another crescendo. This time the turn of her body was not the practiced move of a flirt, simply the loose flow of a graceful woman.

“Very well. I can toss a tidbit.” She looked to where her fingertips crossed politely with his. “See that?” She tipped her head at their hands. “The scar near my thumb?”

He turned his attention to their hands, the allemande's final notes drifting over them. His fingers curled under her hand, cupping her loosely.

She angled her thumb to give him a better view, and he honed in on the star-shaped scar. Dancers jostled around them, bumping her closer. Little more than an inch of space separated them. More loose blond wisps fell from their pins, framing her dance-flushed cheeks. With each breath, her body made contact with his.

His thumb stroked the unusual pink mark at the base of her thumb, and then slipped around to massage her palm. When she looked into his eyes, another shock went through him. Miss Tottenham's strawberry-painted mouth opened a fraction with definite invitation. Again. His mouth curved triumphantly: he was regaining lost sensual territory.

“You're very thorough in your study, Mr. Ryland,” she said, breathy and soft. “I don't think my hand's ever had such tender attention.”

Her skirts caressed the length of his legs. The music stopped. They weren't moving, but he held her close as though the dance would continue, her breath's rhythm melding with his. The floor thronged with men and women, revelers laughing and mingling. Many removed their masks.

Surrounded as they were, he settled in a private world with Miss Tottenham.

He liked having her in his thrall, just deserts for the way she tempted him. Long brown lashes rimmed her darkened eyes. He searched her face, the small tip of her nose; her mouth curved and open.

“The scar,” he reminded her. “You were telling me about it.”

“The scar?” The pink-red flesh of her lips rounded gently.

Was she as lost in the moment as he? He squeezed her hand, and one finger tapped the star-shaped mark. She dipped her head, cheeks flushing anew, but when Miss Tottenham looked at him again, her tender smile was open.

“When I was seventeen, I cut my hand climbing a tree.” Her body brushed his, but her small, rounded chin snared him, the pert feature tipping up. “And despite the scar, I've no regrets. That day was wonderful. A woman who seeks to look and be perfect like some doll on a shelf hasn't lived.”