Her spine remained straight, the requisite arm’s length separating their bodies, mossy eyes glued to his cravat – or perhaps the diamond therein – and her steps were more graceful than any princess.
And as for that dress…
A sinful creation of apple green and lily white. Luscious, edible, awaiting a bite, and with some doubtless fashionable motif decorating one side of the hem. The silk clung to her magnificent frame – bosom, hips and backside, and he clenched his jaw, staying a hand that wished to trace such a glorious outline. But with such lushness, he wondered at the contradiction of sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes, skin almost translucent by candlelight.
Most women wore hairstyles with complicated crimps, ribbons, plumes and gems but Mrs Swift’s glorious red coiffure remained unadorned, curls grazing her throat, fire tempting him with its flame.
The waltz had begun in unhurried leisure but now the rhythm swelled, their motion agitating his breath.
Wholesome soap once again teased his senses, but on this occasion, it also carried a hint of hay meadows, an innocent daisy within a dancefloor of exotic blooms.
Confound it, he’d be borrowing Ernest’s novels soon.
“Who did you arrive with?” he enquired. No doubt she’d inveigled an invitation on the arm of some raddled old nobleman.
Her dress brushed his thigh. It teased him.
“Miss Matilda Griffin.”
“Who?”
“A cousin. Black hair, short, pretty, glasses.”
Casper stared, perplexed. “Related to?”
Her hand squeezed on his shoulder. It taunted him.
“The Clod-sku… I mean Viscount Astwood.”
Now there was a peer he vaguely knew of. A wastrel.
“Why did you not reveal this connection at our meeting?”
His hand tightened upon her waist as her foot tripped a little and she fell against him. It tormented him.
“’Tis a distant…distant connection but Miss Griffin wished for my company tonight.”
Hmm, and he could hardly interrogate Astwood as that set had headed to some debauched house party in the country.
It would, however, explain Mrs Swift’s position in life; there were hundreds of gentlewomen – widows and spinsters – milling about with no way to gain decent employment, poor relations dependent on the largesse of their family. He himself had forty-six dependants scattered about the country.
The tempo of the violins grew, the room a spinning blur but for Mrs Swift and her clover gaze.
Her bosom brushed his chest. It…
“I need some fresh air,” he announced, eyes scanning the room. And as their waltz approached the French doors, he tugged her from the floor. A footman stood hovering but with no more than a glare, the door was pushed wide.
“Soddin–I mean, phew, this is rather chilly.” Evelyn smiled radiantly, glad to be removed from the stifling ballroom but with pulse pounding and skin freezing.
Now was her chance to display ladylike manners and convey the information about her showing in two days’ time but instead she gawked dismayed as the duke commenced removing his tailcoat.
Did he think her a lady of the night? A blowsabella ready to–
The tailcoat was draped upon her shoulders, the soft silk enveloping her in rich clove and kindling warmth.
Oh dear heaven. If he started being nice, she’d begin to feel guilty.
The duke scowled. “Did you attend this ball purely to meet with me?”
