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He smiled and held out his hand. “My lady.”
She pursed her lips. “Mr. Hartley.”
But she laid her hand in his, and Sam had the pleasure of wrapping his fingers around hers. She descended the steps regally and attempted to withdraw her hand. Instead, he bowed over her hand, brushing his lips against fine kid, the scent of lemon balm bathing his face.
Then he straightened. “Shall we?”
But her expression had softened somehow in the interval that he’d bent over her hand. He stilled, the people around him, his sister, even the hunt, fading into the background as he stared at Lady Emeline. Her lips were parted, red and wet, as if she’d just licked them, and her eyes were uncertain. Had they been alone, he would have caught her, drawn her into his arms until her body met his, and lowered his head to—
“Samuel?”
He jerked his head and his attention to his sister. Rebecca. God! “Yes?”
She looked confused. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” He held out his arm to Mademoiselle Molyneux, who took it with a thoughtful look at him. He braced himself and turned to Lady Emeline, his voice deepening. “Shall we?”
His words were the same as moments before, but their meaning had changed fundamentally. Her eyes widened, and he saw her sweet breasts expand as she inhaled.
Then she met his eyes and her chin lifted. “Of course.”
Which left him to ponder, as he escorted the ladies up the steps, what exactly Lady Emeline had meant by those two innocuous words.
Inside the great double doors, Westerton House was ablaze with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles. Even the entry hall was warm, giving an unpleasant taste of the heat that would lurk in the ballroom itself. Why anyone would voluntarily attend an event such as this was truly a puzzle to him. He felt sweat start at the base of his spine. He hated crowds. He’d always had, but since Spinner’s Falls...He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on his reason for being here.
The ladies surrendered their wraps to a footman, and the articles of clothing were whisked away. Then they were at the entrance to the ballroom itself, and a footman with a magnificent wig was announcing them. The room was cavernous, but that didn’t help the heat, for it was overflowing with people. They literally stood shoulder to shoulder so that one had to wait for an opening to move forward.
Sam caught his arms twitching and had to consciously still the movement. This was his idea of hell. The heat, the shuffle of bodies against bodies, the noise of scores of voices laughing, talking, complaining. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back. Mademoiselle Molyneux had already found a crony and slipped away into the mass of bodies. Someone bumped against Lady Emeline, still on his right arm, and he found himself baring his teeth at the man. He saw a startled look on a reddened face and then that man, too, was lost. Sam closed his eyes for a moment to try to control the panic that rose in his chest, but with his eyes shut, the worst part nearly overwhelmed his senses.
The smell.
Oh, God, the smell of burning wax, foul breath, and sweating bodies. Male sweat. That strong acid stink, that rank musk, that rotten armpit odor. They shoved around him, trying to get past, trying to run away. Some old enough to be grandfathers, some too young to shave, all fearing for their lives, all wanting just to live another day. That was what he smelled: the terror of death. He gasped, but all the air had been sucked into babbling lungs, and he inhaled only the fear of battle and the smell of sweat and blood.
ng happened.
Sweat broke out at her hairline. The black-haired footman would think she was an absolute ninny. Why did the man have to be so lovely? It was one thing to make an ass of oneself in front of an old, balding man, and quite another—
He cleared his throat directly behind her.
Rebecca yelped and swung around. The footman’s beautiful green eyes were wide and startled, but he merely said, “If I might, miss?”
He reached around her and pushed open the door.
Rebecca stared past the open door and into the library. Oh, Lord. “Actually, I believe I’ve changed my mind. I’d like the sitting room, please.” And she pointed behind him like a small, slightly backward child.
Fortunately, he didn’t seem to find her at all odd. “Aye, mum.” He pivoted and opened the door across the hall.
Rebecca held her head high and swanned across the hallway, but as she neared the footman, she could see quite plainly that his gaze was not where it should be. She stopped dead and slapped her hands over her bosom.
“It’s too low, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that maid. She might not mind her boobies hanging out for all to see, but I just can’t—” Her brain suddenly caught up with her mouth. She removed her hands from her bosom and slapped them over her awful, awful, awful mouth.
And then she just stared at the gorgeous black-haired footman, who was staring back at her. There really wasn’t anything else to do, except possibly die right here in her brother’s London town house hallway, and that option, unfortunately, seemed very unlikely at the moment.
Finally, he cleared his throat again. “You’re the fairest lass I’ve ever seen, mum, and in that gown, you look just like a princess, you do.”
Rebecca blinked and cautiously removed her hands. “Really?”
“Swear on me mam’s grave,” he said earnestly.
