No, it was Jasper Deverell himself! He was, without question, a menace… a rake with far too much wit and far too little decency, who could turn the act ofnottouching her into the most devastating seduction of all. With his words alone, he had filled her head with images so vivid she feared they might be written plainly across her face.
Damn his self-command. Damn his honourable impulses! It was as if he had invited her to the fire, promised heat, and then left her standing in the smoke. That man was unforgivable.
“I should like to name my forfeit,” he said, extending a hand. His expression was perfectly composed, the devil. “May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Tolliver? Here and now.”
“A dance?” The word came out more sharply than she intended. The man could ask anything of her, and he wanted todance?
Jasper’s mouth twitched. “Unless you object.”
Object? She wanted to strike him in the face. She wanted to seize him by his immaculate cravat and demand whether he made a habit of conjuring disgrace in a lady’s imagination only to retreat at the decisive moment.
Surely, there was some devilry here. There had to be. The man did nothing without mischief.
“Why a dance?”
His brows lifted. “Must every forfeit be immoral?”
“With you? Yes.”
“A harsh judgement.”
“An informed one.”
He chuckled, but his hand was still outstretched. “May I?” he asked again.
“Very well,” she said with narrowed eyes, placing her hand in his. “But I warn you, Mr Deverell. If this proves to be a trick, I shall make you regret it.”
He smiled and drew her back towards the centre of the gallery, where the rug had been rolled away and the sunlight lay in long bright panels across the bare floor. “Mr Deverell, is it? I recall you dispensed with formalities yesterday morning and called me by my Christian name.”
“That was before you became so insufferably honourable.”
“My dear Charlotte, I was born insufferable.”
He placed one hand at her waist and took her right hand in his other. Her other hand he guided to his shoulder, where the fine cloth of his coat was still warm from exertion.
Lottie stiffened.
His eyes flicked to hers. “A waltz, Miss Tolliver. Not an abduction.”
She rolled her eyes. It was a pity Lord Marchmont had not known the difference.
Mr Deverell stepped forwards, and Lottie, being no fool, yielded backwards. One, two, three. One, two, three.
There was no sound at all, save the distant birdsong beyond the open windows and the soft slide of their boots over the polished boards. It was absurd how well they moved together.
One, two, three. One, two, three. They turned once beneath the high windows, sunlight flashing over his hair. He drew her through a slow half-rotation, checked their momentum, then sent them smoothly onwards again, as though the empty gallery had become a ballroom.
“Do you know why, Miss Tolliver?” he asked.
“Why you are impossible? I have my theories.”
“Why I chose a dance.”
He guided her backwards three steps, then turned her neatly beneath the light. His hand remained steady at her waist, never wandering nor tightening beyond what the dance required. Somehow, that restraint was more provoking than licence.
“No,” she said. “But I suspect you are about to tell me anyhow.”
He smiled and drew her back into the frame of his arms, closer than before. “Because I have no desire to make you fall to your knees for me,” he said softly. “Not unless you wish to.”
