Page 50 of Gentleman Jim

“It looked very real to me.”

“It’s…it’s a game.”

Her brows lifted. “And what is Miss Steele in this game of yours? A pawn? A prize?”

“She’s nothing. Just a child. A silly, spiteful chit of a girl. I have no interest in her save pacifying my grandfather.”

Maggie hesitated to ask. “And what am I in your game?”

An inexplicable emotion crossed St. Clare’s face. “You’re everything,” he said. “Everything.”

They were pretty words. Just the sort designed to pacify a jealous female. Maggie didn’t want to believe them. And yet…

Every instinct within her told her he was speaking the truth.

She could see it in his face. In his gray eyes, soft as smoke. The way he looked at her, so very different from the way he looked at anyone else. But she didn’t dare trust her instincts. Not entirely. “How very flattering. Three days ago, I might have believed you. But that was before I saw you dancing with Miss Steele.”

He studied Maggie’s face. “You’re not jealous?”

She laughed—a hollow sound in the cool, torch-lit darkness. It was an answer in and of itself.

“You have no reason to be,” he said.

“No reason except that she’s young and vital, with her whole life in front of her. Except that she was able to dance the waltz with you. I’d hoped that I—” Maggie broke off. She straightened one of her long gloves on her arm, smoothing it back over her elbow. “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t have waltzed anyway. One must face facts.”

His expression softened a fraction. There was deviltry in his eyes. And something else, too. Something from the very depths of him. It brought a huskiness to his words that hadn’t been there before. “You wanted to waltz with me?”

Her stomach trembled with longing. “I said it didn’t matter.” She stood from the railing. “I must go down to supper. I promised Jane—”

“Miss Honeywell.” St. Clare extended his hand to her.

She gave it a guarded look before slowly, cautiously sliding her hand into his. “You can’t escort me down. Not when you’re already bound to Miss Steele.”

“I don’t want to escort you to supper. I want to dance with you.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “Don’t be absurd. The orchestra is gone for the hour. There’s no music.”

“We don’t need music.”

Her mind immediately leapt to that long-ago dancing lesson in the clearing at Beasley Park. They hadn’t had music then either. She searched St. Clare’s eyes, wondering if he was thinking of that day, too. Did he remember how they’d twirled about the clearing? How they’d laughed?

She cleared her throat. “If you’re trying to placate your grandfather—”

“My grandfather is at supper. And no one else is about. Not here. We have the whole terrace to ourselves.”

“I suppose…”

“Waltz with me, Maggie. I’ll claim it as my second forfeit if I have to.”

She exhaled. “Very well. For a forfeit. Though it seems silly. You know we can’t—” Her breath caught as his right arm circled her waist.

Heavens.

This couldn’t be a good idea. Not when his very touch turned her limbs to melted treacle.

He held her left hand tight in his. “Put your other hand on my shoulder.”

She did as he bid her. Her heartbeat quickened into a gallop. “I’m afraid you’re too tall for me.”