Page 55 of To Dance with a Devil

“Of course not,” he said, his voice soothing now. “I was only teasing you. I do enjoy teasing you, Miss Hunt. You are so wonderfully… responsive.”

Matilda glared at him until she realised he was teasing her still. She felt colour rise to her cheeks.

Amusement glinted in his wicked eyes. “Ah, there you are. Now, you shine like the sun you are supposed to represent, and I beg you to believe that I am not teasing any longer.” He lowered his voice, dipping his head to whisper in her ear. “You cast everyone else here into the shade, Mademoiselle Soleil. There is no one to outshine you.”

“An angel, of all things! It’s a wonder you didn’t get struck by lightning,” she muttered, striving to keep her voice even when the warmth of his breath fluttering against her neck had her temperature climbing. “Again,” she added, daring to shoot a furious glance his way.

“It wasn’t lighting that struck me, as you well know.”

He made a sudden turn and the combination of his words and the speed of the dance set Matilda’s head whirling. She stumbled and a strong arm lashed about her, hauling her against the hard, masculine body she’d been trying so desperately to ignore. It was impossible now, and the breath rushed from her lungs. Heat, everywhere was heat and desire, burning through their clothes, searing her from the inside out as though she really was the sun, hot and fierce and dangerous.

There was a satisfied glint in his eyes as he looked down at her, and she knew he saw the shock in her eyes. Though she’d righted herself and they were once more the correct distance apart, the damage was done.

“You did that on purpose,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless.

“And if I did? It isn’t as if you don’t want me closer.”

She stared up at him, incensed. More so because it was true, damn him to hell. “I’ll tell you how close I want you. Let me see,” she said, adopting a thoughtful expression. “How about Peru?”

“I see you are still intent on lying to yourself,” he said, his voice softer now. “Why must you continue to deny what is obvious to us both? It doesn’t affect your ability to keep saying no, after all, or… does it?” he asked, his gaze far too knowing. A glimmer of a smile touched his mouth. “You can’t escape this any more than I can.”

“Oh, please,” Matilda said, irritation fighting through her confusion strongly enough to make her voice sound almost steady. “You expect me to believe you are a slave to your feelings?”

“You could make me your slave.”

The words were spoken so fast she almost didn’t catch them, as though he’d spoken without thinking, something she suspected he never, ever did. There had been an edge to the words too, something that might have been anger. Montagu never got angry, either. Never. She stared up at him, wanting to search his expression, to seek out any tiny chink in that icy armour he wore, but his arrogant face was turned away from hers.

“Yes, whores are often the masters of noblemen, aren’t they?” she said in disgust, frustrated that he was as impervious to her scrutiny as always. “Perhaps I’d rule you for a week or two, a few months perhaps, if I was very clever. What an achievement. Should I die happy knowing I had your undivided attention for such a time?”

“Not a whore,” he countered, his voice smooth now, disarming, all traces of anger vanquished in an instant. “Why must you always speak so? The mistress of the Marquess of Montagu is no whore.”

Matilda laughed at that, at the way he could view the world from his lofty vantage point.

“Yes, your mistress would be an entirely respectable position,” she said, so annoyed by his mollifying tone her fingers itched with the desire to slap him, or possibly wring his neck with that snowy white cravat. “I’d have vouchers to Almacks and any number of proposals of marriage from eligible gentlemen once you were done with me and cast me aside.”

“You’d not need to marry,” he countered, perfectly unruffled by her sarcasm. “I’d give you everything you could ever need. Financial security. More than any marriage could give you. You’d be independently wealthy, in charge of your own future. Surely that’s worth a little thought, at least?”

“And what of children?” she asked, furious with herself as she heard the wistful tenor to her question.

Too much sentiment on show. Weak, she scolded herself. It made her sound weak and emotional and she didn’t want that, not in front of him. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

“You need not worry on that score. I am very careful not to sire bastards.”

She froze in his arms, almost coming to a complete stop but he bore her on, forcing her through the steps when she would have halted the dance.

“Don’t make a scene,” he warned her. “It will only damage you, not me.”

His words washed over her, his previous response making her so enraged she could hear nothing but the ringing in her ears.

It took a long moment before she was calm enough to answer but, when she did, the words were every bit as icy as she’d hoped they would be. “I want children, my lord. A family. Even if I was so far out of my wits as to consider the possibility of being your mistress, which I assure you I am not, that would put an end to it. No one will marry me once you’ve grown bored and cast me aside, and no child of mine will bear the disgrace of illegitimacy. I will marry or die an old maid. There is no middle ground. I’ll not shame myself with an affair that will ruin everything I dream of.”

He said nothing, the silence a weight between them. The dance seemed to go on and on, his powerful body guiding hers with such surety she felt she was being swept along by a tide, pulling her under, into dark water. She dared to look up at him and their eyes met. Her breath caught. She’d been wrong, he hadn’t been struck by lightning, he was lightning, his touch shocking, lighting her up and burning away her will. The force of the connection between them seared her, and fear gripped her heart as she recognised the pulsing of desire coursing through her veins. He knew it, damn him. He knew what she felt. She could see it in the intensity of his gaze and could not look away. To her surprise, he did not look smug. There was no triumph in the winter grey sky of his eyes. Did he fear it too, she wondered, and then laughed at the very idea. Of course not. What on earth did the Marquess of Montagu have to lose?

The music drew to a close but still he gazed down at her, until it was too much, too terrifying to endure. She pulled away from his grasp and almost ran from the dance floor.

***

Helena watched Matilda hurry away from Montagu and glanced at Minerva, who stood at her side.