Page 81 of The Lady’s No Angel

“Dreadful man, you could have tried to make conversation,” Angel scolded.

“Why? He didn’t,” Hart said with a shrug. “Besides, it’s my wedding day, and I want to dance with my wife. So, stop gadding about with every other fellow here and indulge me.”

“Oh, Leo, you only had to ask,” she said, laughter in her eyes as he drew her out onto the floor.

“Now, that’s more like it,” he said approvingly as the first notes of a waltz filled the air.

Angel’s breath caught as Leo swept her into the waltz. Though she had been waiting for this all night, and had saved every waltz for her husband, it still took her by surprise.

For a man of his size, he was lithe, utterly at ease in his powerful body as he spun her around, moving them about the room with elegance and grace. Angel gazed up at him, utterly captivated, her heart thudding with wonder as she remembered this man was hers; his ring encircled her finger, a symbol of their promise to one another.

Round and round they whirled, until she was giddy with happiness, with the sheer joy of the moment. All around them colours twirled, silk and satin and the glitter of jewels. He glanced down at her then, and his gaze drifted lower, to the huge sapphire that rested snugly just above her cleavage. A wicked grin curved over his mouth, his eyes alight with mischief, and she knew he was thinking about her breasts.

She laughed then, staring up at the starlight glow of the massive chandeliers overhead. It was a dream, a wonderful dream where she had found pirate treasure and married the handsome prince. Yet it was real, and the wonder of it would never cease to enchant her.

“Wicked girl, whatever are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice low, warm breath tickling her ear.

“I was thinking I am living a dream, one where I have thwarted the villains, recovered the pirate’s loot, and married the handsome prince.”

“Ah,” he said, a little crestfallen. “I thought we were thinking about your breasts.”

She smothered a snort, glancing around in case anyone had heard him, for Leo was never circumspect.

“Well, I was thinking about that too,” she admitted.

“I’ve missed them dreadfully,” he said wistfully.

Angel bit her lip before replying, her voice a trifle unsteady. “They’ve missed you too.”

He grinned then, a smile so utterly devastating that she only felt profoundly grateful that he had married her, for else she would have been utterly ruined.

The next moment he drew her into a turn that made her forget pirate treasure and villains, and even breasts, for dancing with Leo was not like dancing with anyone else. He danced like he made love, his entire focus upon her, upon the pleasure he gave her, and that they shared between them. It was delicious and wonderful, but also torturous, and as the dance drew to a close and he held her far closer than he ought, she was only too relieved when he suggested, “Let’s run away together.”

“Yes,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “Let’s.”

Epilogue

All’s Well That—Oh, Never Mind

Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 30th June 1816

The music grew distant as Hetty slipped away from the ballroom. Her cheeks were still flushed from dancing. She needed a little air to cool down. She had danced every blessed dance since Mr Bramwell’s refusal, even though her feet were aching and all she’d really wanted was to sit down and have something to drink. But the way he had looked at her still burned in her mind, those cold grey eyes dismissing her as if she were a silly little child in whom he had no interest. Why she had let it enrage her so, she did not know. She was not so conceited as to believe every fellow she met should fall madly in love with her, or even like her. But she had never been dismissed so brusquely before, and she could not let it go.

The air was blessedly cool upon her overheated skin as she slipped out onto the balcony. Cecilia would be furious with her for leaving alone, but she felt ready to do murder. It was best if she let her temper cool along with every other part of her before some unfortunate soul came off the worse for it.

Lifting her face to the night sky, Hetty sighed. It was a romantic scene. The moonlight glowed above, reflected in the sea on the horizon. She loved it here and could quite understand why the little town had become fashionable, for it was quaint and charming, and she was looking forward to spending the summer here with her grandmama.

Below the balcony, the gardens were bathed in silver light, the air redolent with the scent of roses. Hetty leaned against the cool stone balustrade. She told herself not to think of Mr Bramwell. He was a very rude man and that was all there was to it. He was not worth another moment of her time.

Yet his tall, lean figure, that severe, sculpted jaw, and his serious grey eyes lingered in her mind, provoking her.

Movement at the other end of the balustrade caught her attention and Hetty froze as a dark shape emerged from the door and let out a harsh breath of relief. The man—for it was a man—turned then, and the moonlight illuminated his starkly handsome face.

“Devil take it,” he cursed, glaring at her.

“Quite,” she replied tartly. “I came here for a little peace and quiet, and you are bothering me, Mr Bramwell.”

His mouth was hard, possibly a little cruel, as one corner curved up. “Yes, I can tell I bother you, Lady Henrietta.”