Page 25 of Again, Scoundrel

“You should dance, Miss Goodwin,” he said again. “You might find it entertaining.”

“No.” Violet shook her head. “I wouldn’t. I don’t want to dance.”

“I thought all beautiful young misses liked to dance.”

“I am not a young miss,” she whispered, “in case you’d forgotten.”

“All beautiful women then. I stand corrected.”

“And all women are not the same.” She’d said the words to deter him, but they seemed to have the opposite effect and drew him closer to her instead.

“No,” he whispered. “You are definitely not the same.”

The hot breath on her ear from his whisper made her tremble slightly and when she thought of how close his lips were to the tender skin of her neck, her cheeks began to flush.

And then he placed one large hand on the small of her back, and the ballroom was suddenly several degrees warmer.

“Is it,” he asked in a low whisper, his nearness igniting an exquisite pulsing in her body, “that you don’t dance, or is it that you don’t dance at balls?”

Violet froze.

How does he know that?

She’d once loved to dance, before James had died.

But not now.

The heat from his hand burned its way through the layers of her gown, her corset, her stays, her petticoat, and her drawers. Layer upon layer of muslin and silk and lace did nothing to quell it.

“Wait five minutes,” he said, “and meet me outside.”

“No.” She shook her head, trying and failing to control her breath and the wild beating of her heart. “I’m only here as a companion. Nothing more.”

But it was so hard to think with his hand on her body. A small, secret touch that made her throb in places she knew it shouldn’t. She closed her eyes and inhaled his rich scent of balsam and masculinity and adventure. And then she felt her body strain toward him again.

“Come with me,” he whispered once more. “Please. Catherine is happily dancing the quadrille. She is not in need of a companion at the moment, while I am much in need of one.”

Violet looked up to see it was true. Catherine was engaged in yet another dance with yet another gentleman.

She nodded once and Alistair slipped away.

Alistair had no idea what he was doing, inviting Violet out into the gardens. He wasn’t here to spend time with Miss Goodwin. He was here to make sure McGann did. And yet, he couldn’t help himself. He’d caught sight of her at once, hidden between the potted palms by the wall, and all but shoved McGann onto the dance floor with the nearest possible partner. And then he made a beeline for her, as he always did.

He wasn’t one of those men of the beaumonde who called themselves a gentleman during the day but acted like an unprincipled cad at night. He acted like an unprincipled cad whenever he wanted, if the measuring stick was the ton’s principles and not his own. He stayed strictly true to his own, which included a swearing off of any activity that would tie him to the aristocracy, and especially, repeat dalliances with women of the beaumonde or their cousins from America. What’s more, they of a certainty included holding up his end of a partnership he’d agreed to not two weeks before with a fellow captain. Yet here he was, luring Violet out into the dark again.

You didn’t lure her the first time, he reminded himself. You found her. Already on that balcony in the dark.

Though you did almost kiss her.

Don’t kiss her now.

Alistair shook his head and tried to settle his mind as he anxiously paced. He felt like he’d been traversing this small section of the garden for an interminable amount of time, although in all likelihood it had been only a few minutes. The few minutes he knew she had to wait before she followed him outdoors. He circled again, impatient.

Where is she?

Perhaps she wasn’t coming. Perhaps she was inside now, drinking her lemonade in the corner and laughing at him.

Or worse, McGann had spotted her and was talking to her, his hand on the small of her back where Alistair’s ought to be. It had been more difficult than he’d imagined removing his fingers once he’d placed them there. They’d desperately wanted to stay and explore that new territory of silk and heat and skin. To continue their foray up along her spine.