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With a resigned sigh, he disengaged himself from the crowd and went to the refreshment table, eyeing the punch bowl with decided disinterest. He wasn’t hungry, wasn’t remotely thirsty either, and he heaved another great sigh.
Should he leave? It was early, yet no one approached him. Not that he was particularly approachable but he’d believed, with the mask, that for once he could be truly anyone this evening.
His title, his affliction, everything about him was a burden. A most cumbersome burden he was finding more and more difficult to deal with as the years passed. How he wished he didn’t have such problems expressing himself. If only he were carefree and confident in his ability to deal with others. Instead, he remained frozen, and in turn froze everyone out who came near until they considered him a cold, calculating, impenetrable man no one could become close to.
A man with a black heart—he was nothing in the least like his truly awful nickname.
Frustration coursing through
his veins, he growled at no one in particular and turned away from the refreshment table. Making his way through the growing crowd, he headed toward the open doorway that loomed ahead, eagerness pushing him, increasing his pace. He wanted to get the hell out of there, quickly. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone. His life would suffice perfectly if he spent it all alone…
“Excuse me.”
A sweet voice made him stop. Slowly he turned to find her standing in front of him. The bodice of her gown dipped low, offering him a delicious view of the tops of her impressive breasts. She smiled, her deep blue eyes twinkling behind the mask, and inclined her head toward him.
“I know you might find my behavior rash but I was wondering—would you care to dance?”
Relief—mixed with a healthy dose of lust—coursed through him. He wasn’t about to turn her down.
* * *
The mask made Daphne stupidly brave.
That was the only reason she could be so bold as to ask a perfect stranger if he’d like to dance with her. Why, he could be a complete lout. A drunken, desperate fool who might believe by her asking him to dance that she might be up for other, far more nefarious activity she had no intention of pursuing.
She blamed his shoulders for drawing her attention. They were broad, encased in black and so impressive she couldn’t help but stare. He was tall, her neck might ache if she looked up at him for too long, and his chest was impossibly wide.
He was a most interesting male specimen she couldn’t ignore.
Nibbling on her lower lip, she waited for his answer, dread filling her. Perhaps she should leave. Oh, she knew running away like a coward was rude and that he most likely recognized her as his hostess for the evening, but she probably shouldn’t have taken the risk. Hugh would surely give her an earful, for she caught sight of him observing her at this very moment, a permanent scowl etched on his fine features.
Her poor, worrisome brother. She didn’t mean to make such trouble.
“I—I would be honored to dance with you, my lady,” the gentleman finally answered, startling her. His voice was deep, like smooth, dark velvet, though he spoke with the slightest hesitation.
She leaned toward him ever so slightly. Wanting to hear him speak again.
Who was he?
Offering his hand, he led her out onto the crowded dance floor, his impersonal touch burning through the thin material of her gloves to pierce the very deepest part of her. Her skin erupted in a wash of gooseflesh when he drew her effortlessly into his arms. His large, warm hand settled on her back, fingers splayed and close to her hip. She rested her gloved hand on his broad shoulder and even through the layers of fabric she could feel how hard, how strong he was.
Her heart picked up speed at the realization she danced with a man who wore not a stitch of padding, who was cut so finely he could probably rival any Italian statue when unclothed.
Oh, dear. Her cheeks heated over thinking of him possibly nude.
“You’re a very fine dancer,” she complimented after he spun her around the floor twice in silence.
“Thank you.” His voice, the mysterious pauses before he spoke she detected, did strange things to her insides. Had any man ever affected her in such an odd manner? Her husband, he’d been her friend—very dear to her, really. Their relationship had lacked passion, yet made up for it with companionship and trust.
This—this feeling she was experiencing with a complete stranger was a different thing altogether.
Lifting her lashes, she studied him covertly, admiring his strong features. He was exquisitely made, with plush, full lips and a square jaw and chin. Stubble shadowed his cheeks, giving him a rakish air despite that he’d most likely shaved earlier in the day and merely dealt with a heavy beard. His nose was straight, though a bit on the large side, and his eyes were dark. Not as dark as his hair, which curled invitingly about the back of his neck, enticing her to tangle her fingers in the silky strands and test its softness.
“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” she asked, trying to pull herself out of her silly and overindulgent thoughts.
“I am. Y-you are a most magnificent hostess.”
Her breath stalled in her chest at hearing him describe her as magnificent. Not that he meant anything by it, not at all. He was merely being kind while she was overreacting, being a silly romantic as usual.
