AllFreeNovel
Share Us
An outraged retort tingled on the tip of her tongue. Easy. It is only meaningless banter. He, too, must be feeling emboldened by the intoxicant of anonymity. Though tempted to call his bluff and see what resulted, she decided it was time to bring the conversation back to safer ground. “I believe I should like a demonstration before risking my good name on a mere footman’s promise,” she teased with a meaningful glance toward the dance floor.
Standing at once, he offered his arm.
Harriet placed her hand—her naked hand—on his sleeve and was struck by the glaring absence of William’s ring. She fought a sudden urge to yank her hand back and flee. There was no reason to feel guilty. William was gone, and it wasn’t as if she planned to actually allow this rogue to take any liberties with her person.
As they danced, Harriett again became acutely aware of Manchester’s physicality. His form was lean and fit, his movements graceful and sure. William had been taller, which had meant he’d always had to look down in order to meet her eyes. Not so much with Roland.
Roland. The name echoed in her mind, seeping into the dark corners, smoothing around the curves of her other thoughts. She’d never before thought of him in terms of his Christian name. He’d always been “Manchester’s other son” or “William’s brother” or “that drunken blackguard.” To call him “Roland” seemed too intimate, though she supposed if she had married William she would have been entitled to do so.
But you didn’t marry William whispered her conscience. That fact was brought home as she looked into Roland’s eyes and saw desire. Real desire, not that sarcastic leer he’d put on back at the Hospital for the purposes of intimidating her. Those other men tonight had looked at her with want, too. For a moment, she just basked in the knowledge that she was desirable.
It was enormously satisfying. She felt powerful. Now at last she understood what so many women seemed to learn quite early in their lives. The male before her was helpless, a veritable bull with a ring in its nose, and she was the one holding the lead.
She could tweak that lead and make him dance a merry jig for her pleasure, but it would be a dangerous game to play. Desire could work for or against a woman, and it tended toward the latter when mutual. Arabella had learned that lesson and come to rue it.
Glancing to the side, she saw Cat dancing with an enraptured gentleman. Her precocious sister had already mastered the technique of leading the bull. She’d likely be married before the end of this Season—God willing.
Her gaze returned to Manchester. She would enjoy this moment, savor it, and then disappear. He would wonder about her for the rest of his life, but he would never know. It was a memory she would treasure, the memory of having held Mad Manchester in her thrall, if only for a little while.
Tomorrow, she would return to being dull, dutiful Harriett. But she would never again fear him.
Ten
Roland was determined to discover the identity of his dance partner. There was something so familiar about her, and yet she looked like no woman he ever remembered meeting. The thought sent a shiver of apprehension down the back of his neck. Had they met before? Did he simply not remember? Had he been in his cups?
She looked at him with amusement, clearly enjoying her feminine sway over him. One corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, and his loins tightened with alarming swiftness. He had not been lying when he’d told her confidence was seductive.
There was a strange, mutable quality to her eyes. One moment they appeared sea-green, the next more bluish, and yet the next a more brownish tint. The shining coffee curls that spilled down over her shoulder to caress her bosom—her glorious bosom—lay against skin like creamy velvet.
A slow smile tilted the corners of her lips. She had a lovely, generous mouth that begged to be kissed. “You are going to make me blush, my lord footman.”
“I’m glad to know it,” he replied without shame. “It would be a sore disappointment indeed, were I to have no effect on you, my lady kitchen maid.” Her low laugh sent a bolt of want lancing down into his vitals. “Wh
o are you?” he asked, keeping his tone light and playful.
She denied him the answer with a raised brow and another sly smile as the dance separated them.
When she returned, he tried again. “Shall I guess?”
“I cannot stop you.”
From the top of her head to the soles of her feet, she was perfection. Her form was exquisite, her attitude intriguing. Rarely had he met an unwed woman so at ease, so sure of herself. Confidence indeed. She couldn’t be more than twenty. “Well, you’re not Lady Abingdon,” he teased, looking down at her décolletage with frank appreciation.
Another laugh burst from between the mystery woman’s lush lips.
Lady Abingdon was one of Society’s most notorious personages. If a gentleman found himself badly owing, he might pay her a visit or two and be relieved of his debt—for a price, of course. Roland had done so once in his youth. Too ashamed to ask William or his father for help so soon after having left, he’d instead chosen to pay court to Lady Abingdon.
Even at more than twice his age, the lady had exhibited an appetite for bed sport that could only be called voracious. That was when he’d learned women had desires, too. He’d called on her three times and she’d been generous with him to a fault. It was not something he was proud of.
“You’re not either of the Ladies Lennox,” he said, again lading his tone with mischief.
She shook her head, causing her shining chocolate curls to bounce.
“Could it be that you are Lady...” He thought about it for a moment. Dark hair, greenish eyes, the height was right. “Lady Scranton?”
Her smile widened, and for a moment he thought he’d gotten it right, but once more she shook her head. “Wrong again, my lord footman.”
Frustration threatened to unseat his pleasure. “Pray tell me, my lady. I must know your name.” He froze as she moved closer to reach up and boldly caress his jaw with a slender hand.
