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“Several hundred, but all purely personal. Do give it a try. It should be amusing to observe. I predict she will be quite overcome by your attentions, but hardly swept away.”
Again the folded fan tapped against his chest playfully. “I recognize her type, Colter. Ice runs in her veins instead of hot blood as in mine. You’ll grow weary of trying to thaw her out and seek warmer beds quite soon. My bed is always…very…warm.”
The last was said huskily as she drew her hand from the slim column of her throat to toy with an ornate ruby-and-gold necklace circling her neck. Long fingers idly twisted the ruby pendant that dangled between her breasts, dragging it over plump swells to caress the rouged nipples so easily visible beneath her plunging bodice.
“Ever subtle, aren’t you,” he observed, and her smile widened.
“Subtlety is overrated, my lord Northington. Too bad I didn’t know your brother would die and you would be in line for the title. I might have waited for you.”
“You wouldn’t like marriage to me,” he said bluntly. “I’d beat you every time you were unfaithful.”
She shivered. “A delicious temptation.”
“You’d tire of it soon enough.”
“What you really mean is you would tire of it soon enough.”
“You know me much better than I thought, Katherine.”
“Yes, my handsome, dangerous cavalier, I certainly do. Go now, for I see that the little Colonial has presented you with a challenge you’re determined to meet. When you tire of the cold, I’ll be waiting.”
Colter left the alcove and reentered the ballroom. He hadn’t bothered correcting Katherine. Let her think what she would. He had no intention of explaining his true reasons for being here. He just wished he knew what to think of Celia St. Clair.
Was she a green-eyed little witch who had managed to wheedle her way into a society where she didn’t quite fit? Or were there darker secrets that lay beneath the facade of a guileless American? Was she involved in conspiracy and anarchy with James Carlisle? He was a rum one, and the reason for Colter’s brief voyage on the bucket known as the Liberty. Yet it didn’t seem likely that Celia St. Clair was a part of the conspiracy. What would she have to gain? She wasn’t English and had no vested interest.
Yet there had been deceit in those wide green eyes, a glint that promised hell to pay for the man so bold or foolish enough to try to peel away the layers of guile to get to the truth.
It should be easy enough to do. Yet it should have been easy enough to intimidate her.
But Celia St. Clair had not been intimidated, nor even interested. She had been—indifferent.
He saw her on the dance floor, where she stood out in an endless sea of females clad in pale muslin or silk or satin. She wasn’t the tallest woman there, nor even the most beautiful, but she was definitely intriguing.
She had accepted a dance with Reginald Harwood, the youngest son of a landed baron, and Colter watched as she performed the steps of the contredanse with fluid grace. The hem of her gown lifted around trim ankles as her feet moved across the floor, slippers glittering with golden threads that caught the light.
When Harwood returned her to Lady Leverton and bowed over her hand, Colter moved forward. It was time to get the obligatory dance out of the way, then he would leave.
As the musicians ensconced upon a dais at the far end of the ballroom began playing a waltz, he approached Lady Leverton and her charges, a colorful flock of silken birds still chattering like guinea hens when he reached them.
“Do you waltz, Miss St. Clair?” His question cut across their chatter like a knife. Instant silence ensued at the breach of etiquette in directing his request to her instead of her chaperone.
Slowly turning from her cousin to look at him, Celia made no reply for a long moment, but simply gazed at him as if she had never before seen him.
Lady Leverton spoke up in a bright chirp. “Miss St. Clair performs all dances beautifully, my lord.”
“Then I claim this waltz with her.”
Celia began, “Oh, but I believe that Lord Harwood is—”
“Is dancing with Miss Grantham at the moment. Shall we?” He put out his hand, a challenge in his eyes.
As he’d suspected she would, Miss St. Clair accepted his challenge and allowed him to take her arm and lead her onto the dance floor. She moved a bit stiffly in his arms, obviously uncomfortable, but kept a smile on her face as she gracefully followed his steps. The waltz allowed him to hold her hand and put his free hand on her back, though social protocol demanded that he not slide it any lower than her shoulder blades. The waltz was scandalous enough, but without drawing attention to them, there was little she could do if he did let his hand move lower.
Deliberately he slid it to the small of her back, fingers a light pressure against firm flesh instead of one of those damn corsets women had taken to wearing again. A bloody nuisance, in his opinion, and damned inconvenient to remove. Warm female flesh beneath thin silk instead of stiff whalebone was much more enticing.
He heard a quickly inhaled breath, felt a vibration of suppressed indignation quiver through her.
“Be so kind as to move your hand, my lord.”
