AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“His hair is too fair,” she muttered. “I never trust men with such fair hair.”
Oh. She meant his cousin. Demeter didn’t know much about him save that he had appeared recently, after his mother—Blake’s aunt—died to claim his fortune. There were those who said Blake was sore indeed not to have inherited and was now practically penniless. If he was, he certainly did not look it.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Blake looked in her direction. Their gazes connected and her heart palpitated vigorously in her chest. She darted back behind the ostrich feathers. Blast. How had he even spotted her? Her looks swung between plain to vaguely pretty when she tried but she had long learned to blend into the background of all the dramatically attractive women of theton. She was surprised he even knew where to look.
She’d imagined him going home that night, pondering the woman he’d rescued and being utterly unable to place her features.Where do I recognize her from?he’d asked himself then shrugged, concluding his mind was playing tricks on him.
But he’d remembered her. And he was heading her way.
“Aunt Sarah, I really must...”
Her aunt snatched her arm suddenly and painfully, holding her so tight against her that her arm would likely be bruised the next day. Cutting a path to her, Blake paused briefly to nod greetings and mutter words to various attendees. The glittering chandelier above made Demeter squint to view his dark clothing against the sea of creams and pale pinks and purples. She should not even be looking. She should be escaping. Right this moment.
“Aunt Sarah,” she protested.
“I do not know what happened the other night,” her aunt murmured. “But you have been acting strangely ever since. I know you want some excitement, though, and this is a far better way of getting it.”
“What is?”
“Dancing with the scandalous Blake of course!” her aunt declared before pasting a brilliant smile upon her lips as Blake neared.
He inclined his head, his gaze clashing with Demeter’s before he acknowledged her aunt. “Mrs. Knighton, how wonderful you look tonight.” His gaze shot to Demeter. “As do you, Lady Demeter.”
The words were thrown out easily. She should not take any pleasure in them. They could have been said to anyone. But there was something in the way he studied her, as though he knew every single secret of hers with a mere glance. It made her tremble.
Why did he have to be so wretchedly handsome? Why did he have to make her knees weak? That one dimple appeared and she wanted to run her finger over it and figure out exactly why and when it emerged.
“A pleasure, Mr. Blake. You look dashing too, of course.” Her aunt gave her a little nudge.
“G-good...”
Evening? That would have been the appropriate response. Instead, she trailed off, fighting the stutter on her tongue. Most of the time, it occurred only occasionally. She’d struggled so hard to form her words properly after going deaf temporarily as a child. Tonight, every word that tripped off her tongue was no different to being eight and feeling as though she had to relearn everything she knew.
“Good,” he agreed with a smile. “I was hoping to request a dance.”
“Oh she would love to.” Aunt Sarah shoved her forwards, making her stumble so that when her hand flew out to steady herself, it struck an arm.
A muscular, rippled arm to be precise. The elegant cut of his jacket had done him no justice and now she found herself wondering about what else his clothing hid. She’d seen enough statues to know men’s bodies could undulate with muscles and she imagined Blake to be the same.
“Look, a dance is starting now,” her aunt declared as she took the glass from Demeter’s hand. They tussled briefly, a pull back and forth that made the ratafia slosh about, until her aunt won with a determined tug.
Blake smiled—the sort of smile that dug straight to her heart. “Shall we?”
She said nothing and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, powerless to resist.
Oh Lord, what an evening this was going to be.
***
The demure, softly blushing woman in front of him was a far cry from the knife-wielding hellion he’d come upon the other night. If he didn’t know better, he’d believe he suffered a moment of madness and hallucinated her. Or else he’d somehow been mistaken and it was another woman he’d encountered that night.
But no one could mistake those dark wide eyes or the delicate pout of cupid’s bow lips, slightly reddened thanks to her drawing her bottom lip constantly under her teeth. She was petite in a way that made him want to draw her close and shield her from the world.
Everything about her was small. From her waist to her pointed chin to the slender fingers that tucked shyly in his when they took up their position midway down the line. She smelled faintly of roses and he immediately missed the scent when she shifted away from him.
He could not claim to know Lady Demeter Fallon well. They’d spent time in the same circles for years and had maybe even danced once or twice but he preferred his women bolder, more approachable. He concluded her slight stutter—that some women uncharitably mocked—prevented her from holding many conversations.
Even if he knew her to be in attendance at a ball, he rarely saw her dancing or even visible. She melded into the walls like a perfect wallflower.
