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Bronwyn was safe. Rawley would take care of her.
She was in good hands.
But the longer he stood there, the more he was inured to reason or logic; a man never ruled by passions of the flesh was fast becoming an alacritous disciple. Valentine was transfixed. She moved like blue flame, the dance so joyous that she gleamed. There were no masks, no pretense.
Justher.
And he wanted nothing more than to stay right where he was.
Valentine swallowed, muscles clenching and unclenching with indecision as he watched her dance. Watched her body undulate in ways that made his abdomen constrict and did away with the fact that she was his best friend’s sister. She was a woman. A beautifully dangerous one whom he was beginning to crave with a visceral, endless, avid need.
When the music shifted to something different—resembling a slower Viennese waltz that had couples moving scandalously close, including Rawley and Bronwyn’s slip of a maid—Valentine found himself pushing through the crowd. He stared down anyone who dared to get near to Bronwyn, baring his teeth. Men retreated, understanding that there was a much larger presence in the room. She, however, was oblivious, eyelids hooded, gilt-tipped lashes leaving shadows over flushed cheekbones as she swayed with a radiant smile on her face.
When he slid a palm over the warm, damp fabric covering her torso and drew her back to him, she didn’t shove him away, only continued to sway gently to the three-count measure. It took his stupid brain a second to see that her slender body was unencumbered by its usual ring of petticoats. His other hand went to her hip and the confirmation of what he suspected nearly unmanned him. No other layer rested between the satin and her hot, bare skin.
The sweaty heat of her sweet-apple fragrance seduced him as much as the shape of her did, but then Valentine blinked when she remained silent. Did she know who he was? Her lashes were still downcast. Would she be this familiar with anyone? With Rawley?
A husky voice pierced his thoughts. “Did you enjoy the show, Your Grace?”
His breath rushed out on a tide of relief. “Valentine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name is Valentine,” he rasped. “And yes. Was that for me?”
Valentine had been all over the world on his travels in service to the Crown, and while he’d encountered many different cultures and their styles of dance, the sight of Bronwyn—the demure, sheltered, haughty English daughter of a marquess and sister to a duke—dancing with such unbridled enthusiasm had been a shock to his senses.
“It was forme, sir.” She turned in his arms to face him, one palm going to his shoulder in the standard waltz position. “Did you know that the locals in the West Indies, in countries like Antigua and Trinidad, took English country dances, quadrilles, and reels, and turned them into their own according to their cultural traditions?” That low, rich laughter so unlike the tones from upstairs reached him again. “My sister-in-law said that she loves to dance in bare feet.” Without warning, she kicked off her own slippers.
He frowned. “Don’t. You could cut your soles.”
“Yes, I could, and this ship could get caught in a freakish storm and sink. Sometimes, Valentine, you must seize the moment.”
His fingers flexed on her hip. “Who are you?”
“Out here, I’m…Bee.”
“You’re nothing like you were during the past week,” he rumbled, unable to reconcile the two very different versions of her.
Her shoulders shook and the curve of one cheek rose as she turned in his arms to face him. Blue eyes glittered like aquamarines, a sheen of sweat coating her rosy, overwarm skin. Moonlight wound through her hair and shone off the glistening apples of her cheeks while damp tendrils clung to her brow, her temples, and her neck. He didn’t dare look lower, though her bodice gaped perilously, a glistening ribbon of sweat catching his eye.
“Women have many layers, Your Grace. We don’t give up all our secrets for just anyone. Otherwise, they are not worth the discovery. Surely a man of your persuasion would know such a thing.”
“A man of my persuasion?”
“Are we still playing games, Your Grace?” The taunting words drizzled through him and he frowned at the question. Was Lisbeth right? That she was sharper than she seemed? He fell back to his usual dismissal.
“I am a duke, Lady Bronwyn,” he tossed back, distracted by the renewed motion of her body that followed the slightly quicker tempo than a usual waltz and the purposeful gleam in her gaze. “That is all.”
“Then you’re on your way to Philadelphia for a pleasure trip?”
Valentine studiously ignored the unguarded reaction that word claimed from his already too-interested lower half. “No, I am looking for someone actually,” he said and then frowned, wondering why he’d volunteered that information. Her body seemed to tense, but then she relaxed on the next beat of music and quarter turn.
“So the huntsmanison the hunt, even if he’s been put out to pasture.”
His eyes caught hers, amusement winking in their azure depths. The little minx was teasing him. “I’m not on my last legs yet, my lady.”
“Clearly.”
