And Then She Fell(28)

Exactly to what she wasn’t sure, but as she looked down into James’s face, upturned, his gaze locked on her as she descended the last steps, she knew very well what her heart was hoping.

“Good evening.” With passable aplomb, she offered her hand.

He grasped it and bowed, then, straightening, brazenly raised her hand to his lips; meeting her eyes, he touched his lips to her knuckles.

Even though she was wearing gloves, she still had to suppress a shiver. The pressure of his lips on the back of her hand evoked the phantom sensation of those same lips pressed to hers. . . .

He’d been studying her eyes; now he smiled and drew her nearer. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he steered her into the crowd. “Not quite as big a crush as last night, thank heaven.”

“No.” She glanced about.

Unsure of just what tack they would be taking, she was about to point out another young lady he might wish to meet and consider—if he was still considering other young ladies—when he said, “I believe the musicians are about to start a waltz. Ah, yes, there they are.” Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he met her eyes and smiled—in an unshielded way she was beginning to realize he reserved just for her—then he drew her on. “Come along, my dear Matchbreaker. I want to waltz with you.”

Finding herself stupidly smiling in reply, she opened her lips to make a token protest.

He saw, and twirled her—onto the floor and into his arms. “And no—don’t start. I have no intention of wasting my time waltzing with other young ladies tonight.” His gaze trapped hers, and he lowered his voice. “So you may as well save your breath.” Then he whirled her into the dance.

James devoted himself to keeping her breathless and giddy, an activity that confirmed two things. One, that he could, if he put his mind to it, achieve such an outcome, and two, that he enjoyed doing it. Henrietta Cynster breathless and giddy was a sight that warmed his heart. Literally.

Which, he supposed, said more than enough.

But he wasn’t yet ready to think more on that, on what she made him feel. On what he had felt when he’d kissed her so lightly in the walk at Osterley Park.

He was still coming to terms with that.

But she seemed as pleased as he to simply take tonight as they found it. There were enough guests crowding her ladyship’s ballroom for them to keep to themselves without anyone truly noticing. The gossipmongers and the grandes dames tended to watch the sweet young things, or those for some reason in the limelight. At twenty-nine, Henrietta was long past the age when matrons kept a watchful eye on whom she was consorting with, and as for him, he’d never featured as a pawn in their matrimonial games.

So they had all the evening to laugh, and share anecdotes, and drown in each other’s eyes. Had hours to spend discovering this and that, the minutiae of each other’s characters that made them what they were, that made them themselves and fixed the other’s attention.

That focused them, each on the other, to the exclusion of all else.

They waltzed again, and the ephemeral connection between them burgeoned and grew stronger.

On one level, he recognized it; on another, he didn’t.

Familiar, yet not; known, yet unknown. Expected on the one hand, yet so much more . . . that summed up his reaction to her.

A reaction that escalated from curiosity to desire, and then to wanting.

They chanced a third waltz, but even that was not enough. He could see the same calculation in her eyes.

She glanced around, then met his gaze. “It’s dreadfully stuffy—shall we stroll on the terrace?”

Where it was quieter and they stood an excellent chance of finding themselves alone.

He looked over the heads, saw the doors to the terrace standing open. “An excellent idea.” He offered his arm. “Let’s.”

He steered her through the crowd of chattering guests. They’d reached the terrace door and were just about to step through when a young lady in a magenta gown appeared in a rush beside them.

“Miss Cynster.” The young lady met Henrietta’s eyes, then inclined her head to James before addressing Henrietta. “I’m Miss Fotherby—we met at Lady Hamilton’s at-home a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, yes.” Henrietta lightly clasped Miss Fotherby’s proffered fingers. “I remember.” She introduced James, adding, “Miss Fotherby is Lady Martin’s niece.”

James bowed and Miss Fotherby curtsied, then, rising, spoke to them both. “I wonder if I might have a private word with you.” She gestured to the terrace. “Outside might be best.”