How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(39)

“Come here,” she insisted. “I need to speak to you.”

His hesitation was so momentary it could hardly be called hesitation at all. “Yes, Miss Ruthven? What did you wish to speak to me about?”

A hand shot out and gripped the lapel of his jacket. She pulled him toward her, behind the leafy foliage.

“Miss Morgan says you spoke to her of me.”

He frowned. He expected Jane Morgan to be a bit more discreet and a bit less eager to play matchmaker. “I told her that you instructed me in dancing the quadrille.”

“Nice of you to acknowledge my assistance.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Nice. He didn’t wish her to think him nice. Nothing he’d done in his life was nice, and nothing he wanted to do when she was near was nice either. “Perhaps I simply wanted you to get the blame if I stepped on her toes.”

“Did you?”

“Step on her toes? Thankfully, no.” He looked down, where her fingers were still curved around his lapel, and then at her mouth. He licked his lips, longing to taste her again. He lifted his glass between them. “Do you like champagne?”

“I do.” Without any hesitation, she took his flute and downed the rest. She shivered and smiled up at him. “I love the bubbles.”

He loved her smiles and how freely she gave them.

“I would ask you to dance, but I don’t know how to perform any of the other sets.”

“Ah,” she said, tugging at his lapel. “That is the matter I wished to speak to you about.” Releasing his jacket and scooting out from behind the palm, she crooked a finger and said, “Come with me.”

He’d never received a more innocent, erotic, enticing invitation in his life. And he knew with bone-deep certainty that if he took the next step and followed her, there would be no going back. Not just tonight. But every night after. He wanted her. If he followed her, he’d snap his thread of self-restraint and touch her again. Taste her again.

“I thought I’d show you how to waltz, and then wait to see if you ask me to dance the next one with you.” Her laughter had a musical quality that echoed in his chest.

He followed as she led him into the drawing room he’d entered with Jane when they arrived. Empty now but for the detritus of discarded cordial glasses and teacups.

“I think we’ll have enough room here.” In the space between the fireplace and the settee, she spun in a circle, causing the hem of her gown to flutter up, much as it had that day he’d seen her storming out of Fisk Academy with a mallet in her hand. She lifted a hand out to him. “Dancers get a little closer for the waltz.”

Striding toward her, Gabe shouted at himself to go slow. To behave like the gentleman he’d trained himself to be.

Gloveless fingers on him, she slid a hand down his arm until their palms were flat against each other. Their fingers threaded together. She came closer, guiding his arm around her waist.

Gabe hissed at the feel of her body against him. The quadrille hadn’t felt like this, and he was grateful he’d chosen that dance rather than this one to partner Jane. “What comes next?” He gazed at her mouth and wished more kissing was on the agenda.

“We move in a box pattern.” She moved closer, her left hand braced on his arm. “Just follow my lead. At least for now.” She slid one foot over and then other, then the same foot back, followed by the other. Then over again, back again. A box shape, just as she’d described. “Excellent,” she praised, and he hated the thrill of pleasure the single word spun through him. “Except once you’ve gotten the steps down, you should keep your head up, eyes on me.”

“That won’t be difficult.”

She tripped, her lips parted, shock widening her eyes. Mercy, did the lady truly not know how appealing she was?

“The real trick,” she said in a quavering voice, “is weaving along with the other couples.”

But there weren’t any other couples in the drawing room. Only him. Only her. The settee in the periphery of his vision taunted him. How easy it would be to lead her back, lay her back, and continue what they’d started in the library.

He stumbled, and she squeezed his arm tightly.

“You’re distracted,” she chastised. “Perhaps we should stop and rejoin the others.”

“I was thinking of you.” He glanced at their joined hands. She hadn’t put her gloves back on, and he loved that her heat was warming his palm. “Remembering your hands on me.” He licked his lips when hers parted, her breath rushing out to tickle his face. “Remembering our kiss. Wishing we could pick up where we’d left off.”

He brought their joined hands to his mouth, pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers. Warning bells raged in his head. He’d silenced his conscience all those years in Rigg’s employ, but the voice was stronger now. Yet he couldn’t stop kissing her, pressing his lips to her hand, her wrist. She responded, lifting a finger to trace the shape of his mouth. When she slid gently along the seam, he took her fingertip between his teeth. She tasted of vanilla and cinnamon, as if she’d just pulled her hand from a biscuit jar.

Running her finger across a jagged line near his mouth, she traced an old scar. “Tell me how you got this.”

The spell was broken. Even the slight buzz of champagne couldn’t keep reality at bay. He was a scarred, twisted man, and she was lovely and good and everything he could never deserve.