A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(89)

Payne chuckled. “You may think so. But they want everything, man. You can empty your pockets and lay down your body, and they still won’t be satisfied. Not until you serve up your heart, still beating.”

Bram sighed. “Once again, I will translate for my cousin. Just tell Miss Taylor you love her. That’s all they really want to hear.”

Love. It all kept coming back to that word. It would be easy enough to tell Katie he loved her. Speaking the words wasn’t any great task. But to tell her so in a way that made them both believe it . . . that was the challenge.

“Did you want to practice again?” Payne asked.

“No.”

“I don’t mind taking the lady’s part. I’m secure enough in my masculinity.”

“I said no.”

Payne straightened his cravat. “Really, Thorne. I’m only trying to help. ‘No, thank you’ might be more polite.”

“Etiquette isn’t my strong point.”

“Yes, but that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? It’s why you came to me for help. If you mean to win that woman—that lady—and make her your wife, you’ll have to make it your strong point. And quickly.”

Thorne shushed him. The small orchestra had struck up a new tune, and he strained to hear.

“That’s the waltz,” Payne confirmed. “You’re on.”

Bram clapped Thorne on the shoulder. “Go to it, then.”

“No pressure,” Payne said. “It’s only your one chance at happiness, you know. It’s only the rest of your life.”

Thorne cut him a glare as he shouldered open the door. “Not helping.”

As he made his way through the connecting door and down the short stretch of corridor to the ballroom, nerves danced in his gut. But once he spied her at the opposite end, all his anxiety disappeared—replaced by awe.

He hadn’t laid eyes on her in nearly a week.

And he’d never seen her looking like this.

Good God, she was beautiful. She stood in profile to him, deep in conversation with Minerva Highwood, the new Lady Payne. He stopped in his paces a moment, just to drink in the sight of her. And to remember how to breathe.

She wore deep blue silk, the color of fathomless oceans and dark night skies. Set off by the lush fabric, her shoulders were smooth, pale perfection. Tiny brilliants spangled her dark, upswept hair, and satin gloves sheathed her arms to the elbow. He heard the sparkling melody of her laughter float high above the music.

She was too elegant for him, too beautiful for words.

But he’d come this far. He would dare to ask for her anyway.

He started to move. The crowd shifted around him. Across the hall, Katie shifted her weight and swept the room with an unfocused gaze. She looked right through him, with no hint of recognition—then went back to her conversation.

He strode toward her, moving with purpose now.

When he’d covered half the distance, her eyes darted to him again. Once, fleetingly. Then a second time, narrowing. As though she were trying to place him. The wrinkle of her brow was one of mild concern. He could almost hear her thoughts. Who was that hulking, overdressed brute across the ballroom, staring her down?

God. She didn’t know him.

It’s me, Katie. You know me.

Their gazes connected. He felt it in his bones, the moment recognition struck. That sweet jolt of affinity shot down his spine.

Then a waltzing couple twirled between them, blocking his view.

Damn it.

Damn, damn, damn. He had to see her reaction. That was his entire purpose in coming here and making an entrance. How would she greet him? Would it happen this time, at long last?

By the time the waltzers passed, the whole crowd had shifted. He pushed his way through the throng, scanning for her. His heart pounded so fiercely, he thought it would burst.

“Samuel!”

He turned on his boot heel.

There she was, poised on tiptoe, her neck elongated like a swan’s, the better to call over the crowd.

He changed course, veering for her. And stopped, two paces away.

Waiting, with his heart in his throat, to see if she’d light up for him.

She didn’t glow. Her eyes didn’t twinkle. No small flame of joy flickered to life behind her expression.

No, this was so much better than that. It made everything worthwhile—not just the past week, but the lifetime before it.

She went incandescent with the brilliance of a thousand fiery stars.

“Samuel. It’s you.”

Kate struggled to compose herself. He had a lot of nerve, keeping her waiting all this time and then showing up looking like this. He was still his unbearably handsome self, only . . . he was more.

More, in every way.

She could have sworn his new, fashionable Hessians made him a full inch taller. The tight fit of his black tailcoat made his shoulders look a touch more broad. She couldn’t begin to articulate what the clinging buff breeches did for his thighs, or she might suffer an attack of light-headedness.

His hair was clipped with precision, glossed with a touch of pomade. Even from an arm’s length he smelled wonderful—like leather and cologne and clean linen, blended with the essence of raw, manly strength.

Most of all, there was an air about him. It wasn’t quite elegance or refinement, but perhaps . . . self-possession. Purpose. Oh, his face was still hard, and his eyes remained chips of ice. But beneath it all, there was fire.