How to Marry a Marble Marquis(19)
When at last they parted, Eleanor was gasping, laughing as she held her head. “Is it supposed to make you this dizzy?”
“What did I tell you, Miss Eastwick? Nothing to worry about. You’re a fine pupil.”
The change in her was instantaneous. She sobered, straightening in her chair, blinking up at him for several moments before she nodded. “That was quite the informative lesson, my lord.”
When their mouths came back together, everything was different. She was more active in participating — following his cues, moving her tongue against his and catching his lips with her teeth, playing the part of the perfect seductress. He hated it.
He was agitated once he left the Eastwick residence a short while later. Stretching his wings, he climbed to the roof far earlier than needed, deciding to jump from the parapet and hope the wind would catch him. And if not, you’ll fall and break your neck, and that might be for the best. The wind had caught, though, giving him an opportunity to use his wings in a way he hadn’t in weeks, working out some of the frustration and pent-up energy her kiss had ignited within. By the time he took his place on the roof before sunset, his head ached and his cock was still hard, jutting out like a handle as he dropped his banyan aside.
Eleanor Eastwick vexed him, and the Monster’s Ball couldn’t come soon enough, Silas decided that morning, staring into the horizon, waiting for the moment when he stiffened, skin hardening to smooth marble.
Perhaps he was merely coming down with something, he told himself. That would explain his mood and the odd shift in his chest, and the unsettled way he was feeling. He would need to ensure he took an especially sunny spot for the next few days, soaking up the restorative powers of the sun as best he could, the better to clear his mind. Clear his mind, and shake away the cobwebs she cast there, lest he tangled himself in her web.
“Remember, Miss Eastwick, the steps are secondary.”
The musicians hired to play for them that evening consisted of two goblins and a disgruntled-looking troll, but their fiddles were merry, which was all that mattered. The end of the ballroom where they danced was lit with more than a dozen candelabras, the most obvious display of their different circumstances that could possibly be.
It was her third visit to his home, and Kestin’s sister Cressida was once again serving as the most permissive chaperone in England. She’d easily been persuaded to take on the job, knowing fully well that it meant she could enjoy a night off with her feet up, all of the housekeeping duties foisted onto other hands for the evening. The mothwoman had likely gone to take a nap the instant Eleanor was safely delivered over the threshold.
“Secondary? What are you talking about?! The steps are incredibly important!” she laughed in outrage, stamping a slippered foot. “You’re going to have me fall on my face and look a fool!”
“You are not dancing to show off your dancing skill,” Silas went on severely, ignoring her adorable outburst. “This is, first and foremost, an opportunity for you to be physical with your potential suitor in a socially acceptable way. Don’t undervalue the positioning of your body, and don’t allow your focus on choreography,“ the last said with a sneer, “to impact your allure.”
They began a moment later, a bow and a curtsey, and then they were off, lightly hopping steps, coming together as they crossed through the center of the marked-off dancing square. Despite their height difference, his hands landed on her hips easily. They moved through all positions of the quadrille, assuming the role of all four couples, and she was laughing by the end, clapping for the musicians and attempting to catch her breath.
“I did not expect you to be so light on your feet, my lord. You’re a very fine dancer.”
“Yes, Miss Eastwick, this is not my first ball; I’ll have you know. You are a most graceful dancer yourself, but I’ll confess I would have preferred you to have all the terpsichorean skill of a calf in a field if it meant you wouldn’t be focusing solely on your feet.”
“I am sorry that you find my sole focus on my soles so distressing, my lord,” she tittered as he took her by the waist, leading her back into position. “I shall try to do better this time.”
By the third circuit they danced together, she was a preening vixen. Stretching her arms out as if she had wings of her own, she glanced up over her shoulder at him coyly, eyes sparkling as he took her gloved hands. She arched her back against him like a cat when they came together briefly, his hands at her hip as he turned them into the next movement, and her own hands stroked his arms as he held her through the steps.
By the time the music changed, the opening strains of a waltz replacing the bouncy quadrille, she was giggling and he was stiff, his trousers fitting more snugly than they had only just at the start of the dance.
“Do you know how to waltz, Miss Eastwick?”
“In theory, my lord. It’s quite scandalous, is it not? To dance so close?”
Silas pulled her against him, hand dropping to her lower back, pressing her to his front, his eyes fluttering at the pressure against his erection. Opening his wings fully, he beat the air once, twice, satisfied with the number of candles that snuffed, shielding them from any keen eyes the musicians may have possessed.
“My dear Miss Eastwick,” he purred in her ear, “the scandal is the point.”
Unlike the quadrille, there was no hopping and shifting in the waltz. She was a graceful enough dancer that she fell into the step easily, following his lead, and he led her in such a way that kept her anchored against him, bodies flush. It was indeed a scandal — a scandal that he could not ravish her right there in the middle of the empty ballroom, no one to hear her moans but the well-paid musicians who could be kept discreet for enough coin. By the time the music came to a close, he ached with longing, and she clung to his jacket as if she might fall without his support.