Minerva dropped into a curtsy and offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet a friend of my husband’s, Your Grace.”
Annabelle knew little of Wales. Were all the men there gilded by the sun and built like an Irish hunter, sturdy of frame? Her breath caught. That breed was also known for its endurance. Would that be valuable in her pursuit of pleasure? She would wager her pin money yes. The question was would the duke be interested in pursuing her?
His Grace accepted Minerva’s hand and urged her upward, the muscles of his upper arms threatening the seams of his fitted evening jacket. “Please, my lady, no need for such formality amongst friends. Gareth, though perhaps Grey in public?” His gaze swung to William. “I’d heard you married, but refused to believe the rumor until I saw with my own eyes. And now I see why you were tempted to shed your bachelorhood. Lady Minerva, it’s a pleasure.”
A flash of something—jealousy?—colored Annabelle’s vision at the caress of Gareth’s words. What would tempt him to shed his bachelorhood? Assuming, of course, he was single. And would he find as much delight in her company as he seemed to in Minerva’s? With Annabelle’s track record of finding married men attractive, it would be her luck to discover him happily, sickeningly wedded. Tamping the impulse to pepper His Grace with questions about the existence of a Her Grace, she shifted closer and cleared her throat.
The Duke of Powis…Grey…straightened and pinned her with his gaze. His eyes were the same rich green as the hills rolling through William’s newly acquired Irish estate, where she rode her favorite Irish hunter, Apollo, like a woman possessed. Could she persuade Grey to call on her for a ride? The image of them racing side by side transformed into her astride his flexing form. Her breath stalled, and heat threatened to blossom across her cheeks. Thank goodness, she’d never heeded her former governess’s admonishments to wear a hat and preserve her complexion else she’d be bright red.
As if through a fog, she heard William say, “And this is my hellion of a sister, Annabelle.”
Any anger she might have felt at the insult was chased away by the sure grasp of Grey’s hand on her gloved fingertips and the half-raised eyebrow and direct stare that implied he’d heard her illicit thoughts—and approved. Please Lord, let him not be married.
“Ah, William, what a blessed man you are to have two beautiful women to grace you with their company.” He brushed a kiss over her gloved hand.
Had she imagined the brief tightening of his grasp on her fingers? The teasing sweep of his little finger along the underside of hers? The heat on her cheeks spread to burn inside her chest, and lower still. At the overwhelming need to put the man through his paces, she clenched her thighs.
“I don’t suppose your dance card has an empty spot, Miss Abbott?”
For once, words failed her. Her tongue clung to the roof of her dry mouth.
“I believe Annabelle has the opening set free.” Minerva’s voice and widened eyes compelled Annabelle to nod her head in agreement. “And I believe it’s forming now.”
Minerva shot a chastising look at Annabelle, but her expression cleared when Grey glanced in her direction with a smile. “Thank you, my lady. I’ll return her to your side no worse for the wear at the close.”
Annabelle stared at the proffered arm. The material of his coat strained against the muscles beneath. Like her brother, whom he topped by almost a full hand and was half again as wide as, he was not an idle man. And, Lord, his hands. Large hands that dwarfed the standard height measurement used for mounts, though she’d let him take her measure any time. Heat left her damp in places no lady should be. But what, exactly, did he do to garner the form of a blacksmith?
****
Disappointment tightened Gareth’s chest at the look on Annabelle Abbott’s face. Many women found his size intimidating, but she was only a head or so shorter than he—though she was as thin as a wraith. But he had hoped, since he and her brother were friends, she wouldn’t be as standoffish as other young misses. “I don’t bite.”
A squeak issued forth from her mouth and intensified his disappointment. He hadn’t been serious. His clumsy attempt at humor had failed.
He fought the urge to curl his shoulders forward, an old habit left over from years of his father’s hateful words. “You bumbling oaf. You’re no son of mine. If it weren’t for the succession, I’d disown you. As it is, I refuse to let the title pass to some American nobody. Better it go to the son of a Welshman, even if he was a blacksmith.”
He straightened. That man was long dead and buried, along with the insecure, little boy Gareth had been. “If you’d prefer to sit the set out…”
Annabelle wrinkled her freckled nose and cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Your Grace. You must think me just another ill-mannered American.” She rested her gloved hand, the white cotton a stark contrast to the black superfine of his jacket, on his arm. Such dainty hands. How would they look wrapped around his shaft? The member in question twitched.
“I generally don’t judge people based on their origins.” He wanted to kick himself when she stiffened. He hadn’t meant for the comment to sound so gruff, but his completely inappropriate thoughts had surprised him. She was an innocent miss and not for the likes of him. His father’s harsh words once again echoed in his head.
“I must ask your forgiveness a second time, Your Grace.”
The clipped words stoked his anger. “Please stop with the ‘Your Grace.’ I extend the same privilege to you as I did to Lady Minerva. Gareth, if you please, or Grey, if you insist on some formality.”
Her hold on his arm tightened. No doubt she’d ask to return to Lady Minerva’s side. He sighed. This evening was not going as planned.
In town for Parliament, he only went out in Society because it was at gatherings like these where the deals were brokered. He’d come tonight with the intention of seeking Markham’s support on a piece of legislation, but he’d made his appearance too early. So, he was forced to bide his time. Why he hadn’t sought the billiard room instead of lingering in the ballroom was beyond him. Then he’d seen William’s obvious happiness at being wed and some small part of him had whispered a need for the same.
No matter that he’d long ago decided not to spread his tainted blood. If it weren’t for him, William would now be the Duke of Powis—not that the man who was his distant cousin thrice removed, or some such nonsense, cared one whit for titles. If they didn’t share a love of horseflesh and political reform, he doubted William would have given him two thoughts, and that would have been unfortunate, for he valued their friendship.
“Grey—” Annabelle loosened her grip. A small frown pursed her mouth. She nibbled at her lower lip, which plumped invitingly, as if she’d recently had them wrapped around his stirring cock.
His cravat was suddenly too tight. He did not need to be thinking of his friend’s sister—his own cousin, though thrice removed—in inviting terms, much less imagining her doing things only courtesans had ever performed on him!
She canted her head to the side. “Gareth.”
Warmth swirled in his chest. Surely that wasn’t satisfaction he felt at her use of his given name, at the way it whispered from her lips, low and inviting?
Snap out of it, man!
He wasn’t some love-stricken green boy, but a grown man of two and thirty years. And, it wasn’t as if she was a beauty, at least not by conventional standards. Her face was a little too long, her hair too brown, her skin too tanned.
She smiled, and he lost all ability to breath.
No, she wasn’t beautiful by conventional standards, but that smile, with those full lips, was seductive, alluring, and dared him to laugh with her. Over what, who knew, and who cared?
“Yes, I do believe I prefer Gareth.” Intimacy laced her voice, and her eyes twinkled, as if she had a secret to share.
He dipped his head closer, close enough to be teased by the fresh scent of spring.
“Gareth, I must confess I have no longing to sit the set out. Indeed I look forward to a turn around the dance floor with a man whose eyes aren’t even with my chin.”
He dropped his gaze. Any man that short would have a view of her bosom. The lace trim of her dress offered an imperfect shield. While she wasn’t well-endowed, the view was pleasant enough. Her breast would sit well in his palm. The tightness around his neck expanded, banded around his chest.
He sucked in a harsh breath. Not love-stricken, but lust-stricken. A visit to a courtesan was in order. He didn’t normally indulge in such behavior, but if he couldn’t refrain from wayward thoughts in public…
Forcing a light note to his voice, and his gaze back to her hazel ones—pale blue with flecks of golden brown, if one noted such details—he said, “It’s a very nice chin though.”
A husky laugh was his reward, and his punishment. That laugh was meant to be heard behind closed bedroom doors. Longing that had nothing to do with lust pierced his chest. He’d always thought of sex as a bodily function to be exercised and not an experience inviting laughter. But now this woman whom he’d just met, Annabelle, was inspiring the most unusual yearnings.
He shook his head. Damn! And double damn! Why had his body chosen now to turn traitor? The set began and for a brief moment he thought the steps would require his attention and provide a much-needed distraction. But no, their bodies were attuned to each other so well he had to give no thought to directing their movements. Would it be the same in the bedroom?
“How bold of Lady Markham to choose a waltz to open the ball.”
Annabelle’s voice was breathy, but the dance had just started. Surely, she wasn’t fatigued already? He redirected his study of the swirl of dancers to the steady rise and fall of her chest. Not fatigue then.
Mayhap the proximity of their bodies caused her breathlessness, for it was taking its toll on his ability to remember the woman in his arms was untouchable. With a tug, he could clasp her to his chest. A slight tilt of his head would allow him to claim her mouth. He’d never kissed a woman of near equal height.
He forced his gaze to hers. “Lady Markham is a bold woman.” The waltz was still considered scandalous by many, and most hostesses scheduled only one or two later in the evening.
The elegant arch of Annabelle’s brow, a shade or two darker brown than her hair, rose. “And do you prefer your women bold, Gareth?”
Surely she hadn’t meant to sound so…inviting, but his cock hardened instantly. “What a bold question, Miss Abbott, and a highly inappropriate one as well.”
A look—disappointment, perhaps?—flashed across her face. Did she think him a rake, a man who let lust rule his body? And, if so, what did she have in mind? His shaft pulsed with a purpose for her—her delectable lips enveloping, her tongue licking.
He cleared his throat. She wasn’t the only one with inappropriate thoughts. “I don’t keep women, but when I am of the mood to share the company of a woman, I prefer she not be some milk-and-water miss. Indeed, like my mares, I require some spirit in the ladies of my acquaintance.”
Not that he had ladies of his acquaintance, at least none of note before William had introduced his wife and sister. The thought was like a splash of cold water—it took the edge off his desire, but didn’t douse it completely.
Annabelle’s sparkling gaze whipped to his. “Do you have a large stable then? Filled with spirited mares? And what about geldings and stallions?”
Ah, here was a safe topic at least. He vaguely recalled William mentioning his sister’s interest in horses. “Unfortunately my stable is nowhere near the size or quality of your brother’s. However, I am hoping to build it over time.” The man society knew as his father had left him naught but debt. Through hard work, he’d managed to pay off the bulk, but with nothing to spare toward improvements or luxuries.
“William just purchased a lovely mare from Minerva’s father for me. A bit of a bribe to get me to behave, I’m sure.” She laughed, but it sounded forced to his ears.
“And do you misbehave often?” His hands tightened, but he resisted the urge to tug her closer and encourage her to misbehave with him. He could well see why this dance was considered dangerous. It definitely tempted him to forget his manners—and her virtue. The scent of lilacs and sunshine beckoned him to bury his nose in her neck, lick the pulse beating beneath the fine skin and taste her flavor.
“On occasion…” She stared off in the distance while her voice trailed off on a sigh.
A yearning to erase the pensive air about her, coupled with the desire pounding through his veins, directed his steps toward the open doors leading to the terrace. The cool evening air brushed his cheeks as he continued to twirl her about the empty terrace. It was too early in the evening for people to seek the solace of the outdoors.
“Whatever are we doing out of doors?” A small smile creased the corner of her eyes.
Satisfaction relaxed his shoulders. It had been so easy to distract her from whatever dark thoughts she’d had in the ballroom. How easy would it be to convince her to misbehave with him? He inched her closer. He dropped his head so his lips teased her hair. “Giving you occasion to misbehave.”
She stiffened and returned to the proper distance dictated by the dance. A wrinkle creased her forehead. “I fear we should return to the ballroom—”
“I’m sorry if I presumed.” Why had he assumed she returned his attraction? He halted their steps.
She squeezed the hand that still held hers. “It is I who should be sorry—”
Female voices carried on the night air. When had the music stopped? Duty warred with need, the need to hear Annabelle’s explanation, to spend another moment in her company. But duty dictated he return her to Lady Minerva’s side, and all his life he’d done his duty.
For once, he’d do something just for him. He spun Annabelle into the shadows of the farthest edges of the veranda, which wrapped slightly around the corner of the house and afforded a cozy corner for heartfelt explanations and illicit behavior.
“Can you believe she dared to attend? If not for her brother’s money and Lady Minerva’s support, the Markhams would not have condoned it, I’m sure,” one voice said.