Forever Your Earl (23 page)

“Don't count the sultan out. His form was good.”

And Daniel's form was exquisite. His gaze flicked down to her mouth. She wanted to raise herself up on her toes, put her mouth to his. Yet something within her craved drawing the moment out longer. Waiting for the release.

Instead, she said, “Won't the host mind if his pool cues are destroyed?”

He finally stepped back, and she instantly missed the sensation of his body against hers.

They continued walking through the maze of hallways. “He encourages it at these gatherings,” Daniel answered. “He believes no act of creation can come without some destruction.”

“He must read William Blake.”

“Blake, Byron, and, of course, the Lady of Dubious Quality.”

Ah yes, the infamous Lady, penning her anonymous erotic tales. Her identity was entirely secret to everyone but her publisher, and he wasn't about to kill his golden goose by revealing who she was. But it remained one of England's biggest mysteries. Eleanor had to admire the Lady for her audacity and bravery. And, it had to be stated, the unknown woman had a way with a pornographic scene.

They found the gaming room, where guests wagered sums just as outrageous as those at Donnegan's. Eleanor and Daniel sat in for a few hands of
vingt-­et-­un
. As they played, she allowed herself another kind of play. Touching him on his arm, or running her fingers along his jaw to congratulate him on a particularly good hand of cards. He, in turn, cradled her palm against his, or toyed with her curls. Each small touch, every brush of flesh against flesh, her excitement built higher and higher.

Yet she wanted more than this.

After winning several rounds, they moved on from the gambling. In a great hall with vaulted ceilings, two gentlemen were climbing priceless tapestries, with ­people cheering them on.

Truly, she'd never witnessed such wild behavior.

“Give someone a mask,” she said under her breath, watching the scene.

“It's time for you to stop watching,” he said, drawing her away and back toward the ballroom, “and start doing.”

Everything that had happened in the past few weeks, and that very night, coiled within her. The two of them seemed capable of anything now. “What did you have in mind?” She all but panted her words.

He stepped back into the ballroom. The unmistakable sounds of a waltz were starting up, and ­couples were taking their places on the dance floor. Though the dance itself had lost some of its forbidden flavor—­they danced it at Almack's, after all—­the ­couples here were standing even closer than propriety dictated, allowing their bodies to actually touch, rather than keeping a respectable distance between them.

His fingers threaded with hers, sending electricity spiraling through her. With an enigmatic smile, his hand in hers, Daniel gently pulled her onto the dance floor. As if leading her to bed.

“Can you waltz?” he asked with heat and intimacy, as though asking if she was a virgin.

“I can,” she answered. A candid admission of her own carnal wisdom. His jaw tightened.

They took their positions. His hand at her waist, hers on his shoulder, their other hands clasped. His body snug against hers. As they'd been in the hallway. Only this time, they were in full view of dozens of other ­people.

A new thrill pulsed through her. Experienced, she might be, but not in
this
way. They were making bold and overt statements to themselves, and to everyone, about what they wanted from each other.

The music began, and they started to move.

He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “You're now part of the story.”

 

Chapter 16

There is no more metaphorical activity than dancing.

The Hawk's Eye,
May 15, 1816

S
he ought to have known. Should have expected it. Logically, a man who could control the reins of a racing phaeton and who moved with Daniel's fluid, masculine grace would also be a marvelous dancer. He'd likely had a dancing master, too, as men of his rank usually did. As he'd taken her hand and led her onto the floor, she'd readied herself, knowing that what she was about to experience would be enjoyable. She'd waltzed a few times with other men before—­enjoyed the teasing rhythm, the giddy spin, the press of a man's hand at her waist—­and nearly all of those times had been rather pleasant.

But as the first notes twirled around the ballroom, and Daniel began to move her in the steps of the waltz,
rather pleasant
seemed a terrific understatement.

There were no other words for it: he was seducing her. Each turn, each sway, and she felt the resonance of their bodies together. His hand at her waist was an exquisite burn, despite the fabric between them, and his fingers enfolding hers were long, eloquent. Beguiling. How else might he touch her, and where? She ached to know.

Eleanor risked a glance up at him. His gaze smoldered as he watched her, as if she were the only creature in existence. The only thing worth seeing. Though she felt more than a mere
thing
to him. She was, at that moment,
everything
.

“You oughtn't look at me like that,” she murmured as they danced, the room spinning around them.

“Like what?” His voice was silken.

“Like you're imagining me in just my underclothes.”

“I'm imagining you in far less.”

Heat spread through her, centering in her breasts and between her legs. She'd never been this aroused in a public place before. It was shocking. Thrilling.

“You have a good imagination,” he continued, turning her in the dance. “I'm sure you've pictured me without my clothing. I hope you
have
thought of me naked.”

The word
naked
sent another bolt of electricity through her. It was such a, well,
bare
word, free of pretense.

“Rather conceited of you to assume that,” she managed to sniff.

“I live and breathe conceit,” he said with a half smile. “As I'm sure you've noticed, with me being a toff, et cetera.”

“There's a goodly amount in that ‘
et cetera,
' ” she said.

“We've become more than our social ranking to each other,” he said, more serious. His hand tightened at the curve of her waist.

“You're not so much
that lofty earl
to me anymore,” she confessed.

“And it's been a very long time since I've thought of you as
that female writer
. You're Eleanor.”

She nearly stumbled to hear him murmur her name as if it was the first word of a seduction.

“And you're Daniel,” she returned, allowing herself the boldness and intimacy of his name, here, in the middle of this masked dance. She alone knew him, who he really was.

“Confess then—­you have thought of me naked,” he pressed as he continued to move her expertly across the floor. It wasn't a question.

She couldn't deny it. Many an hour had been lost in contemplation of what sunlight must look like on the muscles of his shoulders, or tracing the contours of his abdomen. Would he have a bit of a belly, as men often did, or would his stomach be flat and hard? She could feel him now through her dress. No belly. Not a bit of fat on him at all. He was all lean muscularity. Everywhere.

And it was impossible to picture his abdomen without her mental gaze trailing lower . . . picturing that particular part of him. The part she felt against her now, cradled against her stomach. Thick and curved and very interested in her.

“I'm a writer,” she replied, trying to concentrate on keeping her footing. “I can't help where my thoughts take me.” She needed some balance, so she said casually, “I might wonder what any number of ­people might look like naked.”

“But it's
me
you picture, just as I picture you.”

She couldn't tear her gaze from his. Her heart beat thickly, and her mouth dried.

They continued to turn and turn, but the lightness in her head didn't arise from the dance steps. He managed to pull her closer, their bodies locked tightly as they continued to sway.

“I . . .” Echoes of Maggie's warnings resounded.
He's dangerous
.
His kind are never good for women like me
.
Be careful
.

Yet she couldn't. Stopping this now was as impossible as keeping a boat from plunging over a waterfall. There would be a fall, a glorious, freeing drop. But what lay at the bottom? Clear water, or rocks upon which she'd be dashed.

If she continued this dance, let it move on to its logical progression, what would become of her? She could all too easily see herself becoming utterly beguiled by him, consumed by him. Losing herself entirely. Because she knew, she
knew,
that they would be magnificent together, and her body would crave him desperately once she had a taste.

“I need a moment.” She broke away from him and hurried from the dance floor, searching out the retiring room. All she wanted was a minute apart from him, some time to collect herself. Things were moving too quickly, slipping from her control, and she sought some fragment of sanity.

Eleanor moved down a dimly lit corridor. She'd seen other women passing in this direction, so surely the retiring room had to be set up somewhere around here. The music quieted as she moved away from the ballroom, passing a few women returning there.

Masculine footsteps sounded behind her. Daniel. Following her.

“A few minutes alone,” she threw over her shoulder.

The voice that spoke wasn't Daniel's. “But then you might get away.”

She spun around as a hand closed around her forearm. A tall man dressed as an Indian prince loomed over her.

“Remove your hand,” she said icily.

“Again, I fear you'll slip away,” the stranger answered. His grin must have been intended to be flirtatious, but it only seemed lascivious.

“And I repeat myself.” Anger roared through her as she spoke between her teeth. “Your attention is unwanted. Let go of me. Now.”

The stranger tugged her closer, the scent of wine strong on his breath and in his clothes. “Come now, pretty blue star. I saw you dancing with that courtier. Don't play at being shy.”

“Does this strike you as shy?” She kicked him. She missed his groin but landed a solid blow on his upper thigh.

He staggered in pain, releasing her abruptly. She stumbled back, then straightened when a dark, menacing shape appeared behind her would-­be assailant. Someone grabbed her aggressor by the throat, clutching him so tightly the man made desperate choking sounds.

“What the lady started,” the newcomer said, his voice hard with fury, “I'll finish.”

Daniel.

Her assailant gasped, “She was asking for—­”

“They never do,” Daniel growled. He cocked back his fist, then threw it into the man's face.

The stranger went limp in Daniel's grasp. Daniel released him, and the man slumped to the floor.

For a moment, the only sounds that could be heard in the corridor were faint notes of music, and Daniel and Eleanor's heavy breathing. They both stared down at the prone form of her erstwhile attacker.

“What'll we do with him?” she asked.

Daniel glanced around, then nodded toward a closed door. “Stash him in there. Grab his feet.”

After opening the door, revealing a small drawing room, Eleanor picked up the stranger's feet while Daniel held him beneath his arms. Together, they hefted the unconscious man and carried him into the unused chamber.

Instead of carefully setting the man on the settee, in silent agreement she and Daniel simply dropped him to the ground. He made a satisfying thud as he landed. It didn't stop the shaking in her hands, however.

“Too bad the room is fully carpeted,” she muttered, glaring at him. “What are you doing?”

Daniel searched through the drawers of a desk, until he produced a quill and an ink pot. He walked them over to where the man sprawled. “Hold this.” He put the pot of ink into Eleanor's hand.

She watched, baffled at first, and then with growing satisfaction, as Daniel dipped the quill's nib into the ink and began to write on her assailant's forehead.

I attack helpless women,
Daniel wrote.

Anger and fear continued to reverberate through her in hot echoes. Struggling against giving her assailant that power over her, she turned to flippancy as a shield against him. “I object to the term
helpless
.”

Daniel glanced up at her, as if assessing her mood. He matched her lightness with his own, though there was still a hard edge to his voice. “Give me some artistic license.”

They both stepped back and looked at her attacker. It would take some time for the ink to wash off the stranger's skin. She knew very well the permanence of ink stains on flesh. While she might wish more harm on the bastard, her assailant would feel the repercussions of his actions for quite a while.

She turned to Daniel. He'd come to her—­defended her. How many other men had done the same? Exactly none. She was a modern woman, independent and self-­sufficient. She didn't want to be captivated by displays of old-­fashioned gallantry. And yet she couldn't stop herself. He'd protected her.

“Do you still need some time alone?” he asked her, his voice gentle with concern. “I can take you somewhere else. Somewhere safe.”

“Air, please,” she said.

Daniel offered her his arm, which she took. He was steady and solid beneath her, settling her frayed nerves.

As they departed the chamber, they left the door open so anyone might find the insensate man in his humiliating position.

They skirted around the edges of the ballroom, dodging more ­couples in more heated embraces. Finally, they reached tall French doors that opened onto a long, wide balcony. The terrace overlooked a shadow-­strewn garden, which doubtless concealed more ­couples.

The balcony itself was almost entirely unoccupied, save for one man and one woman, standing close to one another and murmuring in the universal language of flirtation.

Daniel guided Eleanor away from the light, toward the darker recesses of the terrace. Reaching the farthest edge of the balcony, they stopped, and she released her hold on him. She braced her hands on the stone railing and inhaled the night air deeply. Though it was May, the evening was a cool one, but the chill felt good, soothing in its way, as her anger and horror at her close call slowly ebbed away.

Closing her eyes as she tilted up her head, she recalled the fury on Daniel's face as he efficiently dispatched her assailant. It was a thoroughly uncivilized thing for him to have done, especially as she'd already freed herself from the stranger's clutches, but blast her if Daniel punching that blighter didn't give her a primitive thrill.

His solid warmth engulfed her as he stood behind her, his arms stretched out as his hands rested beside hers.

“I wanted to kill him.” The rumble of his words vibrated through her.

“Me, too, but he's not worth hanging for.” She opened her eyes and stared out at the dark shapes of the hedges and trees. Someone out in the shadows giggled.

“But you're worth killing for,” he said.

She continued to stare out into the night, but his words reverberated through her stronger than a cannon's boom. What could she say to this? If no one had ever protected her before, of a certain no one had ever said they would kill for her.

My God. How can I resist him?

Here, in the darkness, with danger having passed just moments ago, she was incapable of pretending. Layers and walls fell away, a lifetime of self-­protection drifting off into the night like mist. She could only speak the truth of herself now.

“You set me adrift,” she confessed.

“And you anchor me,” he answered.

“I'm . . .” She struggled against giving voice to secrets she dared not admit even to herself. “ . . . I'm afraid.”

“Of me?” He sounded incredulous.

“Of myself. Of us.”

For a long while, he was silent. Had she repulsed him with her honesty?

Then—­“It's an unknown territory for both of us. Neither has the advantage.”

“And now?”

“Now . . .” He leaned closer, close but not threatening. “Now we explore it together.”

“What if I don't want to?” she felt compelled to ask.

He stepped away instantly, and her body cried out in complaint. As did the rest of her. “Then we stop. It's your decision.”

She drew in a breath. Let it out slowly. Here was the turning point. She could walk away before any real damage was done.

But she couldn't. Every part of her hungered for him.

“My decision . . .” She took another breath. The world was changing, and she was the agent of that metamorphosis. “Is
yes
.”

There was half a moment when everything was still, silent. Then he stepped close again, his body bracketing hers, pressed all along her back. Something within her shattered into bright pieces.

His lips trailed down her neck.

Fire coursed through her. “This has always been a losing battle, hasn't it?”

“Losing means winning.” His hands slid up her arms, tracing lacework of flame wherever he touched, until he reached her shoulders. He turned her around. Cupped her head with his broad hands. And brought his mouth down on to hers.

It seemed like forever since last they'd kissed. It seemed like moments ago. But time meant nothing when his lips caressed hers, silken and deliciously assertive. Almost at once, she opened for him, her tongue stroking against his. His rich flavor filled her. She pressed her hands to his chest, feeling the hard pound of his heart beneath her palms. Her fingers curled, clutching at him, as the kiss went deeper. The rail of the balcony pressed into her back, but she didn't care. She only reveled in the taste of him, the feel of him.