Page 57 of To Pleasure a Prince
On the other hand, was even Marcus insane enough to force his way into Almack’s? Half-afraid to look, she turned toward the door, her heart pounding. Then her breath caught in her throat. Because the man who skirted the ballroom was not the Lord Draker she knew.
This man was a prince’s son, regal in manner and walk and appearance, especially appearance. He wore the latest fashions, and his unkempt, overly long hair had been cut and styled in waves that framed the stark contours of his now-shaved face.
Her pulse stammered into an erratic rhythm. He’d shaved off his beard, bought new clothes, and somehow, miraculously, attained entrance to Almack’s.
Was it for her? Because of what she’d told him? Or for some other reason she could not fathom? She was almost afraid to believe he’d done it for her—he’d disappointed her too bitterly before.
And yet…he’d shaved off his beard, just as she’d once asked him to do. That had to mean something.
Especially considering that the thick scar bisecting his right cheek was every bit as severe as he’d claimed. Oddly enough, it was perfectly straight, not the jagged scar she would have expected from a fall from a horse. It was long, too, stretching from the upper curve of his cheek right down to the edge of his chin. That he would have willingly exposed the scar he’d said was too unsightly for a lady made her heart race.
That wasn’t the only thing making her heart race. If not for the scar, he’d be blindingly handsome, especially when dressed in such fine clothes. His snow-white cravat had clearly been tied by an expert, and his coat of ebony silk fit him so exquisitely that only Beau Brummell’s tailor could have matched it.
And Lord, those knee breeches! She dragged in a breath. She’d guessed that he had fine legs, but it had been hard to be sure from his ill-fitting trousers. Now she knew she’d been right, for the well-wrought muscles in his thighs and calves were displayed to good effect in the requisite white breeches and stockings.
All of a sudden, she remembered how glorious it had felt to rub her secret place against those firm, amazing thighs…
Chastising herself for such outrageous thoughts, she jerked her gaze up, only to find Marcus staring right at her. While she gawked at him as shamelessly as the rest of the idiots around her.
Heat flooded her face. But before she could do more than smile at him, the music began, and she had to dance.
If you could call it that. It was difficult to pay attention to the steps when she burned with a hundred unanswered questions. How had he managed to get in? Why had he come?Was it for her?
Her gaze wandered to him more often than she liked. Now he was speaking to his sister and Simon. When her dance with Lord Peter was done, she saw him take Louisa to the floor while Regina herself was led there by some dull fellow with whom she’d forgotten she’d agreed to dance.
Two more tedious dances with tedious fellows followed while he partnered Cicely, of all people, then a widow notorious for her many lovers. Earlier, Regina had thought the woman interesting. Now she thought her far too pretty.
When the widow flirted and smiled and seemed to be enjoying his company, Regina chafed at the sight of it. The entrance of the Iversleys moments later completed her misery. So much for Marcus trusting her to chaperone. He’d only used that as a ruse to get her here, so she could witness his grand appearance.
So that was the way of it, was it? Marcus thought to come here and prove her wrong by looking devilishly handsome and lordly while he danced attendance on every doe-eyed female who batted her eyelashes in his direction?
Fine. Let him have his fun. She would not give him the satisfaction of showing that she cared. Because she didn’t. No, indeed. Not one jot.
She was so busy not caring that by the time the waltz came, she had no chance to compose herself before he appeared before her, over six feet of finely groomed, exquisitely dressed male. To her chagrin, she began to quiver with anticipation. Drat the man.
Her agitation increased when he gave her a courtly bow, and said, “If you are not otherwise engaged, may I have the honor of this dance?”
A courteously worded request—would wonders never cease? She could only manage a nod.
As they found a spot on the floor, her pulse beat a thunderous rhythm. She’d never danced with him, despite having allowed him the most outrageous liberties.
A delicious shiver swept down her spine as he faced her and took her gloved hand in his. With his other hand, he clasped her waist, keeping the several inches between them that propriety demanded. It was only when she dared to look into his face that she saw him gazing at her with anything but propriety.
Whatever starch was left in her spine drained away, and all her questions burst out of her mouth at once. “What…how did you…When did you…”
“Don’t tell me I’ve rendered La Belle Dame speechless at last.” A faint smile touched the lips that looked far more sensuous without a mustache shading them. “I hadn’t thought that possible.”
As heat leaped into her cheeks, she tipped up her chin. “I thought you’d turned yourself into a gentleman, but if you’re already resorting to insults—”
“Teasing, not insults.” His smile broadened. “You said you wanted me to behave like a gentleman; you didn’t say I had to be boring.”
As if he could ever be boring.
The music began, and he swept her into the waltz with the grace that comes of plenty of practice. Yet another astonishment. She could understand his being able to manage the country dances, but the waltz was recently come to England. Not even everyone at Almack’s had mastered it.
“How on earth did you learn to dance the waltz out at Castlemaine?” she asked, as he turned her expertly around the floor.
“Who do you think partnered Louisa in all her dancing lessons?” He frowned at the crowd around them. “Though I confess I’ve never had so little space to dance it in.”
