Page 32 of A Most Unlikely Lady
Edward followed Ivy’s gaze as she watched Lord Twining – a gentleman cresting his fifth decade and a highly respected member of the House of Lords – lead his wife and another lady to a chaise large enough for three. She turned quickly away.
‘Are they not worried about their reputations?’ she asked, her eyes firmly fixed on the couples swirling across the dance floor in what might be considered a scandalous waltz for any other event but now seemed quite tame.
‘Who would point fingers at them in this crowd?’ Edward looked around him at the sea of titled peers engaging in all manner of wickedness. ‘The widow has strict rules about her balls. What happens here stays here.’
Ivy swallowed. ‘I see.’ But based on her wide, blinking eyes, Edward wasn’t sure she did see exactly how corrupt the highest echelons of society could be when they were granted the safety of shared secrets. ‘What on earth could he possibly be doing with two women? And why would they so eagerly join him?’ She glanced at the French doors, squinting into the darkness beyond before pulling her attention back to the couples swirling to a talented pianist playing Strauss. A stringed quartet accompanied her.
Something cracked in Edward’s mind as he tried to come up with a suitable answer. How did he explain to an innocent woman all the ways one could find pleasure with a willing partner, or partners in the case of Lord Twining?
Thankfully, she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Perhaps we should take a turn around the dance floor?’ Ivy suggested.
Edward was never more relieved to dance. He held his arms out in a practised frame. When Ivy hesitantly placed her hand on his shoulder and he slid his fingers around her waist, something shifted into place within him. Like a dovetail joint fitting perfectly into its carved partner. They locked together seamlessly.
Ivy inhaled a sharp breath as Edward closed his hand over hers and swept her into the stream of flowing couples on the dance floor.
The crush was too close to allow much space between them. He flexed his fingers against her waist, shifting her closer as they flew through the intricate steps.
‘I haven’t danced a waltz in years,’ Ivy breathed.
Any response died on his lips as the couple to his right bumped into them, pressing Ivy flush against him. He tightened his grip to steady her, crushing her against his chest. It was impossible to ignore her shape and how sweetly she fit within his arms. Need filled him, hardening his body in ways she would not be able to ignore given their unintended embrace.
Ivy froze against him.
‘Forgive me.’ Edward cursed his body for betraying him. He leaned back to gauge her expression. Her eyes were wide, the pupils almost encompassing the crystal blue. Her breaths came in short gasps, and she licked her lips even as she stared at his mouth. ‘Lady Ivy, are you well?’
‘Air. I need air.’
Gripping her hand, he fought through the crowd until they reached the French doors. He sought out a deserted corner against the balustrade. She placed both hands on the concrete half-wall as he placed himself at her back, blocking her from view of any curious eyes. A need to touch her, to comfort, overwhelmed him. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as she took large gulps of summer night air.
‘Damn corset,’ Ivy rasped, refusing to look at him. But neither did she ask him to step away.
‘Shall I remove it for you?’ He fought for levity in a moment fraught with an undefinable tension.
Her laugh was closer to a gasp as she pressed against the bodice of her gown, no doubt seeking more space. Edward cursed fashionable society for deeming such restrictive clothing necessary for women to wear. For several endless seconds, they stood that way, Ivy struggling for breath and Edward helpless to assist. Eventually, her breathing slowed.
She straightened, forcing his hand to slip away as she turned to face him. ‘I am better now. I think it was just the heat and the crowd.’
Clenching his fist at his side, he tried to hold on to the sensation of silken skin against his callused fingers. When he would have stepped back, her gaze once more caught on his mouth. She pressed her lips together as if testing the sensation of pressure. As if wondering what it might feel like to have him exert similar pressure there.
God, woman. You make me ache.
‘Lady Ivy, when you look at me like that, I find it difficult not to wonder what you’re thinking.’ His voice was a dark growl in the night.
The crimson stain he now knew extended along her clavicles and between the fascinating cleft of her small breasts darkened at his words. She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again.
‘Do they frighten you? Whatever thoughts you have trapped in your mind?’ Because he would rather suffer the fires of hell than scare Ivy.
‘I don’t know.’
* * *
Ivy was dizzy. Probably from lack of oxygen as her cursed dress seemed determined to crush her lungs. Or, mayhap, it was spinning on the dance floor in Edward’s strong arms.
Worthington. Not Edward.
Possibly it was the shocking image of so many lords and ladies embracing both on and off the dance floor. She looked over Edward’s –Worthington’s– shoulder, and even in the moonlight, she could see a couple pressed against the stucco wall, just on the other side of the balcony. The man’s back was to Ivy, but the woman’s expression was highlighted in the flickering torchlight. He pressed kisses against her neck. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open in ecstasy as she gripped his hair, guiding him lower. One of his large hands dipped into the woman’s neckline, and she gasped. Not in pain or revulsion, but in pleasure.
Ivy ripped her gaze away to refocus on Edward. His bottom lip was fuller than the top. How would it feel if he pressed his mouth against her neck?
