Page 26 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
She stood, her mouth open.
“I don’t care who sees us, Mary. I want you. In my arms. To dance. To kiss on the wrist and on your pretty lips. I want you. Tonight on the floor. Dance. With me.”
Her lips pursed as if she coveted his proposition. “You make it sound so—”
“Scandalous?” He arched a brow.
A wide smile graced her lovely face. “Delicious.”
Victory! “Good then. Done. Now leave here. Quickly, lest I scoop you up in front of all these curious people and carry you off.”
The lazy sweep of her eyes over his features had him thinking she might agree to let him do that, too.
“One more thing,” he held her back before she left him, stiff and throbbing with need of her.
“Anything.”
“Hmmm. May you always say that.”
“To what?” she asked, part imp, part wayward angel.
“Do not come near me in the village.”
“No?” She swayed closer as if he mesmerized her. That he had that ability filled him with pride. “Not to dance round the pole and wish each other good harvests?”
“No dances round any pole, Mary. Our harvests together will always be bountiful.”
Her lively blue eyes went limpid. “Blake, you are a devil.”
“Go,” he said, a glance at others in the room who took notice of their conversation. “Tonight is ours.”
* * *
He waited a good five minutes before he turned to leave. Just as he would have gone, Millicent Weaver strolled into the salon.
“Good morning, Miss Weaver.” He’d had a few minutes of conversation with her last night during dinner. But he’d wished for more privacy than the table allowed. This was the finest opportunity to speak about a topic that was dear to him.
She had a book under her arm, her reading spectacles in her hand. “Good morning, Captain. Or should I now address you as Lord Bridges?”
“In truth, my status is not confirmed. I may leave the service, but have no firm idea yet of my future. Bridges will do, Miss Weaver.” He extended a hand toward two chairs. “May we sit and talk?”
“Yes, of course.” She was a willow in form, tall and lithe. Her hair, the color of gold with bold sun-bleached streaks around her heart-shaped face. He could see how his friend Langdon would be drawn to her beauty. From what he’d said of her, she had a shy demureness to her character as well. Save for the last unwise business which had torn them apart.
“I understand this is your second time here at the Frolic.”
“Oh?” She looked curious as to who might have told him that, but she did not ask. “No. Really, it is my third. My last visit was in May of ‘fourteen.”
The opening he’d hoped for. “Might I assume you are then the same Miss Weaver who met a friend of mine here that year?”
Suspicion clouded her hazel eyes. “Who is that, my lord?”
“The Earl of Langdon.”
She sucked in a breath. “Yes, I know him.”
“He spoke of you with high regard.”
“Did he?” she asked, but clearly did not believe him.
