Page 33 of The Heiress's Daughter
“I promised you I’d be more serious with you, did I not?”
“Yes, but…I don’t know whether to believe you.”
“Why not?”
She pressed her lips together, and after a few more twirls, said, “It’s your eyes.”
“My eyes? What about them?”
“They’re always laughing.”
“Not laughing, dancing,” he corrected her.
She said nothing, but her expression was skeptical.
“Talking to you makes my eyes want to dance,” he explained.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“No, I’m entirely serious.”
She blinked, her blush intensified and she looked away. “Please don’t tease me,” she said in a low voice, and he realized she was heading into anemone territory.
He changed the subject. “Have you heard from your sister yet?”
She relaxed slightly. “No, but it’s early days yet. She has better things to do than write.” She became aware of whatshe’d said, and the blush returned. It was adorable. He changed the subject again.
“So, will you be going maid-hunting tomorrow?”
“No, I’ve had to put it off. Mr. Clayborn is taking me for a drive tomorrow afternoon.”
“Clayborn? That—” He broke off.
“He’s a very fine gentleman,” she said with a faint note of reproof. “And a war hero.”
Race wanted to curse. You couldn’t argue with wounded war heroes, no matter how annoying they were.
He spent the rest of the waltz trying to regain his lost ground. There was no flirting, nothing the slightest bit suggestive; he kept his conversation light, entertaining—he hoped—and innocuous.
But to no avail. She didn’t soften toward him again. She wasn’t rude, or even cold, but for all the warmth she showed him, she might have been dancing with an octogenarian. Or a perfect stranger. In fact, he decided, she would probably be warmer toward an octogenarian. She was kind like that.
Still, over supper they could talk properly and he could straighten out whatever this little misunderstanding was.
Waltzing in Lord Randall’s arms was…exhilarating. And exhausting—and not in the physical sense.
He swept her around the floor, holding her with the lightest touch, not the slightest bit too close, or the least bit improper. Even so she could feel the heat of his tall, lean body, his power implicit in the way he led her through the dance.
They both wore gloves, but all that light barrier did was make her wonder what it would be like to have his bare hand on her, skin to skin.
She liked dancing, and she and her sister had practiced the waltz assiduously in preparation for that longed-for first time at Almack’s, and since then she’d danced it several times with various partners. But none of those partners hadmade her feel as light, as graceful, almost fairylike as she felt with Lord Randall.
In the first few minutes she’d asked herself whether she’d made a mistake, accepting his invitation to dance.
Because the waltz, in his arms, was pure seduction.
But she’d crushed her doubts and reminded herself that she was here to enjoy herself, that she was in no danger of losing her heart—her head was stronger than her heart—and that he was a rake for a reason—he made women feel good. More than good.
And it was true: she felt wonderful. And she was determined to let herself relax and enjoy it.
