Page 34 of To Dare the Devil

“My lord, is it that time already?”

“Already?” he repeated with a smile. “It seemed an eternity to me. Shall we?”

He offered his arm to her, and Kathy took it, glancing at Rosamund, who was waggling her eyebrows at her in encouragement. Oh, dear. What on earth had possessed her to offer him a dance? And the supper waltz, no less, she wailed inwardly. He’d have to take her into dinner. They’d have to sit together throughout the meal. She’d have to talk to him. Kathy was increasingly aware that talking to Lord Vane was a dangerous exercise. It made her want to like him, like him even more than she already did. Worse than that, it made her want to trust him, and that was very bad. Very. Bad. She sounded the words out in her head in capital letters and then spelled them for good measure.

“Bad, bad, bad,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry?”

Good heavens, had she said that out loud? She was losing her mind.

“Nothing!” she said brightly. “I was just wondering what was for dinner. I’m famished.”

“You’re not going to faint from hunger, are you?” he asked, eyeing her with concern.

“I’ve never fainted in my life!” she retorted, a little indignant.

He grinned then, and Kathy tried to bury the giddy sensation that erupted in her belly. The jig her insides were performing was becoming increasingly energetic. And then he took her in his arms for the waltz, and any remaining good sense flew out the window. It felt like flying. A magical sensation, all fizzing excitement and something joyous like champagne bubbles was rushing through her veins. This was why dancing with friends and relatives was not the same thing at all, she realised. She closed her eyes and told herself not to be foolish. It was just a dance, and he was just a man, a beautiful but flawed, unhappy man who had lived selfishly for most of his life. He might return to his old ways at any time, no matter how he appeared now. A leopard didn’t change his spots, as Hart had counselled her. Being good was likely dull, after living such an indulgent and exciting life as he had… and yet….

And yet, the way he’d looked when she’d suggested he would have offered her the same insult and asked to make her his mistress. All the colour had drained from his face, and she’d wondered if he might be ill. He’d been truly distressed. Surely that could not be feigned? That had to be genuine, did it not? Even so, she’d be foolish to trust him, especially as she was so susceptible to him, and he could have no interest in her past a dalliance. He was an earl, for heaven's sake, and if he ever married, it would be to one of his own kind. No. She needed to keep this professional. He was her employer, nothing more.

She made the mistake of glancing up at him. He was watching her, a soft look in his eyes that made her heart flutter. Kathy looked away, taking a deep breath, but that didn’t help either, as the intoxicating scent of him wrapped about her. She could smell sandalwood and something woodsy and warm, spicy like cloves. She could smell him, indefinable but unmistakably masculine. To her alarm she realised too late she had leaned in, chasing the scent of his skin, the intimate musky scent of a man that made her want to do something appallingly rash.

His eyes darkened, his hold on her tightening imperceptibly and her breath caught. She tore her gaze away, trying to put more distance between them, though every instinct demanded she get closer. Madness, she told herself firmly. This was why he’d been the man he was, because he was to a woman like catnip to a feline. He was dangerous, whether or not he was reformed. She wanted him to act badly, and was horribly tempted to encourage him to do so.

“Miss de Beauvoir?”

“Yes?” she said, too aware her voice was an octave higher than usual. Stop it. Stop it this instant, she scolded herself.

“You dance beautifully.”

“Thank you. So do you,” she replied at once, polite small talk a safe retreat.

It was true, though, and she did not wish for the dance to end with the same fervent desire she wished it had never begun. His powerful body was too close, the heat of him seeping into her bones and stealing what remained of good sense. He made her weak, and she hated that, hated him for his ability to do it. She was better than this, and she had things to do. Being another of his conquests was not something she would wish to be remembered for. Her life had more value than that, and she meant to achieve something worthwhile. She had sworn to make a difference, to help those who had not been given the remarkable chance that she and her brother had. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had given her any reason to believe he was pursuing her. He’d been a perfect gentleman, and she did him a disservice by imagining he felt the same mind-numbing attraction that was provoking such a ridiculous riot of conflicting emotions in her breast.

She let out a ragged sigh of relief when the dance finally ended, wishing she could go home instead of taking his arm, but there was supper to sit through now. An endless supply of lavish dishes and meaningless chatter to endure, and his company too. Lord Vane at her side, being charming and funny and making her want to like him. Making her want him.

“I don’t feel very well.” The words were out before she could think better of it. She looked up at him and felt certain he knew she was lying. Too late now. “I… I don’t think I could face eating anything.”

She sensed rather than felt the way his body grew taut, the way he withdrew, shutting himself off.

“I am so sorry to hear that,” he said.

There was a politely distant expression on his face now; she knew she had hurt him. He knew she was making excuses to be out of his company, and a large part of her wanted to explain that it wasn’t for the reasons he believed, but self-preservation came first. There would be time enough for encouraging him on his path to redemption, for letting him know she admired him for it. But the ugly truth was she did not entirely trust him. Worse, she did not trust herself to be around him.

“Allow me to escort you to your mother,” he said, deftly threading his way through the crowd.

She followed him blindly, too aware of the rigidity in the muscular arm beneath her hand. The memory of his distress earlier that evening returned to her, the misery she’d seen in his eyes, and she wanted to cry with frustration for having made him unhappy again. Suddenly, the lie was no lie at all, for she felt ill, and her head was pounding.

“Kathleen?” Mama asked, her sharp gaze moving between Kathy and Lord Vane.

“It’s nothing, Mama. Just rather a headache. I think I should like to go home.”

Mama slipped an arm about her waist as Lord Vane took a step back. “I do hope you feel better soon, Miss de Beauvoir. Thank you kindly for the dance. Good evening to you.”

Kathy nodded and opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he had turned and walked away.

Chapter 11