Page 35 of The Language of Love

Henry didn’t know what the other man was up to by stepping into the fray.

Why in the world should Avington give a toss whether Henry ended up facing young Bowman on Hampstead Heath in the morning?

***

The last time Annis had danced a waltz, it had been with Miles and they had been demonstrating the steps for a room full of giggling students.

This occasion was far, far different.

First, the room was crowded not with scrubby schoolgirls, but with the ton’s finest.

Second, Mr. Parker’s body was making her skin tingle, which had never happened with Miles.

His enormous hands were light on her person and his face was close enough that she could see his eyes were a complex constellation of greens and browns with an outer ring the color of melted butter.

His lips curled at the corners and Annis knew that she’d been staring—a bad habit of hers, according to her cousins and aunt. She dropped her gaze to her feet, frowning at the scuffed slippers peeping out from beneath her skirt.

They glided across the dancefloor in silence, his arms strong but gentle as they guided her.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Bowman?”

This close to his massive chest, his voice was a deep rumble. And he smelled delicious.

“What is that scent you are wearing?”

“Is that your way of saying you like the way I smell, Miss Bowman?”

She looked up into eyes that had lightened with amusement.

“You do smell good,” she admitted. “But I cannot place it.”

“It is oil extracted from bergamot oranges grown in the boot of Europe. A gentleman I knew in India discovered it complimented black tea.”

“Tea? How remarkable. I should like to taste it.”

He smiled down at her. “I believe that could be arranged.”

“Oh, dear—now you will think I was begging you for tea.”

He dexterously guided them around a very young man and his giggling dance partner. “I was thinking of the other ways in which you could taste it.”

At least that was what Annis thoughthe’d said. “I beg your pardon?”

“I ran into a relative of yours in the card room,” Mr. Parker said, ignoring her question.

Annis frowned, momentarily perplexed by the change in topics. “Oh. You mean my cousin Percy?”

“So that is his name.”

“Was he rude to you?”

“Now why would you ask that, I wonder?” One of his eyebrows quirked in a way that arrested her attention. He had such a powerful face—sharp, hard angles, yet his eyes could turn liquid when he was pleased or amused. His jaw was especially intriguing, like something chiseled from stone. She would like to touch his jaw, and his nose, too, which was big and arched and very regal. His lashes—dark brown with blond tips the same shade as the highlights in his sun-streaked hair—were as long, thick, and curly as those on her childhood pony, Pepper.

Pepper.

Annis frowned; she hadn’t thought about Pepper in years. What had happened to—

“Why do you look so sad, Miss Bowman?”