Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“If you drift off course by only one navigational degree,” he said, “then by the time you’ve gone a hundred yards, you’d be off by about five feet. In a mile, you’d have strayed approximately ninety-two feet away from your original trajectory. If you’d set out from London to Aberdeen, you’d probably find yourself in the middle of the North Sea.” Seeing her frown of incomprehension, he explained, “According to basic geometry, one kiss could change your life.”

Twisting away from him, Cassandra said irritably, “You may not know this, but talking about mathematics eliminates any possibility of being kissed in the first place.”

Mr. Severin grinned. “Yes, I know.” Rising to his feet, he extended a hand down to her. “Would you settle for a dance?” His tone was calm and friendly, conveying how unaffected he was by moonlight and romantic moments and impulsive young women.

Cassandra was sorely tempted to refuse him, to demonstrate how little she cared about anything he might offer. But a Strauss waltz was playing in the background, the melody buoyant and yearning, and it so perfectly echoed her own emotions that she felt it down to the marrow of her bones. Oh, how she wanted to dance with him. Even if she were willing to sacrifice her pride, though, there was still the matter of her ruinous shoes. She couldn’t put them on again.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m barefoot.”

“Why should that stop you?” A deliberate pause. “Ahh. I see. All those rules you like to follow—you’d be breaking too many of them at once. Alone with a man, no chaperone, no shoes—”

“It’s not that I like to follow the rules, but I have no choice. Besides, the temporary enjoyment wouldn’t be worth the risk.”

“How do you know, when you’ve never danced with me?”

An agitated laugh broke from her. “No one’s that good a dancer.”

He stared at her, his hand still extended. “Try me.”

The laughter dissolved in her throat.

Her insides were in a tumult, like birds darting and crisscrossing in flight. She reached out with a tremor in her fingers, and he pulled her up firmly. He caught her in a waltz hold, his right hand pressed to the center of her back. Automatically her left hand settled on his shoulder, her arm resting gently along his. He held her more closely than she was accustomed, their hips slightly offset, so his first forward step would slide precisely between her feet.

As he moved forward, the pressure at her back eased, and he steered her into the first turn. He was very good at this, his body a perfectly supportive frame, his signals so explicit she could follow without effort. It also helped that the shoulders of his coat weren’t padded, as so many gentlemen’s were, so she could feel the flex of muscle at the beginning of each rotation.

It was exciting and slightly embarrassing to feel the floor with her naked toes as he swept her into one luxurious full turn after another. Of course, the sensation of dancing with bare feet wasn’t entirely new: She’d waltzed alone in her bedroom more than once, imagining herself in the arms of some unknown suitor. But it felt very different when her partner was a flesh-and-blood man. She relaxed and abandoned herself, following his guidance without effort or thought.

Although they’d started slowly, Mr. Severin had quickened their tempo to match the music. The waltz was flowing and swift, each turn making her skirts whirl in eddies of silk and glitter. It was like flying. Her stomach turned light, as if she were on a garden swing, soaring a little too high and coming down in a giddy arc. She hadn’t felt so free since she’d been a young girl, running recklessly across the Hampshire Downs with her twin. The world was nothing but moonlight and music as the two of them swept through the empty conservatory with the ease of mist carried on a sea breeze.

She had no idea how much time had passed before she was panting from exertion, her muscles stinging with the need for respite. Mr. Severin began to slow their pace.

She protested, clinging to him, reluctant for the spell to break. “No, don’t.”

“You’re tiring,” he pointed out, sounding amused.

“I want to keep dancing,” she insisted, even as she staggered.

Mr. Severin caught her with a low laugh, holding her securely. Unlike her, he was barely affected by the exercise. “Let’s wait until you catch your breath.”

“Don’t stop,” Cassandra commanded, tugging at the front of his coat.

“No one gives me orders,” he murmured, but his tone was teasing, and his touch was gentle as he smoothed back a disheveled curl that dangled over one of her eyes.

Laughing breathlessly, she managed to tell him, “You’re supposed to say, ‘Your wish is my command.’”

“What is your command?”

“Dance with me, and never stop.”

Mr. Severin made no reply, his gaze riveted on her flushed face. He was still holding her, fast and close, in what had undeniably become an embrace. Even with the clouds of silk and chiffon skirts between them, she felt the hard strength of him all along her, the steely support of his arm. This was something she had never known but had always craved . . . to be enfolded, anchored, wanted . . . exactly like this. The sense of lightness left her, her limbs feeling loose and pleasantly weighted.

As Mr. Severin felt the yielding pliancy of her body, he took an unsettled breath. His intent gaze slid to her mouth. A new tension invaded the muscles of his arms and chest, as if he were struggling with an impulse too powerful to resist.

Cassandra saw the moment he broke, when he wanted her too much for anything else to matter. His head lowered, his mouth finding hers, and she closed her eyes at the careful, enticing pressure. Gently his hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his mouth moving over hers with erotic lightness . . . moment after moment . . . breath after breath. Embered warmth spread inside her, as if her bloodstream had been filled with sparks.

A faint moan escaped her as his lips broke from hers, straying down to her throat. The shaven bristle of his cheek was an electrifying abrasion as he nuzzled into the soft skin. He worked his way down her neck, seeking the frantic throb of her pulse. His broad, hard palms slid up and down her bare arms, soothing gooseflesh, while his teeth closed gently against the tender muscle of her shoulder. The tip of his tongue touched her lightly, as if he were tasting something sweet.

Disoriented, robbed of equilibrium, she sank against him, her head tipping back against his supportive arm. His mouth returned to hers with full, warm pressure, coaxing her to open for him. She gasped at the stroke of his tongue, silky and intimate as he searched slowly, until a knot of pleasure formed at the pit of her belly.

He gripped her hard against him for a few searing seconds. “This is why we can’t be friends,” came his rough whisper. “I want this every time I see you. The taste of you . . . the feel of you in my arms. I can’t look at you without thinking of you as mine. The first time I saw you—” He broke off, his jaw hardening. “My God, I don’t want this. If I could, I’d crush it like a cinder beneath my boot.”

“What are you talking about?” Cassandra asked unsteadily.

“This . . . feeling .” He uttered the word as if it were a profanity. “I don’t know what it is. But you’re a weakness I can’t afford.”

Her lips felt too sensitive, a little swollen, as if from a light burn. “Mr. Severin, I—”

“Call me by my first name,” he interrupted, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Just once.” After a long hesitation, he added in a softer tone, “Please.”

They were both motionless except for the matched rhythms of their breathing.