Rosemary Rogers - A Reckless Encounter

Colter left the alcove and reentered the ballroom. He hadn’t bothered correcting Katherine. Let her think what she would. He had no intention of explaining his true reasons for being here. He just wished he knew what to think of Celia St. Clair.

Was she a green-eyed little witch who had managed to wheedle her way into a society where she didn’t quite fit? Or were there darker secrets that lay beneath the facade of a guileless American? Was she involved in conspiracy and anarchy with James Carlisle? He was a rum one, and the reason for Colter’s brief voyage on the bucket known as the Liberty. Yet it didn’t seem likely that Celia St. Clair was a part of the conspiracy. What would she have to gain? She wasn’t English and had no vested interest.

Yet there had been deceit in those wide green eyes, a glint that promised hell to pay for the man so bold or foolish enough to try to peel away the layers of guile to get to the truth.

It should be easy enough to do. Yet it should have been easy enough to intimidate her.

But Celia St. Clair had not been intimidated, nor even interested. She had been—indifferent.

He saw her on the dance floor, where she stood out in an endless sea of females clad in pale muslin or silk or satin. She wasn’t the tallest woman there, nor even the most beautiful, but she was definitely intriguing.

She had accepted a dance with Reginald Harwood, the youngest son of a landed baron, and Colter watched as she performed the steps of the contredanse with fluid grace. The hem of her gown lifted around trim ankles as her feet moved across the floor, slippers glittering with golden threads that caught the light.

When Harwood returned her to Lady Leverton and bowed over her hand, Colter moved forward. It was time to get the obligatory dance out of the way, then he would leave.

As the musicians ensconced upon a dais at the far end of the ballroom began playing a waltz, he approached Lady Leverton and her charges, a colorful flock of silken birds still chattering like guinea hens when he reached them.

“Do you waltz, Miss St. Clair?” His question cut across their chatter like a knife. Instant silence ensued at the breach of etiquette in directing his request to her instead of her chaperone.

Slowly turning from her cousin to look at him, Celia made no reply for a long moment, but simply gazed at him as if she had never before seen him.

Lady Leverton spoke up in a bright chirp. “Miss St. Clair performs all dances beautifully, my lord.”

“Then I claim this waltz with her.”

Celia began, “Oh, but I believe that Lord Harwood is—”

“Is dancing with Miss Grantham at the moment. Shall we?” He put out his hand, a challenge in his eyes.

As he’d suspected she would, Miss St. Clair accepted his challenge and allowed him to take her arm and lead her onto the dance floor. She moved a bit stiffly in his arms, obviously uncomfortable, but kept a smile on her face as she gracefully followed his steps. The waltz allowed him to hold her hand and put his free hand on her back, though social protocol demanded that he not slide it any lower than her shoulder blades. The waltz was scandalous enough, but without drawing attention to them, there was little she could do if he did let his hand move lower.

Deliberately he slid it to the small of her back, fingers a light pressure against firm flesh instead of one of those damn corsets women had taken to wearing again. A bloody nuisance, in his opinion, and damned inconvenient to remove. Warm female flesh beneath thin silk instead of stiff whalebone was much more enticing.

He heard a quickly inhaled breath, felt a vibration of suppressed indignation quiver through her.

“Be so kind as to move your hand, my lord.”

“You don’t really want me to do that.”

“Yes, I do!”

He pressed it even lower and she took a jerky step away from him. Not releasing her hand, he turned her in the steps, at last moving his hand up her back again.

She was stiff, unyielding, her face a set mask of white fury and blazing green eyes that narrowed up at him like a cat, spitting fury and uncertainty. Her tawny hair was piled atop her head in an intricate style, fastened with some kind of comb made of gold wire and stars. It glittered in the reflected light of crystal chandeliers.

What would she look like with her hair tumbled across a pillow, those lips parted and her eyes half-closed…A tempting thought.

“You move most agilely for a marionette,” he observed when she resisted his effort to turn her.

“Your meaning escapes me, my lord.”

“Does it? You move as stiff and wooden as a puppet jerked by strings.” He swung her about before she could pull away. “Relax. I don’t intend to eat you.”

Her head tilted back smoothly, so that her eyes met his in a steady gaze. “If you find me unresponsive to your charms, my lord, I can only assume that you wish to charm me. Is that the case?”

Amused, he deliberately studied her upturned face until she looked away. “Are all Americans as direct as you, Miss St. Clair?”

“I have no idea. Do you find me too forthright in my replies?”

“To the point of rudeness.” He smiled at her angry gasp. “Perhaps it’s the custom in America.”

“No,” she said after a moment. “It’s not the custom. I have behaved badly, my lord, and I apologize.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Her apology was too ready and too glib; he didn’t believe it for an instant.

“Apologies are easy, Miss St. Clair. What restitution do you offer?”

“Restitution? You expect too much, my lord.”

“I disagree.”

The waltz would be ending soon. He steered her toward the far end of the ballroom, a subtle curve that she had not yet noticed. She arched her head to look up at him.

“Your arrogance is outrageous, my lord. It’s easy to see that you have earned your wicked reputation.”

“May I ask why you took a sudden dislike to me?”

For a moment he thought she would not answer, then she said, “Perhaps I do not wish my name added to your long list of conquests.”

“A list that is long in supposition and short in actuality.”

“Nonetheless, your attentions can both elevate and ruin a lady’s reputation. Discretion, it is said, is everything.”

“And so it is. Then it would be indiscreet to dance with you again.”

Her upward glance was oblique. “More than four dances in an evening and my reputation will be in tatters.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll dance with Lady Jersey five times. That would set tongues wagging and add to my wicked reputation.”

“You jest, my lord!”

“Yes, Miss St. Clair, I jest.” She was light on his arm, tall enough that her eyes were level with his jaw, taller than most women of his acquaintance. A faint smile curved her mouth and laughter gleamed in her eyes.

They had reached the far end of the ballroom where a chill breeze filtered in through doors that led onto a wide terrace. Two steps took them through it, and they were outside. She didn’t seem surprised.

“Why did you bring me out here, my lord?”

She eased free of his loose embrace and moved to the wide balustrade that edged the terrace. Reflected light streamed through windows in ragged squares to illuminate her face as she turned toward him, draped gracefully upon the stone ledge. The gown she wore was a virginal white spangled with gold, demure in style yet unable to disguise the lush curves of her slender body.

“I think you know why I brought you out here,” he said, and saw that she did. It was in her eyes, the aware gleam of a female certain of her allure.

Green-eyed little witch. He should give her what she so prettily expected. Lady Katherine’s brazen touch had reminded him it had been too long since he had been with a woman, and now the silent invitation in Miss St. Clair’s wide eyes was instantly arousing. His arm snaked out to pull her close, to hold her against his chest and press her against him. She made some kind of soft sound—protest? Pleasure?—but made no effort to push him away. His hand tangled in the hair on her nape, pulled her head back to give him access to her lips as he brought his mouth down over hers.