Candace Camp - Swept Away

Lord Stonehaven stepped into the hall.

Julia stopped short. Suddenly she could not breathe. Nor could she tear her eyes away from the figure standing at the other end of the hall. He was tall, with the wide shoulders and long, muscled legs of a sportsman. Elegantly attired in black evening wear, a starched cravat tied perfectly at his neck, he was the picture of a well-to-do gentleman. Diamond studs winked at his cuffs.

He looked up, and his eyes met hers. For a moment they were frozen in time, staring at each other. Stonehaven was, Julia had to admit, the most handsome man she had ever seen. Thick black hair, cut fashionably short, framed a square-jawed face of perfect proportions. His mouth was wide and mobile, his nose straight, and two black slashes of brows accented eyes as dark as his hair and sinfully long-lashed. A stubborn chin with a deep cleft and a small slash of a scar on his cheekbone gave his face a firmly masculine set.

Hate spurted up in Julia, hot and tasting of bile, and her heart pounded crazily. She detested this man with a fury that threatened to swamp her. And tonight she had to make him want her more than he had ever wanted any other woman.

Julia broke her paralysis and looked away from Stonehaven. Slowly, affecting an air of unconcern, she continued on her path into the large gaming room. Her heart was pounding like a drum, and it was all she could do to keep herself from turning to glance back at him. Was he still watching her? Would he follow?

She knew that she could not look, could not seem interested in him. Ever since she had come up with the idea of luring Lord Stonehaven into her feminine web, she had thought carefully about how to do it. He had been a friend of her brother’s for years, albeit not one of his closest, and Selby had spoken of him now and then, usually in the context of some sort of sport—hunting, boxing, marksmanship. He was, she knew, a man who thrived on competition, who liked a challenge. So she had determined that the best way to attract his interest was to appear disinterested herself. Let him be the hunter. Let him come to her and try to win her favors—that was the way to fix his desire on her.

Still, it took all her willpower to refrain from looking. She strolled into the gaming room and down the length of it, moving as far from him as she could get. She paused behind a table of players and idly observed them for a few moments. She could not have said what they were playing, and she did not even notice the inviting smile that one of the men sent her way. All her attention, all her thoughts, were on the room behind her and the question of whether or not Lord Stonehaven had entered it. She was about to turn away toward another table when a masculine voice spoke behind her.

“Are you fond of piquet?”

A thrill shot down her nerves, but she made herself turn casually to look at the speaker. Lord Stonehaven was standing only a foot away from her, a smile that she could classify only as supercilious touching his mouth. He was watching her, his dark eyes faintly amused. He was even more handsome up close, she thought, the sort of man who would set young women to giggling and smirking. Julia, however, had no desire to do either one; the urge she felt rushing up inside her was a strong desire to launch into him, fists flying. This man had ruined her brother! Her anger was so deep and bitter, she could almost taste it. It was going to require all her self-possession, she realized, to pretend to calm indifference.

“Were you addressing me, sir?” she asked in as cool a voice as she could muster.

“Why, yes, I was.” The amusement in his eyes deepened. “Sorry—I realize that we are not acquainted, but I presumed upon a common interest.” He made a vague gesture toward the room.

“Indeed.” Julia gave him a small smile, letting a hint of the dimple appear in her cheek. She had, after all, to give him some encouragement even as she pretended to elude him.

He returned the smile, and Julia felt her stomach turn a little flip. Who would have thought that a man such as he could have so much warmth in his eyes? She glanced away quickly, then worried that she had been too demure for the part she was playing.

“Have you played here before?” he asked, and she turned her attention back to him. “I have not seen you.”

“No. This is my first evening here. I came with a friend.”

“A good friend?” he asked in a slow, rich voice, and she realized that he was subtly asking if she was some other man’s mistress.

“No,” she replied, hoping that her cheeks did not betray her by reddening. “Not a good friend.”

“How nice for me. Then I am hopeful he will not mind if I get you a glass of punch.”

“It does not matter. You see, it is I you must ask about such things, not any man.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Ah. An independent woman, I see.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Then may I escort you to the refreshment tables?” He offered her his arm.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “That would be very nice.”

There was something quite freeing about acting this way, Julia thought as she walked with him into the hall. She had never before in her life been in a place like this, where there were no matrons watching, no expectations on everyone’s part of how a young woman should act and what she should say. Though Julia considered herself a free thinker, she had been raised to act as a young lady should, and she had always been aware of the need to act in such a way as not to bring any embarrassment to her family.

Like any other young woman, she was careful not to dance more than twice with the same man and not to flirt too much with any one man, lest she be said to be forward. She had always to pay her respects to the old ladies who lined the walls at the county cotillions, looking like a group of well-fed buzzards in their invariably black dresses, and to be careful not to say something to offend them. If a man wanted to escort her down to dine at a ball, he had first to request permission of her chaperon. These were the sorts of restrictions that chafed at her, but which she knew she could not flout without bringing down local censure not only on herself but on poor Phoebe, and before that her mother, for their perceived laxity in training her.

But here there were no duennas, no women who could enumerate her family lineage back to Queen Elizabeth, if not beyond. There was no one to gossip or to care how she acted, no conventions to flout. No one even knew who she was, so her family name could not be called into shame. There was not the least likelihood that anyone would be shocked by her behavior, unless perhaps she decided to take it into her head to get up on a table and remove all her clothes—and from what she had seen of many of the avid cardplayers here tonight, most of them would be concerned only because she was wasting one of their card tables. She could, she thought, say exactly what she wanted and act precisely how she pleased, and no one would give it a second thought.