| She lifted the hem of her sparkly
pink skirts a bit and was hurrying down the crowded marble staircase.
She employed all the stealth she could muster, determined that none
of her party should spy her and stop her from sneaking away.
But then, as she was escaping, a ripple of excited murmurs spread
through the ranks of the female guests clustered on the staircase
and lined up along the railing.
“No, that can’t be true. He made her weep with pleasure?”
“I heard that her servants couldn’t decide if they should
leave the pair their privacy or call the constable, what, with all
the screaming coming from upstairs!”
“Screaming? My word!”
“She told me he broke her bed.”
“How very--energetic!”
“He’s welcome to break mine,” another purred,
staring down into the ballroom.
“Better not let your husband hear you say that.”
“As if he’d care. He still thinks I don’t know
about his latest mistress, fool.”
Lily tiptoed past them in shock, trying not to let the ladies notice
she was eavesdropping on their indecent gossip. Who on earth were
they talking about?
“Did you hear about his tryst with Lady Campbell?”
“What? No!”
“Tell!”
“Poor dear, she couldn’t even go riding with us in Hyde
Park last week because of that delicious pagan.”
“You don’t mean--?”
“Indeed. I don’t know what he did to her, but she could
barely walk, let alone sit her mount that afternoon.”
“Good heavens!”
Scandalized laughter.
“Trust me, dear, she didn’t seem to mind it.”
Astounded by their wicked talk, Lily followed the direction of the
ladies’ collective gaze down to the center of the ballroom,
and when she spotted the source of their excitement, she halted
abruptly on the stairs.
Oh--!
Oh, my.
Lifting her fingertips to her lips, Lily stood mesmerized by the
dangerous-looking man who had arrived, staring right along with
all the other ladies.
No wonder all the women had gone mad.
He was . . . beautiful.
Sun-browned and raven-haired, over six feet tall with an iron physique,
he wore his resplendent uniform with such pride that it was clear
this was no costume for the masked ball. He carried himself like
a military man, too--spine erect, chest out, shoulders back, his
square chin high. And the self-assurance in the way he walked, a
wary glide, part strut, part saunter, seemed to suggest that, indeed,
he was master of more than one kind of conquest.
“Who is he, Mary?” some woman asked her friend.
Having walked in a sort of trance down a few more of the stairs,
Lily now overheard the fevered conversation of another knot of gossiping
women.
“La, dear, don’t you know? He’s only the stud
of the Season.”
Giggles followed, giddy and girlish.
“Shh! Do you want the world to hear you?”
“He’s Major Derek Knight,” the first woman revealed
in satisfaction. “The Duke of Hawkscliffe’s cousin,
newly arrived from India.”
India? Lily’s attention was captured all over again. That
cursed place that had taken her father away from her?
“Ah, the Knight family, of course.”
“Gorgeous, that lot. Yes, now that you’ve said it, I
can see the resemblance. Aren’t there two of them--brothers?”
“Yes, he is the younger. The elder one never comes into Society.
I’ve heard they are both entirely fearless, though. Countless
battles.”
“What is their regiment?”
“I do not know, but they’re in the cavalry.”
Cavalry? Lily thought with a gulp. Oh, those cavalry boys had a
wild reputation. Many of them were the younger sons of aristocratic
houses, well-educated and chivalrous, high-living and hot-blooded,
eager to do battle over any point of honor. She knew that with its
bounty of blue-blooded officers, the cavalry was deemed the most
glamorous of the armed forces, England’s military crème
de la crème.
As Major Derek Knight moved through the ballroom, everyone seemed
to want to know him, drawn in by the effortless charisma he seemed
to exude. Men pumped his hand enthusiastically, while women here
and there bent him down to greet him with worshipful kisses on his
clean-shaved cheeks. He didn’t seem to mind the adulation,
but he appeared a bit distracted.
His restless gaze continuously scanned the crowd with an air of
single-minded intensity, like a man on the hunt, but what was the
prey he sought? Lily wondered. Then quite without warning, he looked
up and saw her, and she found herself captured in his steel-blue
gaze.
The moment his frank stare picked her out of the crowd, Lily went
motionless.
She could not move, could barely breathe.
Pinned in his watchful study, she shivered at the force of unbridled
sensuality in his magnetic eyes. From halfway across the room, the
heat of him seemed to engulf her. Then the hint of a devilish smile
tugged at one corner of his mouth, and she felt her knees go weak.
Good God. She stiffened, appalled at herself and her thumping heart.
She had never experienced such an immediate, visceral reaction to
a man before. This was entirely bewildering and more than a little
unpleasant.
She decided on the spot she did not like it. Who did he think he
was to smile at her? It was not proper. He added insult to injury
then, offering her a discreet bow from across the room.
Her heart lurched, but her demeanor turned instantly frosty--a habit,
a knee-jerk reaction.
How forward! Mother would have been appalled, and so was Lily. At
least that’s what she told herself. She tossed her chin, but
could not quite bring herself to look away.
Her heart pounded hectically.
I do not need this, she warned herself. ‘Younger son’
equaled ‘no money.’ She had come to London for the express
purpose of finding a wealthy husband--rich and stupid!--not to be
seduced by a handsome soldier whose all-too-cunning smile made no
secret of what was on his wicked mind.
Don’t you smile at me, she warned Major Derek Knight in silent
defiance, gathering up all her hard-won morals. You’re not
going to break my bed, I can promise you that. Not in a million
years.
Oh, no, you won’t.
His knowing smile widened, his stare staying fixed on her even as
another woman sidled up to him and draped her arms around his neck,
whispering in his ear.
His thickly muscled arm slid around the woman’s slender waist,
but he went on watching Lily with a patient, brooding gaze. As if
he could see through her and her disciplined charade of virginal
propriety.
As if he had all the time in the world to get to her . . .
|
|
