Francesca’s dark eyes never left him as he crossed the hushed room to meet her. It seemed hours before he reached her, days before her father relinquished her arm, and weeks before she offered him her gloved hand. He took her hand, noting she was trembling. He bowed and kissed her gloved fingers, giving her a quick wink as he took his place beside her.
Her father said something, no doubt formally announcing their betrothal, but Ethan didn’t hear a word. He couldn’t take his gaze from her. Encased in white and shimmering gold, she was an angel. Albeit, with those dusky eyes and the fall of that dark heavy hair, she was probably the most sensuous angel he’d ever imagined.
An intense flash of desire shafted through him. The miserable week spent without her only heightened his desire. He wanted her, his enchantress. This was a woman who’d declared her love to him only days ago, making her heart vulnerable to him. And now this same woman stood before him, indeed before all the world, and made herself vulnerable to rumor and innuendo, made herself vulnerable once again to her attacker, simply because he’d asked her to. Because he’d insisted it was the only way to protect her.
Because she trusted him.
She loved him, and for the first time since Victoria, Ethan wanted to believe in love. He wanted to believe that this woman was different, that this woman would never betray him.
The music started and Ethan was vaguely aware all eyes were on them. Even Francesca watched him expectantly. Forgetting for the moment that he detested dancing, detested balls and Society, he led her onto the dance floor. The other couples chosen to begin the dance also took their places, and Ethan swept her into his arms, thinking as he did so, that no matter what else happened, he would protect her. Nothing mattered as much as her safety, not Grenville, not France, not Victoria or George Leigh. Nothing else mattered because he could no longer deny, no longerwantedto deny, that he was in love with her.
Completely, utterly, inexplicably enchanted, captivated, enthralled, but most of all, in love with her.
Ethan turned Francesca on the dance floor, turning the idea in his mind as he did so, waiting for the feeling of dread to settle in his stomach. It didn’t. He felt easy, free, as though this was where he should be—putting his palm to hers when required, resting his hand lightly at her waist when the form called for it, eyeing her hungrily when she moved away from him, then taking her hand in his when she returned.
She was flushed, her breath coming in little snatches that had nothing to do with the exertions of the dance. He’d seen her walk three miles without tiring in the least. She was reacting to his seduction. And he realized that he was seducing her—silently and effectively and before the entire room. One look at her and he knew she wanted him, knew everyone else could see it as well, and he had yet to exchange a word with her.
They’d barely spoken in the last week, but in that moment he couldn’t fathom what they’d argued over. Whatever it had been, he’d make it right.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” he said when she turned to him after a curtsy to the peer on her left.
She looked startled at the sound of his voice. “Not really. I believe I’ve tripped over my gown at least three times already.”
She glided away from him, and he took the hand of some nondescript lady, stepping forward and back with her, then reaching once again for Francesca.
“I didn’t notice,” he said when he held her hand again. “All I see is your beauty.”
She blushed, her eyes widening and her lips parting enticingly in surprise. His felt his desire for her double.
“Don’t say things like that.” For the moment they were immobile, facing each other as the couples at the end of the line filed past them.
“Why not?”
“You know why,” she hissed as a couple paraded past them.
“Tonight I don’t care.” They moved together again, as the forms of the dance dictated. “I propose we call a truce, forget our differences, at least for tonight.” Or longer, he added silently.
She pursed her lips, considering. She danced away from him, then gave him a stern look when she spun back. “For tonight.” She sounded like a strict schoolmistress — a disciplinarian trapped in the body of a deity. “This will probably be my only betrothal ball. I suppose I should at leasttryto get on well with my betrothed.” She smiled at him, playful.
His desire flared.
“At theveryleast,” he answered.
She stepped forward and, taking advantage of their momentary closeness, he put his lips to her ear. “I want you.”
He stepped away from her, and she from him, and this time he did see her stumble. He barely suppressed his smile of satisfaction. He took her hand and, as the music ended, gave her a roguish smile.
“Another dance?”
“Not just now.” She sounded out of breath.
His grin widened. “You’re breathless. Let me fetch you a refreshment.”
“Lemonade,” she breathed.
He raised an eyebrow. “I think we can do better than that.”
Protocol dictated he fetch the refreshments for her, but he wasn’t about to relinquish her hand or give any of the dandies and young blades present an opportunity to ask her to dance. Locking her hand in his, he led her to the supper room, nodding cordially at the dozens of well-wishers, but not stopping to speak with any of them. He was calculating how soon he could see her alone.
