“Fine. I’ll ask her to dance.”
The crowd parted like the Red Sea before his glowering expression. He strode forward and waited, arms crossed, at the edge of the dance floor until Trubetskoi swirled her to a laughing, breathless stop. A couple of idiots tried to step forward and claim her attention, but Seb fixed her with a determined glare, just daring her to accept anyone else, and shouldered them all out of the way.
He held out his hand. “My dance.”
Her eyes widened at his commanding tone, but she sent Trubetskoi a polite smile and grasped his fingers. The contact burned, even through her elbow-length gloves. Seb turned her as the musicians struck up a waltz and slid his free hand down to rest at the lower curve of her spine. With the faintest pull, he drew her toward him, and she inhaled sharply, as if the light touch heated her blood too.
He swung her into the first turn.
She trod on his foot.
Her long skirts covered the misstep, but Seb enjoyed the hectic blush that flooded her cheeks. She wasn’t as composed as she wanted to appear.Good.
“Quick!” she blurted out in a panicked whisper. “Now you have to step onmyfoot.”
“What?”
“It’s a Russian superstition.”
He rolled his eyes. “Not another one. Don’t tell me, we have to sacrifice a chicken and spread its entrails in the street or something equally ludicrous.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Nothing so gory. The person who was stepped on just needs to return the favor.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, we’ll be enemies forever.”
He sent her an ironic look. “We’ve been at odds for the entire time we’ve been acquainted, Your Highness. Do you really think it would help?”
She met his eyes, and he felt the punch right down to his gut. “Not the entire time,” she said softly.
His body hardened to the point of pain. Bloody woman. As if he needed reminding.
“Step on my foot!” she hissed again through her teeth, pretending to smile for the benefit of their interested onlookers.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Just do it.”
He exhaled a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”
Using the cover of her skirts, he waited until the dance slowed and very gently pressed the toe of his boot onto the top of her foot, acutely conscious of the fact that she only wore the flimsiest of dancing slippers beneath her skirts. That, naturally, led to him imagining everything else she had on under there, from silken stockings to soft-as-a-snowdrift skin.
Seb sucked in a breath. Dancing was a mistake. Just being in the same room with her was a mistake. He almost wished Petrov would appear and make his move and put an end to this torment.
Almost.
“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, praying she didn’t hear the ridiculous combination of resentment and longing in his tone.
She glanced up at him, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Her eyes sparkled. “Thank you. So do you.”
“I don’t think a man can bebeautiful, per se,” he countered sternly.
She tilted her head, as if considering the notion. “How should I compliment you, then, Lord Mowbray? Should I call you handsome? Noble? Irresistible?” Her lips parted on a teasing smile and he resisted the urge to say:Mine. You should call me mine.
