Rowan stepped to her side and cleared his throat. Loud. Which was better than what he wanted to do—step between them and kick the other man across the room.
“Mr. Trent!” Isabella beamed. “There you are.”
“Were you looking for me?” God, he hoped so. He’d promised her a kiss. He ached to give it to her. But proper courtship, crowded as it was into public places, offered few opportunities. And he was waiting. For her to come to him first. Then he’d know he’d pleased her, shown her he could give her everything she needed. He’d also know she truly wanted him and all the social storms being married to him would bring.
“I was. Lord Viksby was telling me about crossing the EnglishChannel, and I thought you might be able to add to the conversation. Having been on many boats before.”
Viksby snorted.
“Pardon?” Isabella said. “Are you ill, my lord?”
“No.” He shuffled from foot to foot. “It is only… It is of no importance, my lady.”
“I’m sure it was not.” Such a haughty little thing. A snap in the final word, her nose tossing up in the air.
“It is only that his travels cannot compare to my own.” Viksby blurted the words out in a rush. “From what I’ve heard, he wasworking.”
“I was,” Rowan said. He’d never pretend otherwise. “And you are correct, my lord. Your experiences and mine are not at all comparable.” There. Nothing rude. Quite agreeable except, perhaps, for the tone. More like a whip than strictly necessary.
“It was a lovely dance, my lord,” Isabella said, “but I am parched, and Mr. Trent agreed to help me find a glass of champagne.”
“I can help you.” Viksby actually whined.
“No need.” Rowan snagged a glass of bubbling liquid from a passing waiter. “I’ve already got one.” He handed it to Isabella.
She took a generous drink, then tilted it toward Viksby. “Thank you, my lord, for the dance, but I am occupied for the next set.”
With Rowan. A third dance. A breach of etiquette. Rowan inhaled slowly and forcefully unclenched his jaw.
Viksby seemed to concede, backing away from them, his narrowed gaze glued to Rowan, a clear message there—Rowan was poaching on a better man’s land.
To hell with him.
Isabella’s hand slipped into his, and she tugged him away from the dance floor. She knew they could not dance. She likely thought he didn’t know. With a low warning growl to Viksby he couldn’t quite control, Rowan finally ripped away from the man’s suddenly startled gaze to follow Isabella wherever she led. Which was through the doors and outside onto a balcony rich with cool night air, the sky above scattered with diamond stars.
“We can’t. Your brother is likely watching.” Everyone was watching.
She slipped into the shadows to the far side of the doors and leaned back against the brick wall with a heavy sigh. “You were never so well-behaved before.”
He did not want to be now.
She reached for him, and with a whisper, said, “Come.” If her cheeks had been happy pink before, now they blushed the pink of a body waiting to be touched. He could just see that tempting shade in the splash of light from the candle-brilliant windows.
He did, pressing her against the wall. Not touching but for the fingers he weaved with hers. He folded them both in darkness and rested his forehead against the cold brick above her head, breathing warmth into the sliver of space between them.
Her breath hitched as she squeezed his hand. “How many events have you been to since Imogen’s engagement party?”
“As many as you have been to.”
“Mm. You know, I can tell when you’re irritated. Like with Viksby. Your hand makes a fist so tight I’m afraid your gloves will split along the seams.”
He shook his fist out, loosening his fingers. “I’m fine. Not irritated at all.”
She lifted a hand between them and outlined the edge of his lapel, drawing a crooked line from shoulder buttons. “And your eyes go cold.”
“Only warm with you,a chuisle.”
“And”—she drew the pad of her thumb down the line of his jaw—“your jaw twitches. Such a hard jaw then only produces hard words.”
