“You’re a swine, did you know that?”
“I’ve been made aware of this particular attribute of mine, yes.” He truly did want to ravish her. Sit her on his lap and have his way with her while she blistered his ears in her Dominican Spanish.
“Still not funny,” she said. He was about to make another joke when her eyes fixed on something over his shoulder and her face fell. “I would think your lady would not take kindly to you speaking with women in hidden corners.”
Hislady? What on earth was she on about... Wait.
“You mean my sister?” he asked as realization dawned on him.
“Your sister,” she repeated, her eyes narrowed into slits.
“You don’t have a very high opinion of me, if you’d think I go around kissing other women when I have a wife.” He was a bit offended by that. Despite his attempt at humor, he had felt close to her today. It bothered him that she thought him capable of that.When have you ever cared what impression people have of your integrity?
“And you’re doing a splendid job of supporting my very accurate assessment,Earl of Darnick.”
“I should’ve told you,” he admitted.
“Yes, you should have.” God, but he liked this woman. She tipped her chin in the direction of the ballroom. “Your sister, then?”
“Yes. Adalyn is the younger of my two sisters,” he said, pointing at the pair who were unabashedly watching Evan’s conversation while they danced around the room. “Beatrice, my other sister, is in Paris too, but she’s not here tonight. My whole bloody family is in town at the moment.”
Luz Alana’s mouth quirked up at his grousing. “Don’t you need to get back to her?” she asked.
“She’s fine,” he assured her. He was getting impatient. She was still not close enough, and he was yet to touch her. “She’s dancing with my cousin Murdoch.”
“Your cousin who was born in Jamaica.” He was ridiculously touched by her remembering that detail.
“That’s right.” He gently pulled on her gloved hand. “Don’t go,” he urged, and despite the remaining traces of menace in her gaze, she came out from behind that damn palm, finally letting him get a full view of her.
Beautifulseemed like such a useless, absurd word in the face of what he had in front of him. It was like saying a diamond was but a pretty piece of cut glass. Just the sight of her made him feel famished and replete all at once.
“Dance with me.” His voice was gravel, roughened by all the words scratching at his throat.
“I don’t like dancing. My corset is too tight. I can barely breathe when I’m standing still,” she said, churlish even as her body swayed to the music. Her scent was intoxicating, vanilla and something floral, orange blossom perhaps.
“Now who’s the one lying?” he teased as he gathered her to him.
“I’m telling the absolute truth. This blasted thing is like a gauntlet.” Nothing had ever been more appealing to him than Luz Alana Heith-Benzan’s bottom lip pushed out in a surly pout.
“We must find a way to end the evil reign of corsets, then.”
“The person who discovers an alternative will have the devotion of women everywhere,” she assured him as they stepped onto the dance floor. The moment they did, a new piece of music started, causing her eyes to flash with recognition and pleasure.
“You like Strauss?” he asked as he moved them around the room.
She opened her eyes at his question, then her expression changed to amusement. “This is not Strauss. This is Juventino Rosas. He’s a Mexican composer.” She said it with a hint of challenge, as if expecting him to dispute the possibility of such a thing as a Mexican composing a waltz.
“What’s it called?” he asked, and her face opened like a spring flower. The brilliance of it stunned him. He’d pleased her, and he very much wanted to do it again.
“‘Sobre las Olas,’” she said. “‘Over the Waves.’” His hand tightened on her lower back, bringing her to him, and then he put his mouth to her ear.
“Is this your favorite composer?”
She pursed her lips as they danced, head canted to the side, as if he’d asked a very serious question.
“I like this, but my favorite pieces are the danzas. It’s music that was created in the Caribbean, and it feels and sounds like home. There is a composer, born in Puerto Rico, whose father was Dominican, Juan Morel Campos. He might be my favorite.” He absorbed the information, curious about this music that felt to her like the tropics.
“Tell me something else in your Spanish,” he cajoled, and she let out a husky titter that coiled around his bones like rings of fire.
