The scent of him wrapped around her, the sharp tang of his shaving cologne, the earthy scent of leather and, beneath it all, his own distinctive clean masculine smell. Soap and man—this man.
It was disconcerting to realize that she’d probably recognize him blindfolded and in the dark by his smell alone. His enticing masculine smell.
He twirled her around, his big, powerful body dominating hers, the two of them moving as one to the music. She felt as though she were flying. It didn’t feel safe. It was exhilarating.
Inch by inch, he drew her closer. She felt the press of his thigh against hers. Heat sizzled through her—and it wasn’t because of the dancing. She felt breathless—and it wasn’t because of the dancing.
Every inch of her was aware of him. The heat of his body, the powerful arms, his hand on her waist, his bare thighs beneath the short tunic. She clung to him, allowing herself to simply twirl and spin to the music as he willed it. She felt almost dizzy and yet sharply, gloriously alive.
“And they say the waltz is a scandalous dance,” he murmured. “Such nonsense.”
She glanced up at him. Didn’t he feel it?
His eyes danced with knowing laughter, his mouth curved, and he drew her even closer.
He felt it. She closed her eyes, unable to meet theintensity in his, and gave herself up to the music, the dance and the man.
Eventually the waltz ended, and he led her to a seat. “Thirsty?”
She nodded.
“Ratafia, lemonade or champagne?”
She was already intoxicated and she hadn’t had a drop of wine, but she found herself saying, “Champagne, please.”
She watched as he crossed the room in search of refreshments, his stride powerful and easy, his shoulders broad and almost bare. He was magnificently at home in his costume.
She shivered, unable to drag her gaze off his long, muscular legs in that short, red tunic. Waves of heat rippled through her. So this was desire...
She’d felt pale echoes of it before, but nothing like this, never anything this strong. It had been building between them, she realized, ever since that first kiss. No, even before that.
Women generally find sexual congress pleasurable...
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He disappeared into the crowd, and she sat and watched people enjoying themselves. The masks and costumes seemed to have encouraged more overt flirting, and some were definitely stepping very close to the line. If not over it, she added mentally, noticing one of the shepherdesses slide her hand into the folds of a Roman senator’s toga.
She blushed and looked away, feeling a little out of her depth. How many of the ladies here enjoyed sexual congress? The ones who flirted? Was that why she didn’t know how to flirt? Because she had disliked the marriage bed?
Oh, how could she be so old and still feel so ignorant? Lucy was better at this than she was, and Lucy was half her age.
Lady Peplowe, superb in her enormous turban, moved among her guests, talking and chatting, bringing people together and effortlessly putting them at ease. She was a superlative hostess and very popular.
As Alice watched her, a thought sprang to mind.
Perhaps a decade or so older than Alice—Penny was the youngest daughter—Lady Peplowe was plump, casually elegant and very sophisticated, but Alice had always found her comfortable to talk to. She wasn’t an intimate friend, but she had shown a great deal of kindness to both Alice and Lucy.
She would surely not mock Alice for her ignorance and lack of sophistication.
Alice waited until Lady Peplowe began to move from one group to the next. She hurried across the floor and intercepted her. “Lady Peplowe,” she began, suddenly breathless.
Lady Peplowe’s brows rose. “Is there something the matter, my dear?”
“No, no, it’s a lovely party. It’s just... May I call on you tomorrow? There is something particular I would like to discuss with you.” She was blushing, she knew.
“Of course. Only make it later in the day—say, five o’clock. I intend to sleep very late tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I didn’t think. Would you prefer me to come the following day?”
