His eyes devoured her. At first she felt oddly shy, his gaze was so intense, so demanding. She resisted its pull, instead letting her gaze drift over his other features: the fine grain of his skin, freshly shaven with an elusive tang of masculine cologne, or perhaps the fragrant leaves he’d crushed earlier; the bold nose, the firm chin, the hard unsmiling mouth, its sternness so appealing and yet such a challenge. No sign of that fugitive dimple tonight.
But it was not anger she saw in him tonight. It was desire. Leashed, to be sure, but simmering under his skin. Unmistakable. Her blood leapt in response. She wanted to move closer, to press her body against him, to twine around him.
Such feelings... she didn’t know how to handle them in this company. She couldn’t see them, but she knew eyes were all around them.
She closed her eyes in a vain attempt to block out the intensity in his smoke-gray eyes. She felt it with every movement. She tried to concentrate on the music and the dance, to disguise her aching awareness of his every movement, every touch.
But it was impossible.
They danced and their bodies touched, a fleeting brush of thigh against thigh, the brief graze of breast against chest. His big warm hands held her, spinning her around and around in his orbit. Each touch shimmered through her.
Like those kisses in the summerhouse that she’d tried so hard to forget. And couldn’t. And craved more of.
She stopped fighting him—and herself—and surrendered to the magic and the moment. And, for this little while at least, to the man.
***
The dance finished. Leo bowed and Isobel curtsied—no, he was going to think of her as Belle from now on. Her eyes were dazed, and the way she looked up at him... He just wanted to sweep her away, out of sight of all these people and—
A dowager gripped his elbow. “You dance divinely, Lord Salcott. My granddaughter is all admiration.” Smiling meaningfully, she indicated a blushing young miss standing by.
Dammit, they’d barely left the dance floor and the vultures were circling already. Leo inclined his head. “Thank you, Lady um—
Her smile hardened. “Lady Billston. I am an old friend of your father’s. I knew you when you were in short coats. My granddaughter is Miss Fenella Falway.” She nudged the girl forward. She bobbed a curtsy and gave him a nervous smile.
“Indeed? How do you do, Lady Billston, Miss Falway. Please excuse me, my partner is parched and I promised her refreshment.” He hurried Isobel away.
She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with laughter. “Fleeing again, Lord Salcott?”
He gave her a mock-threatening look. “Do you want refreshment, wench, or shall I hand you over to your fond admirer over there?” He indicated Lord Giddings, portly in puce, who waved, beaming hopefully at Isobel.
“No, no, not Lord Giddings,” she exclaimed like the heroine in a melodrama, but softly so that only he could hear. “I take it all back. You don’t cravenly flee from dowagers and debutantes: you’re amazingly brave—brave as a lion, courageous as a cougar, fearless as a”—she paused to think—“a ferret?”
“Baggage,” he growled, and handed her a glass of lemonade.
She gave him a provocative wide-eyed look. “Are baggages brave, then?”
“No, reckless. And begging for a spanking.”
She let out a huff of laughter. “Ooh, fighting words, Lord Salcott, but your dimple is showing.”
“I don’t have a dimple,” Leo began, but sets were forming for the next dance, and a cluster of eager men approached her. A Mr. Greelish claimed victory and led her away.
Leo frowned, watching them take the floor. Greelish was thirty-five or so, a rich widower, perfectly respectable, if not top drawer. But he wasn’t a suitable partner for her. It was like pairing an Italian greyhound with a spaniel.
Oh, what the hell was he doing, watching over her like a guard dog, brooding about the men she attracted? Of courseshe attracted men. She was beautiful and charming and... damn near irresistible.
It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t help it that she attracted men like bees to a honeypot. And he was just one more sad drone who couldn’t keep away.
Was this how it had been for his father, fruitlessly pining after his mother?
What was he doing, dancing and flirting with her—with the whole of society looking on? He had to stop this, stop yearning after what it was too dangerous to want.
Noticing a hopeful matron bringing her daughter toward him, he slipped behind a knot of people and vanished into the crowd. He needed a drink.
***
Dog in the manger, I call it.”
