Chapter 16
I looked up at Mr. Rawlings, startled. How had he approached without my seeing him?
“Now?” I asked. “I was only fetching a drink, and then I’d hoped to dance a few more—”
“That is precisely what we must speak about.” The muscles in his neck corded. “Come.” He pulled me alongside him without another word.
My stomach twisted. Had he seen something? Were we in danger? Thankfully, everyone was in the midst of finding their partners and spots on the dance floor, and our sudden exit went relatively unnoticed. His grip on my elbow remained firm, commanding, and I dared not pull away.
He led me to a set of french doors that opened to a small garden, ill-tended but with a stone fountain gurgling in the center. A brisk breeze whisked over me, rustling my skirts and chilling the fevered heat of my skin, warm from my hours of dancing.
Nodding tightly at a pair of older gentlemen strolling near the fountain, Mr. Rawlings directed me toward a corner of the garden steeped in shadow—still public but allowing us as much privacy as could be expected at an event like this.
When he finally released my arm and turned to face me with a stony expression, I stared up at him with bated breath. What had made him hurry me out of the assembly?
“I thought,” he said, his voice knife sharp, “that we’d decided you would not draw attention to yourself.”
I stared, then blinked. “Pardon?”
“You are a witness to a crime, Miss Albright.” A spark ignited in his eyes. “Must I remind you again what is at stake, what sort of danger you are in?”
I drew my shoulders back. “No, you do not,” I said hotly. “I remember quite clearly.”
He seemed not to hear me. “I am trying to keep you safe, a rather thankless task, I might add. It helps nothing when you flirt your way through the ballroom.”
“I wasn’t flirting!” I protested. “I was dancing.”
“Whatever it was, you drew the eye of every gentleman in that room.” His words were quick, clipped, angry. “That was precisely the sort of display I’d hoped to avoid.”
“It wasn’t a display,” I snapped. “I was enjoying myself, though perhaps you simply do not recognize the feeling, having never experienced it yourself.”
He ignored me yet again. “We mustn’t depart too abruptly, or it will only raise suspicions. Go back inside and plead exhaustion to the next man who asks you to dance. Then, in a few minutes, I—”
“I will not.” I stepped closer, my stubbornness snapping taut inside me. “For the first time in nearly a week, I haven’t felt alone or frightened or looked down upon. Unless you have seen anything to indicate we are in any real danger, I refuse to believe it necessary to—”
“I will be the one to decide what is necessary.” He leaned toward me, eyes glittering in the lantern light.
We stood toe-to-toe, locked in a glare that heated the air between us. I inspected every inch of his face, stern and unyielding. There was something else he wasn’t telling me, something he did not want me to know. What else had he seen tonight as I’d danced with man after man? Could it be . . . ?
“You are jealous,” I said in sudden realization.
His expression shifted infinitesimally, his head drawing back an inch.
“You do not truly believe I’ve risked our cover. You simply cannot stand to see me dancing with other men.” My words ran away from me, and I could not rein them in.
“You are badly mistaken,” he ground out.
His denial was so harsh it only served to confirm my suspicion. But Mr. Rawlings, jealous? I’d never before experienced such a thing, never imagined a man might have such feelings toward me. It was . . . rather thrilling.
I tried to ignore the surge of sparks in my veins. “If you wished to dance with me, perhaps you should have asked rather than watched from the corner and glowered at all those who did.”
“I do not wish to dance with you,” he said, the edges of his voice rough. “I detest dancing.”
“Oh?” I moved even closer, our faces only inches away. “Shall we make a bargain?”
“You are in no position to negotiate, Miss Lacey.”
“I rather think the opposite,” I countered. “You can hardly drag me away kicking and screaming.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“I might.”
He exhaled a rattled breath, and I thought, for the first time, that perhaps I really was driving this man mad.
“Unless . . .” I dangled the word in front of him, a tempting carrot.
“Unless what?” he asked.
“I will leave the assembly without a word of complaint,” I said, “if you dance with me.”
Oh, how I enjoyed the look of utter stupefaction that crossed his face.
“Why on earth would you—” he began.
“Because it would entertain me to no end,” I said. “And because you should feel, for once, what it is like to have someone else holding the puppet strings of your life.”
He stiffened. “I am not one to bow to pressure.”
“Then it seems we are at an impasse. I shall let you know when I am ready to leave.” I turned to go, but he grabbed my arm, pulling me back to face him. My breath left my body. My arm was trapped against his chest, his fingers wrapped tightly around my forearm.
“We are not finished,” he growled.
We were nearly pressed together entirely. I could feel the heat of his body, the brush of his breath. I raised my chin, and my knees weakened. His dark eyes burned, fierce and fiery. He glared back at me, then—
His eyes dropped to my lips.
I froze.
An eternity passed in those two seconds. Eons and ages. The world was a blur around me, the night sky fading upward into oblivion.
Then he swallowed and tore his gaze away. He released me, stepping back.
My skin hummed where he’d touched me, blood pounding in my ears. I took a shuddering breath to fill my lungs with much-needed air.
He stood still, the silence between us thick and unwieldy. Then he brushed past me, striding toward the open doors.
I spun, staring at him. What had happened? What had nearly happened? I came to myself and hurried after him. “Where are you—”
“The next dance is starting soon,” he said brusquely. “I do not wish to stay here a moment longer than necessary.”
Was he serious? Was he truly going to dance with me just to force me to leave the assembly early? I’d extended that challenge without any real thought that he might agree.
He stopped at the open doors and held out his arm to me, not even looking back to see if I was coming. Oh, this man! The pure presumptuousness of him!
Biting my tongue, I took his arm, hating how firm it felt under my hand.
He led me inside just as the orchestra began to play again. We joined the line of dancers, those around us sneaking curious glances at Mr. Rawlings. He stood there without an ounce of expression, seemingly indifferent to the stares. Had he never danced at a local assembly before?
The dance began. I curtsied, and Mr. Rawlings bowed, his mouth set in a hard line. Then we stepped together, and he took my hand.
I’d already danced for hours tonight, with half a dozen other men, but the moment our hands met, it was clear that this would be very different.
He led me through the dance as he did everything in life, with a commanding assurance that he knew precisely what he was doing.
Even if I hadn’t already known the steps, I imagined he could have steered me through without incident.
The crackle of energy that I’d felt out in the garden had followed us inside and now worked its way through every limb in my body.
My heart was tapping out a stilted rhythm, my lungs hard-pressed to keep pace.
We parted, the movements of the dance taking us to different partners. The man now holding my hand smiled at me, and I managed a weak one in return. I was far too occupied in trying to control the chaotic pace of my breathing.
He returned me to my place in the line, and I forced myself to look up. Mr. Rawlings watched me with his lips set in a thin line, and there it was again. The burning in his eyes.
The ladies moved to circle their partners, and I followed, turning with the rhythm of the music, feeling his gaze scorching me at every angle. Then my hand was in his again, and despite the turmoil spinning inside me, it felt . . . steadying.
We were close enough to speak, but we did not, the music a faded strum. He turned me under one arm, his other hand skimming my waist, leaving tendrils of heat in its wake.
And I wondered if perhaps the reason Mr. Rawlings did not dance was because it made all his partners fall irrevocably in love with him.
We took each other’s hands, our arms crossed behind our backs, and turned in time to the music.
His eyes fixed on mine as if challenging me to look away.
But why would I when I had never in my life—never—had a man look at me the way he was now?
I forgot that we were in a public ballroom.
I forgot that I was trying to convince everyone here that I was someone else entirely.
No, I was single-minded, my senses fully and completely immersed in this moment.
The melody of the violins carried through my mind, and a heady warmth filled my chest.
It ended too soon. Much too soon. I might’ve danced with him until the sun blazed over the horizon, but the music came to a stop after a long, legato note. The dissonant sounds of applause and voices rang out around me.
Mr. Rawlings had yet to look away from me, my hand still in his. We stood there a moment longer as the dancers moved around us. He opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he stepped back. Dropped his eyes and my hand.
He bowed, short and sharp. I was too stunned to manage more than a wobbly half curtsy. A girl simply did not recover quickly from a dance like that. It had tugged me every which way, intoxicating and exhilarating, and had left me aching for more.
He escorted me to where Helen stood on the edge of the dance floor, holding a glass of lemonade and watching us with her mouth parted.
“Gather your things,” he said to her. “We’re leaving.”
He turned on the spot and strode away. He certainly wasn’t dallying about.