Chapter Thirteen
Denial nearly choked him. Surely, he was mistaken. It couldn’t be her.
It was ludicrous to even entertain the idea.
He knew French well enough to recognize a native speaker, and Miss Dickson spoke with no accent. Whatever their similarities, the woman in his arms now was not the woman who’d held him in thrall not many days ago. The idea was absurd. Miss Dickson was a gentlewoman, not a courtesan.
Gratefully, she had quickly looked away again after that brief meeting of his gaze and had no idea Ralston had become lost in a wave of pure disbelief. But as his silence lengthened after her blunt accusation, Ralston noted how the slight downward curve of her mouth was disturbingly familiar.
So familiar, it caused a swift, hot rise of desire in his blood. It required every ounce of his self-control not to allow an embarrassing physical reaction to follow the lust triggered inside him.
She was not her.
She couldn’t be.
But no matter what logic tried to assert itself in his mind, he knew the truth. He felt it.
Roughly clearing his throat, he forced himself to retrieve the tail of their conversation.
“Is it snobbery to wish to ensure the security of my family?” he asked quietly.
“I did not create the rules that govern our society, nor do I particularly agree with most of them. But I have a role to play in this world, one I’ve been molded into since birth.
Not even I am above ruination, Miss Dickson.
However, my fall from social grace would take many others with me.
It is not something I am ever allowed to forget. ”
Silence followed his low-worded confession, and for a moment, he worried that he’d said too much. But he realized as he began his little speech that he was not only speaking to the intrepid Miss Dickson, he was also speaking with the masked mistress of the Lyon’s Den.
After several long moments as he continued to turn her about the dance floor in his arms and she continued to make every effort not to look up at him, she finally replied.
“I understand, my lord. We will finish this dance,” she said in a low tone that was as intimate as it was intentioned, “then you will escort me back to my aunt’s side.
After that we shall do our utmost to avoid any further social interactions. You shall not approach me again.”
The instant she said the last words, Ralston knew that wasn’t at all what he wanted.
He would wonder later what madness had come over him to respond in the way he did. All he knew was that at some point between taking a breath and voicing his reply, the words he could’ve said were completely obliterated and others took their place.
“Oui, Madame,” he whispered darkly, the reply little more than a textured breath.
Miss Dickson tensed so violently in his arms that he had to pull her even closer or they would have tripped over each other’s feet.
The hand he held in his tightened until her fingernails pressed painfully into his skin, while the other hand she rested on his shoulder curled into the material of his coat.
Yet, she didn’t lift her gaze. It seemed she was far more intent on scanning the ballroom.
Looking for an exit?
Ralston refused to loosen his hold as astonishment triggered bone-deep desire. If he hadn’t already known the truth of it deep down in his core, her reaction just proved it.
Somehow, Miss Dickson and the masked Frenchwoman in the private room of the Lyon’s Den were one and the same. It made absolutely no logical sense. And Ralston could not fathom her purpose in portraying such a ruse. But he felt the truth of it regardless.
In the back of his mind, he acknowledged that he should be feeling some anger or embarrassment or a sense of betrayal. But he didn’t. It was the oddest thing. He felt…relieved, in a way, though he couldn’t begin to explain to himself why.
As her tense silence extended to an unnatural length, he held his breath, willing her to look at him. But after only another couple turns, the waltz came to an end. He felt her sigh of relief and clenched his jaw. He had only another few seconds to bring some resolution to this discovery.
Following her prior instructions, Ralston tucked her close to his side and escorted her back to Countess Henmere.
There, he gave a proper bow but said nothing.
When he straightened—he finally managed to catch her stark amber stare.
What he saw there inspired a flood of molten hunger through his entire being.
The woman wasn’t cowed at having been discovered. She wasn’t shamed or fearful or worried about what he might do with the information.
Instead—to his shock and deepest pleasure—her bold gaze met his with a promise of retribution and punishment for his cleverness and insolence.
His response required no thought at all.
With his hands clasped behind his back, he offered a brief but poignant lowering of his gaze, finding the tips of her dancing slippers where they peeked from beneath the hem of her gown.
Then he turned and strode quickly away, weaving through the crowd, no destination in mind other than to find a cool, dark place where he could get the fire inside him tamed to a more manageable level.
It was her.
Though the revelation came with a wealth of questions, none of them really seemed to matter.