Chapter 44
Derek
Derek hadn’t meant to ask her to dance.
He had meant to leave. That was what he’d decided after much deliberation. Miss Forester could revel in her victory. He’d eventually inform her of his feelings. Some day. Somehow. Perhaps if he gave her enough orgasms, she’d understand without him having to say the actual words.
Except there was one problem. Derek hadn’t failed to notice the interest glinting in Mr. Thorton’s gaze when Dorothea and Livy had briefly paused by the man. A growl rumbled through his chest. It wasn’t just the fop either. The gentlemen were like a pack of hounds scenting a fox. Circling.
Derek couldn’t have that.
And then that little minx had the audacity to good boy him?
He groaned. He’d had to flee the ballroom and take a minute to…
calm down, aided by a healthy dose of whisky from his flask.
Breeches did not hide certain reactions well.
He wanted to hear it again. Needed to. She was so much more audacious than he’d ever have imagined.
The saucy little minx. At the same time, something about her praise lit him up inside.
It was addictive. All he wanted to do was drop to his knees and be her supplicant. Do more things to earn those two words.
Stop thinking about it, Derek, or else you’re going to have another situation on your hands.
He leaned against the wall where he lurked in the shadows.
Livy danced out in the light, laughing and smiling at the prats of the ton.
Perfectly respectable. No one had touched her indecently, but Derek had noticed how she’d stiffened and flinched during her first dance.
Well, not her first dance. She had been very comfortable with the fool with the russet curls.
There was a familiarity there, one that had Derek’s hackles raised.
That lout’s face was begging for Derek’s fist.
He gritted his teeth and blew out a heavy breath through his nose. He didn’t care how innocent the touches were; he couldn’t bear anyone touching her but him. When he’d sensed her trepidation—when he’d seen her flinch—he’d been halfway to the dance floor before he’d realized what he was doing.
What a bloody fool he was. He couldn’t toss her over his shoulder and leave with her in the middle of a ball at Almack’s. But he’d wanted to. The desire to eliminate anything that caused her distress was irrationally strong.
That was all it was. He wasn’t at all nervous that she’d be whisked away by her childhood beau now that she had the attention of every gentleman in the room.
Every gentleman…
Fuck.
Derek had only been nervous about Mr. Thorton—and only very slightly.
So slightly it was barely worth mentioning, because the man was a consummate lackwit.
But now? Now, Livy could have anyone. Men who might be commendable choices.
Something Derek was most definitely not.
What had he done? If he’d been an intelligent man, he would have told Dorothea to burn that voucher and continued to keep Livy all to himself.
This was what happened when one grew a conscience. Bloody fucking hell. Why did he have to dredge up one of those now?
The notes of the current piece faded away, and he stiffened. It was his turn. He shook out his hands. Time to dance. He weaved through the crowd. Just a dance. Nothing of consequence. A completely inane activity. Which is why he’d never done it at one of these things before.
He cut off Livy and the young man escorting her back to her aunt. Dear Lord, had the man’s ballocks dropped yet? The man looked as if he didn’t even need to shave. Derek straightened further, glaring down at the man. The gentleman visibly swallowed and hastily stepped away from Livy. Smart pup.
He grabbed Livy’s hand and ushered her to the dance floor.
Livy frowned up at him. “My lord,” she said in a hushed voice. “I hadn’t even been returned to my aunt yet.”
“I was simply saving you the time. A waste to walk all the way to her, then right back here.”
She winged a brow. “So, now we stand here while we wait for the next set to start up? While everyone watches us.”
Derek quickly glanced from side to side. There were quite a few people staring at them. He rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the itchy sensation that had stolen over his skin. He shrugged it off.
And then his gaze landed on a pair of gentlemen—one of whom was the lobcock with the russet curls and the other…
was glaring at Derek like he hoped the ground would swallow Derek whole.
Mr. Warren Thorton. Derek’s lips tilted up in his cocksure fuck you grin.
Then he winked at the arsehat. Was that steam coming from the man’s ears?
Derek chuckled. A slight calm stole over him; there was so much comfort in being an arse.
“What’s so amusing?” Livy eyed him…suspiciously.
The orchestra struck up the first notes of the waltz, and he stepped up to her, crowding her form.
“Nothing of consequence,” he murmured. Not when his body was alive with anticipation of having her in his arms again, even for something as tame as a dance.
She inhaled an unsteady breath, as if his presence had caused her to forget to breathe. A man could hope.
Then he was sliding his hand over her trim waist, his fingers flexing on the feel of her, and he swept them into the waltz.
The gazes of the ton burned into him. He’d known this would be the case. A marquess dancing at a ball for the very first time garnered attention. He glared at them over her shoulder, daring them to gossip, daring them to challenge him.
Livy’s cheeky whisper floated up to him. “Why, Lord Dunmore, have you been partaking in whisky without me?”
He glanced sharply at her, and she cocked an eyebrow. Minx.
He grunted in response. Of course he’d tucked away a flask of whisky; he needed something before doing this.
Her eyebrows flew up as she stared up at him, owl eyed.
“Did you just grunt at me?” Her stare turned chastising.
“Your glares and grunts and…and…Goliath shoulders may intimidate the rest of the ton. But I am well aware you are all bark, good sir.” She leaned close to his ear—improperly close—as he led them around the dance floor.
“And no bite.” Her low murmur coasted over his ear.
His gaze flew to hers, finding her eyes twinkling up at him as her lips curled up in a teasing half-smile. He growled, and by God, the bloody minx had the gall to break out into a full grin.
Dropping his arm from her waist, he lifted their joined hands above her head and flung her into a spin. And no bite. She played the role of a blue-eyed angel well. The minx was anything but angelic.
Catching her by the waist as she came around from the spin, he pulled her to his person.
Her wide blue eyes stared up at him, those lush lips parted slightly.
He slid his hand to her back, pressing her closer to him as he twirled them around the dance floor.
She clung to him for dear life…as if she wanted to stay with him for this dizzying ride. Their gazes held, unbreakable.
In that moment, dare he believe it, she clung to him like she never wanted to let go. And if he weren’t the most pitiful fool in history, he dared to hope she never would.
He relaxed into the dance, into her, the tension in his frame gradually easing as his body fell into rhythm with hers. Feet flying, he couldn’t look away from those too-blue irises as he spun them, wildly so, matching every twirl of the other couples with two of their own. Not once did they falter.
It dawned on him then that this was how it would be when they finally came together.
Their connection magnetic, her eyes pulling him toward her, her very essence drawing him in.
Memories of her the other night, sitting proudly atop him, head thrown back as she lost herself to the throes of passion, morphed into a vision of her naked limbs running over his frame, sliding over his skin.
Perfect partners, two halves of a whole.
Dear Lord.
She made him whole. That was the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. It was the emptiness being filled—with Livy.
And now she’d achieved her goal and didn’t need him anymore. He knew what happened when he no longer served a purpose.
“Congratulations on your victory, Wellington,” he said softly.
Her smile faltered, her gaze searching his. “I couldn’t have done it without such a valiant second in command.”
He nodded, the stiffness returning to his shoulders.
As the music faded, he slowly brought them to a halt, her skirts swirling around them.
Their gazes remained locked, his chest rising and falling roughly, their panting breaths mingling together.
Despite the efforts of his lungs, he couldn’t draw enough air. What if this were the end?
“Despite the battle being over,” she whispered tentatively, her gaze boring into his, “you know where I reside if you ever desire to call…” She trailed off.
That…sounded promising, didn’t it? He was having trouble making sense of anything at the moment. Perhaps if you took a fucking breath, your vision would stop dotting over, and you’d be able to think. He dragged in a breath.
“My offer of assistance with the foundling home still stands,” she hurried to add.
All right, she had to be alluding to wanting to see him again. Probably. He just needed to respond.
“Come visit?” he blurted, then winced. Excellent, Derek. That was exceedingly smooth. How did this woman always turn him into a tongue-tied buffoon?
She tilted her head, staring up at him with an adorably befuddled expression.
He cleared his throat. “The foundling home. I had mentioned we were getting a litter soon. Come visit the children and puppies?”
A soft light bloomed behind those large blue eyes. “And if I were to visit, what is the likelihood a certain marquess would happen to be there?”
He fisted his hands. Grow a set of ballocks, Derek. “If you were to visit, Miss Forester, his presence would be an absolute certainty.”
He dipped a quick bow and did what any grown man would do: he fled and left her alone on the dance floor.
Yet, even in his retreat, he could still feel her on him, the feel of the curve of her waist, of her hand in his. Flexing his trembling hand, he disappeared into the familiar shadows.