Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
“Will it not end?” Cassian seethed.
The orchestra struck its first bright, sweeping note, and he felt every muscle in his body coil at the sight before him.
It hadn’t even been five minutes since the last gentleman walked up to her, yet another, young, ambitious, and too eager for his liking, walked up to her and reached out for her dance card after what seemed like a brief conversation.
Was that all that it took?
The fellow’s gloved hand hovered over her wrist with presumptuous confidence, and something sharp and bitter flared in Cassian’s chest.
Absolutely not.
He had tried to behave as a respectable gentleman should; he had tried to master the storm within him, to stand at a distance and ignore the way Isabella seemed to pull at his thoughts with every quiet glance and every faint blush, but tonight, he snapped.
He marched forward, not caring who he shoved aside, his jaw clenched as if he were ready to go to war. The poor lord was just about to place his name upon Isabella’s card when Cassian’s shadow fell over them both as he reached out and placed his hand in front of the card.
“Your Grace?” Isabella almost gasped, looking from the young Lord to Cassian.
“Lady Isabella,” he said, his voice low, controlled, and entirely dangerous, “would you honor me with this dance?” He held her gaze, noting the surprise that arose in her eyes.
Isabella blinked as though he had just materialized out of thin air.
“Your Grace,” she began, her tone taut with disbelief, “this gentleman asked first.” She nodded toward the young man who stared at Cassian in disbelief.
Neither of them seemed to know how to handle the situation, but Cassian did not allow it to stop him.
Cassian turned his head slowly, almost lazily, toward the young man.
The look he gave him was nothing short of murderous, and the spineless lord went pale, bowed so quickly he nearly toppled over, and stammered, “I—of course—Your Grace may take the first dance. It is of course, your ball, and it is customary for the host to have the first dance. I should be honored to request the second,” then he scuttled off like in terror.
Turning back to Isabella as if the man had ceased to exist, Cassian noted the scowl on Isabella’s face and offered her his hand.
Despite the indignation burning in her eyes, she placed her gloved hand into his.
“Very well,” she said tightly.
He led her to the center of the floor as the couples formed their lines. As the first movement began, Cassian lifted her hand and took his position.
The moment their fingers touched, something warm and electric pulsed through him, a sensation he despised for its lack of control yet needed with a hunger he refused to acknowledge.
“You were a brute,” Isabella whispered the instant the dance pulled them close, her tone a fierce hiss behind her polite smile. “A complete and utter brute.”
“And you are welcome,” he replied, leaning in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath along her cheek. “The man is an idiot. You would have been bored senseless by the second turn.”
“You overstep,” she snapped. “That is my decision to make, not yours.”
He flicked a glance at her soft, tempting lips, then forced himself not to look again. “I saved you from a dull dance. You may thank me later.”
“You seem to forget,” she whispered sharply, “that you declared our kiss a mistake. You said you pushed me away because it was a moment of weakness. So, you cannot act jealous, Your Grace.”
The accusation hit him squarely in the chest. He felt something dark coil through him, a possessive, reckless emotion he had been battling for weeks.
“And you,” he murmured, drawing her closer as the dance demanded they turn, “seem to forget that you are not helping matters.” His eyes lowered to where her neck met her shoulder, where her pulse fluttered in wild rhythm. “Especially with that blush of yours whenever I touch you.”
“Your Grace—” Isabella’s breath caught in her throat.
“No other man here,” he said with quiet, devastating certainty, “knows how to make you blush like that.”
She swallowed, her gaze flickering traitorously to his mouth. “You cannot say things like that,” she whispered. “Especially not when others are likely to hear us.” She glanced around quickly, checking to see if anyone had reacted.
The couples continued in ignorant bliss as the music guided their steps.
“How am I to stop?” he countered, voice thickening, “when you look like this? When you turn to silk in my hands? When you blush like this only for me?”
Her breath trembled. “Do not play with me, Your Grace,” she said, though her voice barely held steady.
He opened his mouth to answer, to tell her that he was not playing games with her, that she haunted him more than he dared admit, but the final chord of the music cut through the air like a blade, and the dance ended.
Cassian held her hand a second longer than propriety allowed, then guided her off the floor, leaning close enough for her to feel the warmth of him, close enough for her knees to weaken.
“Meet me at the terrace,” he whispered. “In half an hour.”
Before she could speak, before she could scold him or succumb to her own rapidly unraveling restraint, he turned and vanished into the throng of guests.
Isabella stood frozen, her heart pounding erratically beneath the confines of her gown. She inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself as the dancers shifted around her. It took several moments before she found her way through the crowd to the faces she trusted most.
“Bella!”
Beatrice’s voice carried above the swell of chatter as she waved her over. Leo stood beside her, both wearing knowing smiles that made Isabella want to flee.
Beatrice linked her arm with Isabella’s the moment she reached them.
“Well,” her twin began in a tone of unmistakable mischief, “that was quite the sight.”
Leo chuckled. “The Duke of Everthorne nearly knocked over a viscount to claim the first dance.”
“He did no such thing.” Isabella flushed violently.
“Deny it all you want,” Beatrice insisted. “We saw it happen. That poor man looked ready to faint.”
“It meant nothing. He only asked because I have been helping Lady Kendrick. That is all.” Isabella glared at both of them, and Beatrice arched a brow.
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
“Bea,” Isabella warned.
“Bella,” her twin countered sweetly, “he stared at you as though the rest of the room ceased to exist.”
Leo nodded. “Even I saw it. The man looked ready to commit murder.”
Isabella’s cheeks heated further.
“You are both being absurd. He is a grump who does not know how to behave in polite society.”
“Yet you are very red for someone so unaffected,” Beatrice smirked.
Isabella spluttered, unable to conjure a coherent retort.
“The ballroom is warm,” she attempted, but Leo shook his head.
“The ballroom is freezing.”
She glared at him, too.
Beatrice laughed quietly and squeezed her arm. “Very well. I shall not pry. But I know that expression on your face, Bella. It looks remarkably like a woman who is trying very hard not to think.”
Isabella looked away, her breath faltering for the briefest second. Beatrice was right; she was trying hard not to think about him.
The memory of his touch lingered upon her skin, the heat of his palm at her back, the firm curl of his fingers around hers, the way his voice had lowered when he whispered for her to meet him.
Half an hour.
Her heart gave a tiny, traitorous flutter.
The cool air of the ballroom corridor seemed to ease the heat in Isabella’s cheeks, at least for a moment, before Lord Falchester’s unmistakable voice reached her.
“Lady Isabella,” he drawled as he stepped neatly into her path, bowing with polished grace. “What a pleasure to find you unoccupied. Might I have the next dance?”
He did not wait for permission before lifting her dance card from her fingers, and with a flourish, he scripted his name upon an empty line.
Why does he never take a hint?
The man was harder to shake than a cold.
“Lord Falchester,” Isabella acknowledged with a polite smile, “I had not expected to see you tonight.” She hoped her distracted reply would make him take leave.
“Oh, but I attend all events of significance,” he replied smoothly, returning her card. “And now that the talk of London is this… Laurel Club of yours, I find my curiosity thoroughly piqued.”
“We must certainly be doing something right if we have earned your interest.” She humored him.
“Mm,” he murmured thoughtfully, offering his arm for her to take. “I did hear of unclothed men at one of its gatherings.”
Isabella felt her spine stiffen, yet she kept her voice calm.
“We hosted a theatrical performance, and the attire of the performers is none of your concern.”
He chuckled lightly.
“Indeed. Though I confess I cannot imagine any respectable lady requiring entertainment of that manner.” He lowered his arm when it became apparent that she would not take it.
She turned a cool look upon him.
“I assure you, My Lord, the Laurels require nothing more than what the gentlemen of the ton have indulged in freely for centuries.”
His brows rose in brief surprise, but he laughed again, though the sound carried an undertone she did not care for.
“Spirited as ever, Lady Isabella.”
“And uninterested as ever,” she replied sweetly.
The music shifted to a livelier tempo, and as the ladies and gentlemen swept onto the floor, Isabella felt the familiar tick of time in her chest.
Nearly there.
“Please excuse me, My Lord,” she said. Lord Falchester blinked, a hint of frustration shadowing his features, but he bowed anyway.
“Of course. Until later,” he waved at her, but Isabella had already stepped away.
She moved quickly, weaving through the clusters of guests, until the terrace doors came into view: tall, white-framed, and invitingly open to the cool night.
Her breath caught when she saw him.