Chapter 21
“You are out of your mind.”
Lily seized Hugo by the lapel and hauled him through her bedroom door before the corridor swallowed the sound of his footsteps. She shut the door behind him and pressed her back against it, her pulse hammering.
Hugo stood in the center of her room with his hands in his pockets and the faint, infuriating curve of a smile on his lips.
“You pulled me inside rather eagerly for a woman who thinks I am out of my mind.”
“Because you were standing in the corridor outside my bedroom in the middle of the afternoon. If anyone had noticed you…”
“No one saw me.”
He said it with such calm certainty that she wanted to shake him. Instead, she watched as his gaze moved around her room. The books stacked on the nightstand. The journal was open on her writing desk. The sapphire gown hanging from the wardrobe door.
His attention lingered there.
“Tomorrow night the house party ends with a ball,” he said. “You need dancing lessons.”
“I know how to dance.”
“You know the steps. That is not the same thing.” He turned back to her. “I need to teach you how to dance to allure a man.”
Lily stared at him. “How is that different from regular dancing?”
“Very.”
He removed his coat and draped it over the back of her chair as though disrobing in her bedroom was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Tomorrow night we will open the dancing together. After that, Wilfrey will ask you. And when he does, you need to know how to move so that every step, every turn, every brush of your hand against his makes him forget his own name.”
Her face grew hot. “Anyone could hear us.”
“We need only a few minutes. You can practice alone afterward.”
Alone.
The word should not have sounded so vexing.
She folded her arms, but it did nothing to steady her. Hugo stood in the afternoon light from her window, his shirtsleeves white against his forearms, his fair hair slightly disheveled, his amber eyes full of that quiet patience that made resistance feel childish.
At last, she dropped her arms. “Fine. A few minutes.”
He stepped toward her and extended his hand.
Lily placed her palm in his, already regretting it.
His other hand settled on her waist.
“Posture first.” His fingers touched her shoulder, light but certain. “You stand as though you are bracing for an argument. Let your body settle. Stop fighting the floor.”
“I am not fighting the floor.”
“You are fighting everything.”
She stiffened.
His mouth twitched. “Including this.”
“I am concentrating.”
“That is the problem.”
He moved, guiding her through the first slow steps of a waltz without music. His hand pressed at the small of her back, drawing her just close enough that she noticed every inch between them.
“Now look at me.”
She looked at him.
“Not like that.”
“What is wrong with how I am looking at you?”
“You look as though I have asked you to solve an equation. Look at me as though I am the only man in the world.”
“That is absurd.”
“It is useful. Try.”
Lily drew a breath and tried. She held his gaze and attempted to soften her expression into something that suggested fascination rather than suspicion.
Hugo shook his head. “You are thinking about it too much.”
“I like thinking.”
“I know you do.” His voice dropped, and he leaned closer. His breath stirred the loose curls near her temple. “But you are allowed to feel, Lily.”
The words slipped beneath her defenses before she could stop them.
She missed a step.
His hand tightened at her waist, steadying her.
“You carry every thought, every want, every impulse as though admitting it would ruin you.”
“That is a dramatic interpretation of poor dancing.”
“No. It is an accurate interpretation of you.”
Her heart thudded harder. “And what do you suggest?”
His gaze held hers for a moment too long.
“That you stop treating desire as though it belongs only to other people.”
The room seemed to shrink around them.
Lily swallowed. “I do not know what that means.”
Something shifted behind his eyes. Surprise, followed by understanding, then a tenderness he covered far too quickly with a faint smile.
“It means you do not need to wait for a man to tell you what your body enjoys. You may discover some of that for yourself.” He held her gaze. “Tonight, when you are alone, and the house is quiet, and that restlessness returns… and it will return… do not fight it. Lie back. Close your eyes.”
His voice dropped to something barely above a breath. “Let your hands wander. Slowly. There is no rush. Pay attention to what makes your breath catch. What makes your skin flush. What makes you want more.”
His thumb traced a slow circle against her waist, so light she might have imagined it. “Your body already knows what it wants, Lily. You have simply never given it permission to ask.”
Her lips parted.
Heat climbed her neck, then her cheeks. She could not decide whether to slap him, shove him out, or demand he explain precisely what he meant, which was surely the most mortifying possibility of all.
“That is not something you ought to be saying to me.”
“Which is why I am leaving.”
He released her waist and stepped back. The absence of his hand was almost worse than the touch.
“Practice the steps,” he said, retrieving his coat. “Remember what I said about your posture. And tomorrow night, when you look at Wilfrey, make him believe he is the only man in the world.”
He crossed to the door.
“Good afternoon, Lily.”
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut, and the room fell silent.
Lily stood in the center with the warmth of his hand still lingering at her waist and his words circling through her mind like smoke.
She sat on the edge of the bed. She stared at the opposite wall.
She told herself she would not think about what he had said.
Naturally, she thought about nothing else.
She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. The room was warm, the late afternoon sun slanting through the curtains, and Hugo’s voice returned to her, low and certain.
Stop treating desire as though it belongs only to other people.
Her fingers rose to her collarbone before she decided to move them. She traced the line of it, remembering how his gaze had lingered there more than once. The touch sent a slow warmth beneath her skin.
“I should stop,” she muttered to herself.
She did not.
Her hand drifted lower, skimming the edge of her bodice, the curve of her waist. The warmth deepened, gathering inside her with a force that made reason feel distant and unhelpful.
Then the kiss came back to her.
The balcony. The taste of champagne. The press of Hugo’s mouth against hers. The sound she had made when he deepened it, a sound that had come from some hidden place below thought.
Her breathing quickened.
Hugo.
His hands. His voice. His mouth.
She snatched her hand away and pressed it flat against the mattress.
She was utterly puzzled by him.
She was puzzled by how completely he had invaded her mind. Puzzled by how thoroughly he had dismantled every defense she had spent twenty-three years building. Puzzled by the fact that the mere memory of his voice could make her body answer in ways her intellect could not command.
She rolled onto her side, stared at the curtains, and willed the heat to fade.
It did not.
The ball began at nine o’clock.
Lily stood at the top of the grand staircase and told herself she was not nervous.
This was ridiculous. She had attended balls before. She knew how to descend stairs. She knew how to enter a room. She knew how to breathe.
At least in theory.
Below her, the ballroom glittered with candlelight. Guests gathered in clusters of silk and jewels, laughter rising above the first soft notes of the orchestra. At the foot of the stairs stood Hugo, greeting everyone with the effortless polish of a man born to be observed.
Lily felt the moment his gaze found her.
It should not have mattered. She was wearing the sapphire gown because he had chosen it for the plan.
Her hair was arranged in the soft style he had requested because the plan required it.
The seed pearls, the bare sweep of her shoulders, the silk catching the light- all of it helped her win Lord Wilfrey’s attention.
But Hugo’s expression changed. Only for a heartbeat.
His smile vanished. His hand stilled. The mask slipped, and for one impossible moment, he looked at her as though the entire room had fallen away.
The sight sent a tremor through her.
Then he recovered, but not quickly enough.
She reached the bottom of the stairs and placed her hand in his.
“Your Grace,” she said, pleased that her voice remained steady. “Shall we open the dancing?”
His fingers closed around hers.
They moved to the floor. The orchestra began the first waltz, and Hugo placed his hand at her waist. He drew her closer than he should have, close enough that she had to resist the memory of the day before, of his hand in the same place, his voice in her ear.
Lily lifted her gaze and did exactly what he had taught her.
She looked at him as though he were the only man in the world.
Hugo missed a step.
No one else would have noticed. He stumbled for a fraction of a beat, nothing more.
But Lily noticed.
A flicker of triumph shot through her. Because for all his lessons, all his control, all his maddening certainty, she had unsettled him.
“Careful, Your Grace,” she murmured. “People will think you are nervous.”
“I am never nervous.” His voice was low, but something rough had crept into it. “You, however, are good at that.”
“At what?”
“At making a man forget where his feet are.”
“You taught me.”
“I taught you to use it on Wilfrey. Not on me.”
“Consider it a demonstration.” She held his gaze. “To prove I was paying attention.”
Something shifted in his expression. The teasing fell away, and what replaced it was unguarded and intent, and for a breath, his hand tightened at her waist as though he were anchoring himself.
“You were paying attention,” he said quietly. “That is what terrifies me.”