Chapter 18
For one disbelieving instant, Darcy thought she must have imagined it.
Yet there it was: the unmistakable flare in Sebastian’s eyes and the subtle tightening of his jaw as though he fought to master it.
The knowledge hit her like a living thing, warm and wild and impossible to contain.
Her heart stuttered; her pulse thrummed everywhere at once.
He wanted Miss Darcy Whitley, not Red, and the truth thrilled her more than she could bear.
It ought to have mortified her, perhaps even shamed her, but instead delight shivered through her veins.
She felt suddenly fragile, made of light and breath and want.
Darcy had to glance away, for fear that he might see too clearly how much she wanted him in return.
Her steps slowed as a thought occurred to her, and she frowned.
He was a libertine. Only a few days ago she had been in his arms as Red, yet here he stood now, looking at Darcy as though he wished to ravish her.
She fought the blush that threatened to betray her and tried to appear composed, distant, and unaffected.
He finally moved toward her. Each step was unhurried, assured, his presence drawing the eye without effort.
The streetlamps caught upon his features, lending a quiet severity to his handsomeness.
Sebastian reached her and offered his arm, which she accepted, resting her gloved hand lightly upon it.
His gaze settled upon her, taking in every detail of her appearance in a manner that sent a flush rising along her skin.
“My lord,” she managed, though her voice felt unfamiliar to her own ears.
“Miss Whitley,” he returned. “I hope the evening proves everything you wished for and you will be delighted.”
A startled sound slipped from her, not quite graceful, and his mouth curved.
“I have drawn many sounds from women,” he said lightly, “but that one is new. It bore a striking resemblance to a squawk.”
Annoyance flared at how effortlessly he disturbed her equilibrium, and, seized by a sudden, daring impulse, she decided to return the favor.
“Given the skill of which you boast so shamelessly, what sound might you coax from me, my lord?” she murmured as he led her up the steps toward the receiving line.
He faltered only slightly, yet it was enough. Triumph rushed through Darcy. Two could play at shameless flirtation.
“Many,” he said at last, though his voice had roughened.
She tilted her head, allowing a hint of challenge to enter her tone. “I should be content with one,” she replied softly. “A sigh of pleasure, perhaps, as we dance. Though I must confess I am not the most accomplished of partners… I would very much like to attempt the waltz.”
Sebastian smiled. “I have never had a lady request a sigh so elegantly and innocently. I shall endeavor not merely to oblige, but to excel.”
Warmth unfurled inside her chest at the teasing note in his voice. He handed the butler his card, upon which their names were promptly announced.
“The Earl of Raine and Mrs. Whitley.”
The announcement rang clearly through the ballroom, and with it came a shift—subtle at first, then unmistakable. Conversations faltered, fans lifted, and a ripple of murmurs spread outward as though carried upon an unseen current. Darcy felt it at once. The weight of attention.
Her steps faltered for the briefest instant before she gathered herself, lifting her chin as they descended into the room. Yet she could not ignore the multitude of eyes that followed their progress, the whispers that crested and fell like waves against the walls.
“Why is everyone staring?” she asked under her breath.
Sebastian’s expression did not alter, though she sensed a flicker of amusement beneath his composure.
“I have never escorted an unattached lady into a ballroom,” he replied. “Naturally, they mean to decide whether you are my ruin or my salvation before the first set concludes.”
“Oh,” Darcy said, striving for lightness. “How… interesting.”
He guided her through the crowd with practiced ease, pausing first before a distinguished couple whose bearing spoke of rank and confidence.
“Your Graces,” Sebastian said, inclining his head. “May I present Mrs. Whitley? Mrs. Whitley, Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Basil.”
The duke regarded her with a keen but not unkind gaze, while his wife’s expression softened into something warmer, her hand resting lightly upon her husband’s arm in a manner that spoke of deep affection.
“A pleasure, Mrs. Whitley,” the duchess said kindly. “Any friend of Lord Raine’s is most welcome.”
Darcy managed a graceful curtsy, though her pulse had begun to race. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”
They spoke only briefly, yet Darcy found herself unexpectedly at ease beneath their regard, the duchess’s cheerful and kind warmth dispelling some of her earlier unease.
From there, Sebastian introduced her to Lord and Lady Radbourne, whose lively wit and easy manners soon had Darcy smiling in spite of herself.
She could scarcely believe it. She stood in a grand ballroom, conversing with dukes and earls as though she had belonged among them all her life.
At first, her nerves lingered, tightening her movements, constraining her speech, yet Sebastian’s acquaintances proved gracious, their curiosity tempered by genuine civility. Gradually, she relaxed, drawn into the rhythm of the evening.
The dancing commenced soon after. The duke claimed her hand for a quadrille, and Darcy followed him onto the floor with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
Yet the steps came to her more readily than she had feared, and she found herself silently thanking her mother—and the dancing master the late earl had once engaged—for the lessons that now preserved her from embarrassment.
The music quickened, and delight unfurled within her as naturally as breath.
She had always loved to dance. There was something intoxicating in surrendering to the rhythm, letting one’s feet remember steps learned so long ago they no longer required thought.
She crossed the set, curtsied, turned, and joined hands with the others in graceful succession, laughter threatening at the corners of her mouth as the silken skirts of her ball gown whispered over the polished floor.
When at last the set concluded, the duke returned Darcy to the edge of the floor. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Whitley.”
Darcy smiled, and her heart lurched when Sebastian approached her then. “The next dance is mine, Mrs. Whitley. Say you will honor me.”
Her heart gave a sudden thump as she placed her gloved hand in his. “The waltz?” she asked.
“The waltz,” he confirmed.
He led her onto the floor, and as his hand settled at her waist and their fingers entwined, a sharp awareness moved through her, immediate and undeniable.
Would her body remember his instruction too readily?
Would he recognize the feel of her in his arms and understand that he had already taught her this dance at Aphrodite?
“Please forgive me if I stumble over my feet.”
His mouth curved in a lazy, unconcerned smile. “Your quadrille gave no evidence of clumsiness.”
“Our mother engaged a dancing master for the country dances,” she replied, staring into his eyes and fervently hoping her admiration was not plain for everyone to see. “The waltz was not among his lessons.”
The strains of the waltz began, and immediately the world seemed to fall away as he guided her through the sweeping turns, his movements assured, his hold steady, drawing her into graceful arcs that felt at once exhilarating and perilous.
She followed, her body responding instinctively, the rhythm carrying her forward even as her awareness sharpened with every step.
And then the temptation he had spoken of when they danced at Aphrodite made itself known, the subtle narrowing of space, the awareness of how little separated them, the intoxicating pull to lean closer, to surrender to the proximity that polite society pretended was nothing at all.
So this is the first pull of temptation.
How wickedly hypocritical society was to permit such a dance, then profess astonishment when young ladies fell into the clutches of libertines.
She felt unbearably tempted to shift even closer and nuzzle her nose against his throat…
then brush her mouth over his skin. Darcy’s heart raced, and she found herself wishing they were at Aphrodite, where she might kiss him in the center of a crowded ballroom, and no one would gasp or swoon at the sight.
A soft sigh, one unquestionably of longing, slipped from her when he led her into a wide sweep, then pulled her closer.
“Not the sound you asked for, but I will take it,” he drawled. “What is it that you long for?”
Darcy flushed. “Are you so certain it was longing, my lord?”
“I am long acquainted with the sounds women make. I am certain of it.”
“Yet my earlier squawk quite overset your equanimity.”
He chuckled, and she liked the warmth of him when he forgot to be politely indifferent. More than once she had wondered why he had brought her here. He had remembered the wish she voiced at the museum, but had something deeper moved him?
“You are staring, Mrs. Whitley.”
“I find myself compelled to stare whenever you are near.”
His dark blue eyes gleamed provocatively. “You silver-tongued devil. Pray continue. I find myself greedy for flattery.”
Darcy laughed, the sound louder than she intended.
“You are a very accomplished dancer.” She lifted a brow at his droll expression.
“Surely you did not expect something more lavish? Emelia once mentioned the most artful compliment one can give a gentleman is about the poem he writes or his excellent form when dancing.”
Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “I had an excellent teacher.”
“Your tutor?”
He guided her through another turn, the movement bringing her close enough that her skirts brushed his legs. “My father.”