Lady Em's Indiscretion by Elena Greene Page A

of
himself. My footman awaits me and would have protected me in any
case.”
    “You came alone?”
    Livvy paused, knowing how scandalous her
behavior must seem. But it was unlikely they would meet again, or
that he would recognize her.
    She nodded. “And you?”
    “I came with my cousin. He has been plaguing
me for some time to come with him to one of these affairs. I agreed
only to prove I am a hopeless case, beyond the pleasures of
dancing.”
    “Is that why you chose to be the skeleton at
the feast? A joke on your poor cousin?” she asked playfully.
    “A rather feeble joke, I suppose,” he said,
looking down at her with an expression that was suddenly intent.
Hungry.
    “Have you accomplished your aim, then?
Proven that you are a hopeless case?”
    He stared down, light from the chandeliers
again reflecting in his eyes. Brown. No, not brown: a rich
mahogany, deep and velvety, fire in their depths.
    “Perhaps not.”
    His voice sent another current of warmth
curling through her. A dangerous feeling. One she’d not felt since
she was seventeen.
    Then it was time for them to rejoin the
dance. Livvy did so with a mixture of regret and relief, which only
grew as the dance progressed to its inevitable end. She curtsied
toward her partner, the warmth he’d kindled strengthening as he
swept her a deep bow.
    She did not want to feel it. And yet . .
.
    “I must go now,” she said, forcing the words
out.
    He stared down at her, mouth tightening. In
disappointment?
    “Must you?” he asked softly. “I would very
much enjoy another dance.”
    “I . . . think I must go.”
    “At least allow me to escort you to your
footman.”
    She nodded, reluctant to part any sooner
than necessary. And she did feel safe with him. As he took her arm
once more, she stole a glance toward his profile. He was licking
his lips; he was about to speak. Was he going to ask her name, or .
. . Lud! She’d read about it so many times in novels. He might be
planning to invite her to a late supper. In stories, that always
ended in the heroine’s seduction and ruin. The authors of those
novels did not, perhaps, realize that ruin could take more
respectable forms.
    In any case it was time to leave.
    She sped up, but a moment later the stranger
spoke.
    “Forgive me if I seem forward,” he said,
with disarming hesitancy. “But I should very much like to
know—”
    “Ah, there you are! You shan’t run away
now!”
    Livvy turned to see the Turk coming their
way from the opposite end of the ballroom. Her escort glanced back,
then took her arm and began to lead her on a crooked path through
the milling revelers.
    The Turk’s loud voice boomed again. “I’ll
see your face before the night’s done, you jade!”
    Death steered her ever faster through the
crowd, then pushed her gently against one of the pillars that lined
the sides of the ballroom. Shielding her with his body, he pressed
her head to his shoulder and draped his cloak around her.
    Her heart galloped as his muscular form
pressed against hers. First in fear, then, as he did nothing more,
an old, familiar heat flowed through her, stoked by the sharp
intake of his breath, the betrayal of his unmistakable masculine
reaction to their closeness.
    It was wonderful and terrifying.
    And all he did was hold her. He made no
attempt to kiss or fondle her, merely hiding her under his cloak,
his body subtly vibrating with his restraint. Nothing more. He
demanded nothing more.
    Desire flushed her body, and she stiffened.
She couldn’t allow this, didn’t want to feel anything like it
again. But she didn’t wish to run away either. So they stood for
long moments, pressed so close that she could barely distinguish
his labored breathing from her own, while desire ebbed and flowed
with her fears.
    Then he shifted. “I think . . . he is gone,”
he whispered.
    She looked up at him, but it was too dark to
see his face. His ragged breath spoke of arousal. The heat rose
inside her again, like a madness.