his mind had become more and more frequent. When he first arrived, restraint and caution were of primary concern; however, when he could not find Mary, unreasonable impatience and anxiety made him risk the brighter, more dense areas. Within the hour, instead of abandoning the notion of staying, as he should have, he impetuously, recklessly began pacing and circling the dance, disregarding his own safety altogether.
Then, he saw her…
Her eyes —sweet, innocent, and frightened—completely snagged his heart, and in a moment of panic and bliss, he surrendered without knowing he had entered battle.
Her hair , flowing down her back like shimmering waves of cinnamon, begged to be threaded through his aching fingers.
Her figure, so hidden by an ugly brown smock, took his breath away. Delicate and curved and very, very feminine, it was complemented by a simple blue dress that shamed the glittery, deeply exposing garments inside ballrooms and parlors.
All the years of practice with other females deserted him. The ever confident Alexander Gracey, reader of women’s hearts, gentle seducer, considerate lover, did not have the slightest notion how to woo this fragile little flower.
Yet he stayed and begged for embarrassing dances. In the entirety of the evening, only one victory could be claimed. Risking yet another moment of identification, Alec had slipped the fiddler a substantial sum of money to play a slow waltz.
Well worth the effort. Differences between religion, politics, and obligations disappeared beneath the shimmering stars as he, for precious few moments, was allowed to inhale a rare and rose-scented flower, and embrace a fragile, authentic treasure without threat or challenge.
However, the rest of the evening was nothing less than disastrous. How many times had he stepped on her slippered foot? Throughout the evening, he oft wondered if the Irish natives inserted their own version of hops, twists, and turns just to catch impostors.
Lord knew, she definitely suspected he was not who he pretended. He groaned, remembering the grimaces on her face.
Surveying the impossibly slow progress toward the drink table, Alec then glanced back at Mary Smyth.
The wiry farmer had found her and now stole his spot on the bench. A degrading night indeed when forced to compete with an underprivileged back-hills tenant farmer for a woman’s conversation.
He strode forward, then turned back and glared at the couple on the bench. The redheaded man now leaned closer yet. Look how she smiles at the man. The farmer’s smallest effort yields huge reward!
And then the farmer leaned closer and whispered something in her ear. She laughed.
Fire blazed within Alec’s chest, through his limbs, and into his brain and defeated caution. At that moment, he realized that he would gamble anything—a scandal, his safety, even defiance of the earl himself—to protect his time with Mary Smyth.
Surging forward, Alec ignored the men’s grumbles as he stepped ahead of several and grabbed two drinks. He whipped about, sloshing the drinks over his hands.
But wait. He froze. Miss Smyth was shaking her head. Had she refused the farmer’s pleadings? The farmer stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood.
Delight quenched Alec’s volatile mood.
He could breathe again. She kept her promise. Perhaps he was not as unimpressive as he’d imagined. Pride was restored and hope renewed, especially when he saw the farmer wave to someone across the field.
Alec stayed a little back as he watched the foolish farmer strut away, unaware another rejoiced at the departure.
His hands seemed too cold, his blood too warm as he neared her. Heart thumping desperately, Alec tried to remember one time in his life when he had been so anxious.
At his approach, she looked up. Her pale expression indicated her nervousness, but she smiled softly…so different from the energetic smiles given to the farmer.
Gulping a breath of air, he slowed his gait. Nothing—the
Then, he saw her…
Her eyes —sweet, innocent, and frightened—completely snagged his heart, and in a moment of panic and bliss, he surrendered without knowing he had entered battle.
Her hair , flowing down her back like shimmering waves of cinnamon, begged to be threaded through his aching fingers.
Her figure, so hidden by an ugly brown smock, took his breath away. Delicate and curved and very, very feminine, it was complemented by a simple blue dress that shamed the glittery, deeply exposing garments inside ballrooms and parlors.
All the years of practice with other females deserted him. The ever confident Alexander Gracey, reader of women’s hearts, gentle seducer, considerate lover, did not have the slightest notion how to woo this fragile little flower.
Yet he stayed and begged for embarrassing dances. In the entirety of the evening, only one victory could be claimed. Risking yet another moment of identification, Alec had slipped the fiddler a substantial sum of money to play a slow waltz.
Well worth the effort. Differences between religion, politics, and obligations disappeared beneath the shimmering stars as he, for precious few moments, was allowed to inhale a rare and rose-scented flower, and embrace a fragile, authentic treasure without threat or challenge.
However, the rest of the evening was nothing less than disastrous. How many times had he stepped on her slippered foot? Throughout the evening, he oft wondered if the Irish natives inserted their own version of hops, twists, and turns just to catch impostors.
Lord knew, she definitely suspected he was not who he pretended. He groaned, remembering the grimaces on her face.
Surveying the impossibly slow progress toward the drink table, Alec then glanced back at Mary Smyth.
The wiry farmer had found her and now stole his spot on the bench. A degrading night indeed when forced to compete with an underprivileged back-hills tenant farmer for a woman’s conversation.
He strode forward, then turned back and glared at the couple on the bench. The redheaded man now leaned closer yet. Look how she smiles at the man. The farmer’s smallest effort yields huge reward!
And then the farmer leaned closer and whispered something in her ear. She laughed.
Fire blazed within Alec’s chest, through his limbs, and into his brain and defeated caution. At that moment, he realized that he would gamble anything—a scandal, his safety, even defiance of the earl himself—to protect his time with Mary Smyth.
Surging forward, Alec ignored the men’s grumbles as he stepped ahead of several and grabbed two drinks. He whipped about, sloshing the drinks over his hands.
But wait. He froze. Miss Smyth was shaking her head. Had she refused the farmer’s pleadings? The farmer stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood.
Delight quenched Alec’s volatile mood.
He could breathe again. She kept her promise. Perhaps he was not as unimpressive as he’d imagined. Pride was restored and hope renewed, especially when he saw the farmer wave to someone across the field.
Alec stayed a little back as he watched the foolish farmer strut away, unaware another rejoiced at the departure.
His hands seemed too cold, his blood too warm as he neared her. Heart thumping desperately, Alec tried to remember one time in his life when he had been so anxious.
At his approach, she looked up. Her pale expression indicated her nervousness, but she smiled softly…so different from the energetic smiles given to the farmer.
Gulping a breath of air, he slowed his gait. Nothing—the
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