Dancing With A Devil (5 page)

He curled his hands into fists, then spread his fingers out and examined his nails. It had taken over a year, but the ridges and constant blue tinge underneath the nail had faded finally. No one would look at them now and wonder what had happened. If he allowed himself to remember too long his time in the dark, dingy rat-infested cell, the intense sharp pain of each nail being yanked out one by one would shoot through his fingers and up his arms like it was happening again. He had been starved, beaten and mentally sliced to shreds, all because he had trusted a woman.

Yet every woman was not Gwyneth. His gut twisted with the knowledge. It did not matter. His head knew this, but it did not matter. No. Much better to be lonely for the rest of his life than to risk getting close to anyone ever again.

Most debutantes would have been thrilled if the Duke of Clarington had singled them out for conversation at a ball. Not Audrey. Long ago, she had realized she was not like most other debutantes. If she had wanted to marry simply for money, then she would be thrilled to be trapped conversing with Lord Clarington and his friend Lord Spencer, but she wished to marry for love. She peeked at Lord Clarington’s hard-set face and shuddered. She could never love him. He appeared colder than a frozen pond. She stole a look at Lord Clarington’s friend, Lord Spencer. He had a smile on his face, but it was a practiced smile. The vain peacock probably sat in front of a looking glass for hours to get the effect he desired.

How long had it taken him to pick out the blue-and-white striped jacket he wore tonight? Hopefully not long since it obliterated the boundaries of good taste for evening attire, not to mention the elaborate peeks jabbing his cheeks appeared quite painful. As for Lord Clarington, it did not matter what he wore, because his pinched face and cold eyes told her everything she needed to know.

As the men stood directly in front of her and argued over which one of them was the best huntsman, she raised her fan and flicked her gaze across the guests at the Allreds’ ball. She searched the grand ballroom to see whether her father still watched her, while simultaneously she hoped to catch a glimpse of Trent and discover that by some happy fate he had decided to attend the ball tonight.

She started her examination at the right side of the room, which shimmered with warm light provided by hundreds of candelabra and dozens of enormous crystal chandeliers. Near one of the large white columns that circled the perimeter of the marble dance floor she caught site of broad shoulders and light hair. Could it be Trent? Gripping her fan, she discreetly rose on her tiptoes to see the man’s face.

As she got a good look, disappointment filled her. How could she have mistaken his almost white hair for Trent’s beautiful golden hair? Wishful gazing she supposed.

Where was Trent? Perhaps the more pressing question at this moment was where was her father? If he was preoccupied in conversation and no longer watching her like a hawk maybe she could slip away and hide in the powder room until the supper dance. Then Lord Thortonberry would come to claim her for their dance, and at least she did not have to worry about pretending with him or being concerned her father would try to get a marriage offer from him since Lord Thortonberry was a longtime family friend and most definitely not interested in her.

As the notes of the cotillion drifted over the balmy orchid-scented air to her, the dance floor drew her gaze once more. Since Lord Clarington and Lord Spencer still stood arguing with each other, she allowed herself a moment more to pay them no mind. In the center of the ballroom, lords in exquisite black evening attire and gleaming shoes twirled ladies in delicate silk gowns of jonquil, cerulean blue and Pomona green.

Whitney’s sister Gillian and her husband, Lord Lionhurst, spun by Audrey. Longing flittered in her stomach. She wanted to look at a man and have him stare back at her as those two did, as if no one else was in the room. Perhaps it was because they had just returned from their extended wedding trip abroad that their faces held a certain enraptured glow. Audrey swallowed hard. That was silly. They were in love. Very much so. She peered at Gillian. Her friend looked magnificent in a rose gown of satin covered in pearl rosettes.

Self-consciously, Audrey ran a smoothing hand over her favorite gown from last season, a silk indigo creation with a layer of white spider gauze over it. She had felt like a princess in this last year, but now it was a tad faded and not quite as fine. Well, it would have to do since father had denied her request for new gowns, no doubt to punish her for what he called her most recent colossal failure to catch a proper husband.

She trailed her tongue over the sore she had developed on her inner cheek. Every time her father lectured her this week since she had returned home, she bit her cheek to keep herself from speaking out and defending herself. She could not very well tell him the truth that she had not mucked up her betrothal to Mr. Wentworth, because Mr. Wentworth did not exist and there had never been a betrothal. Admitting to her father that she had fabricated the whole story to avoid having to return home to him because she feared whom next he would try to force her to marry would not help his anger at her at all.

Distinctive throat clearing snapped her attention back to the gentlemen, who both stood staring at her expectantly. Heat singed her cheeks. She hated nothing more than being caught unaware. Lord Clarington held out his arm to her. “I do believe we have come to the dance I requested from you.”

She nodded. She wanted to be dancing with Trent, not Lord Clarington, but it was hard to dance with a man who had made himself scarce for an entire week. It no longer seemed quite so lucky that he had told her he wanted to be friends as it had when she thought that meant she would see him often and still have the chance to make him fall in love with her.

She slipped her hand into the crook of Lord Clarington’s elbow, and as she did, she saw her father, not five feet away, drink in hand and a fierce frown on his face. He stood just behind a large suit of gleaming armor. Had he been watching her this entire time? Given the way he now glared at her, he must have noted her preoccupation as Lord Clarington and Lord Spencer had talked.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she searched her mind for what she could do that might please him and make him think she was really giving Lord Clarington a chance. Ah! “Lord Clarington, tell me, have you read any good books lately?”

“
Nothing that would interest you.”

She gritted her teeth, then forced her smile bigger. “I daresay I’m interested in quite a great deal. What is it you are reading?”

He moved them into place for the quadrille. “I’m reading
Rob Roy
. You would not understand it.”

If her father were not watching her, she would tell Lord Clarington what an offensive bore he was and leave him standing alone. Instead, she tilted her head. “Ah,
Rob Roy
. Quite a good novel. I already read it, of course.”

Lord Clarington’s mouth fell open as he moved with the dancers. “You could not have.”

She barely resisted the urge to pinch the man. “I assure you I could and did.”

His mouth puckered as if he had sucked on something tart. “What is it about?”

Once she moved back toward him she said, “Do you wish for me to give you a synopsis of the entire book? The main narrator is Frank Osbaldistone. He falls in love with Diana Vernon, whose father is in hiding because of his Jacobite sympathies.” She took a deep breath, rather enjoying the increasing pinched look on his face. “Then―”

“
Enough,” he snapped and jerked away. When once again he faced her, his nostril flared so wide he looked comical. “Women should not tire their minds by reading such heavy tomes. You should read magazines or some such thing.”

“
If you say so,” she murmured. Arguing with this foolish man was a waste of her time. Instead, as she kept up with the dance she recommenced her search for Trent. The conspicuous line of wallflowers in various hues of light pinks, blues and yellows standing without dance partners by the large potted plants made her angry at the stupidity of men and envious that the wallflowers did not have to endure Lord Clarington. She prayed he did not offer for her. Her father would surely demand she marry him and that would be a lifetime of misery.

At the end of the quadrille, Lord Clarington led her off the dance floor, opposite of where her father had been. She simply had to have a moment alone. As Lord Spencer approached them once more, she released Lord Clarington’s elbow. “Thank you for the lovely dance and conversation. If you will excuse me, I think I will go freshen up.”

“
There is no need,” Lord Spencer said. “You look exquisite.”

“
Careful with this one,” Lord Clarington said, eyeing her. “She reads
Rob Roy
.”

“
Rob Roy
?” Lord Spencer exclaimed. “Really? How fascinating. My sisters read nothing but
Lady’s Monthly Museum
. They love the gossip and fashion.”

Lord Clarington locked his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at her. “That is what ladies should read.”

She should not comment. Her lips trembled with need. She could hold it in. All she need do was excuse herself without offending the man, so he would not report her behavior to her father.

“
I see you are finally mute on the subject, as is proper.”

“
If I became mute, it is because your arrogance astonished me.”

“
I beg your pardon?” His tony was icy.

“
As well you should,” came a patronizing voice from behind her.

She swiveled around and could not stop the genuine smile that lit her face. He had come. Trent was actually here and looking gorgeous, dressed head to toe in black evening attire save the snowy white cravat that contrasted with his sun-kissed skin. Her heart fluttered at his nearness and the fact that his gaze, narrowed on Lord Clarington, glowed with anger.

He shifted closer to her, and his vitality captured her as always and made her pulse skitter. “I do believe Lady Audrey meant you are a fool when it comes to women, because women are rather smart creatures and have just as much right and ability to read
Rob Roy
as you.” He glanced at her. “Am I correct?”

“
You are.” At this moment, staring into Trent’s burning gaze, she did not give a fig if Lord Clarington bemoaned her name for hours to her father.

Trent’s mouth pulled into a slow knee-quaking smile. “Is your next dance taken?”

She was quite certain her father would rather her try to ensnare a duke like Lord Clarington than a marquess like Trent, but she could not make herself care. Tonight she would dance with a devil and tomorrow she would gladly pay the price. “No. The next dance, the supper dance, is spoken for, but this one is free.”

A slight frown appeared on Trent’s face, before it vanished and he proffered his arm. “Come, then. Let us not waste another minute.”

The second her gloved fingertips pressed against the curve of his bicep, she knew what she felt when near him had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with attraction. Emotion. The invisible pull from one person to another. A physical ache to be with him blossomed inside her.

Without a parting word, he led her away from Lord Clarington and Lord Percy and to the dance floor. As he turned her to face him, he rested one hand gently on the curve of her back and with his other hand clasped hers and raised their joined hands into position. With a thudding heart, she placed her other trembling hand on his upper arm near his shoulder.

She took a shaky breath and traces of whiskey and smoke underlying the scent fresh soap that clung to his skin tonight filled her senses. He pulled her slightly closer, so that the heat radiating off his body nearly overwhelmed her, but she noted he did not bring her closer than was proper.

“
You’re shaking.”

His deep, sensual voice made the blood rush through her veins. She wet her lips. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

He quirked his right eyebrow, a gesture she now recognized could either mean he was jesting with her or he was surprised by something she had said. She cleared her throat and tried desperately to give a good reason, besides the truth, why she would be trembling. Telling him that simply being near him made her shiver uncontrollably would not do. Not yet. She did not want to scare him off now that he had shown himself once more.

“
I do that sometimes when I’m angry.”