How the Scoundrel Seduces (14 page)

“Dance with me,” he said, this time making it a demand.

“That’s all?” she asked, her eyes luminous in the gaslight. “Just a dance?”

He couldn’t suppress his grin. “You were hoping for more, were you?”

“No! I mean . . . I merely assumed, given your reputation . . .”

“What exactly did your father tell you about me?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

She twisted the ends of her shawl in one hand. “Leave Papa out of this. He’s merely being cautious and looking out for me.”

“By throwing you at Keane, a man you barely know.”

“A man I have to marry, if Aunt Flo’s tale of my past turns out to be as true as it’s beginning to seem.”

That inflamed his temper. “All the more reason you should dance with
me
while you still can.” When she didn’t take his hand, just continued to stare at it, he added, “Come, Zoe, it’s just a dance.”

She glanced beyond him to the French doors leading out onto the terrace. “Someone might see.”

Obviously she meant Keane, damn it. And the image of her and Keane laughing and whispering together in the receiving line earlier rubbed him raw.

Stepping within a breath of her, he hardened his tone. “No one will see anything—we’re alone out here. My price for letting you go with me tomorrow is a dance, so you either pay it or I go alone. Simple as that.”

Fire flared in her face. “Do you always have to blackmail women to get them to dance with you?”

“Not usually. Most of the time I merely have to ask.”

He lifted his hand to brush her cheek, and she swallowed. The motion of her throat enthralled him. God, she was beautiful, a fairy princess in this light. It made him ache to touch her all the more.

But when he reached for her waist and she stepped back, he went on in a bitter voice, “Are you refusing me because you despise me? Or because you’re afraid you might actually enjoy dancing with a low fellow like me?”

“I’m afraid of Papa shooting you!” When he lifted an eyebrow at that, she said, “Or your shooting Papa. He said he would call you out if I danced with you.”

“Did he, now?” At least her refusal wasn’t because of Keane. “I don’t care what your father threatened. I want my dance.” He held out his hand again. “The risk makes the reward all the sweeter.”

Desperation lit her face. “There’s no music.” Seconds later, the muted sounds of a waltz being struck up drifted to them from the ballroom, and she groaned.

He laughed. “Fate is conspiring against you. And who are we to resist Fate?”

She mumbled an exasperated oath. “Oh, all right.” She took his hand. “But only one, or Papa will get suspicious and come looking for me.”

“One dance will suffice,” he said, laying his other hand on her waist to pull her as close as he dared. Which was far closer than would be proper in a ballroom.

Good thing. He wasn’t feeling particularly proper at the moment. Just the way she followed his lead as he fell into the intimate steps of the waltz sent his blood soaring.

He had her in his arms again. For a while, anyway, before she ran off to try to tempt Keane into offering for her.

With a scowl, he dragged her up against him until she was practically anchored to him at the waist. Keane could go to hell.

Her gaze shot to his, soft and searching, and he met it brazenly, his heart thundering in his ears. For the first time, he wished she was
not
heir to an earl. That she was not determined to save her father’s estate for future
generations. That she really was a Gypsy princess he’d met in a forest somewhere, and he could offer—

What? Marriage? He must be daft. He didn’t need or want a wife right now. For the moment, he preferred his rootless existence.

Liar.

“You . . . dance well,” she ventured, her cinnamon-scented breath driving him to distraction.

“You sound surprised.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have many chances to dance, given your profession.”

And your station.

At least she’d left that unsaid. “I used to live in Paris, remember? Dancing well is practically a national requirement.” They took a few more steps together before he added, “You waltz pretty well yourself, princess.”

“You must stop calling me that,” she murmured. “Yesterday I had to evade several questions from my cousin because you let it slip.”

Good
. “I suppose that was foolish of me.” He bent his head to her ear. “But surely when we’re alone, I can be forgiven for it.”

He was far too close for propriety, but he didn’t care. If she wanted him to put some distance between them, she could push him back, and the fact that she didn’t roused such fierceness in him that he could no longer resist his urges. Still waltzing her about the terrace, he began to kiss her delicate ear, then her satin-skinned cheek.

She gripped his hand painfully tight . . . but didn’t
push him away. “So . . . so what is your plan?” she breathed into his hair.

“For what?” He traced her jaw with his mouth.

“You said . . . if I danced with you, you’d come up with a scheme for getting me out . . . of our town house.”

“Ah,
that
.” He nuzzled her neck. “Well, we need a tactic that gets rid of your Ralph.”

“Most assuredly. He would tell Papa for certain if I met you somewhere to go to a Gypsy camp.”

He tongued the sweet silk of her throat that had been tempting him all evening, and she let out a gasp, then persisted in continuing her blasted conversation. “B-but the only way for me to go anywhere without him is . . . is for me to go with Aunt Flo or some other suitable . . . female.”

What the devil was she talking about? Oh, right. How he was to extricate her from the town house without Ralph. He’d better figure that out right quick if he wanted to keep kissing her.

“Would my sister be considered a suitable escort?” he asked.

“Your sister?” She pulled back, a smile breaking over her face. “Of course! That’s brilliant! If the duchess came here to take me shopping, no one would think anything amiss.” Her smile abruptly faded. “But then you’ll have to tell her the whole story about my past, and I can’t risk that.”

“I don’t have to tell her a damned thing. She’ll get you out of the house, I’ll meet you to take you off her
hands, and then we’ll arrange a place for you to join her once we’re done.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Will she agree to that?”

“Lisette will agree to anything I ask, trust me.” Indeed, she’d be happy to see him with a respectable female for once and not his usual run of light-skirts. “All I require is a few moments alone with her tonight to explain the situation. Then she can request permission from your guardians before we leave.”

As they kept dancing, she glanced away, her brow furrowed. He hoped she was being sensible, considering all the ways this could go wrong. And realizing how foolish she was to insist on going with him.

“My cousin is spending all day again tomorrow arranging the paintings for his exhibit,” she finally said, “so as long as Papa doesn’t guess that you’re involved, he’ll probably allow me to go shopping with your sister. She
is
a duchess, after all.”

So much for Zoe being sensible. “Having a duchess for a sister does have certain advantages.” A thought occurred to him. “But won’t your aunt wish to join us?”

“Leave Aunt Flo to me. She hates shopping, so I’m sure it won’t take much to talk her out of the excursion.”

“Then shopping it is.”

She’d met her side of the bargain, so he had to meet his. And it might be good for her to experience a Romany camp firsthand. It might prove to her that they weren’t the sort of people she’d assumed. He still believed that her father must have taken a Gypsy mistress. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Unfortunately, it didn’t change anything about her situation. She would still feel compelled to marry her cousin.

The thought roused his temper. He would simply have to convince her that marrying Keane was a mistake. That she’d be better off trying to keep the past hidden.

Or he would find her Gypsy mother and buy her silence. That might work.

For what? Making sure some other fellow feels free to marry her? What good does that do you? If you’re not willing to marry her yourself, then why do you care if she marries Keane?

Determined to ignore the logic of that, he released her hand so he could manacle her waist with both arms and tug her flush against him. When she lifted her hands to his neck, he exulted. For the moment, she was
his,
damn it. Only his.

The fragrance of violets,
her
fragrance, engulfed him, and he buried his face in her hair once more. With a groan, she arched her head back, giving him access to her tender throat, and he kissed and tongued the hollow there until he thought he’d burst into flame.

Her throat moved convulsively. “Th-the music has stopped.”

They were barely dancing now anyway, sketching rapidly shrinking circles on the terrace. “Has it? A pity. I guess we’ll have to do something else to entertain ourselves.”

“Like what?”

“This,” he rasped, and kissed her cheek. “Or this.” He kissed her nose. “Or even this.” And he brought his mouth down on hers.

She let him, too.

At last.

As she opened to him, he couldn’t believe he’d resisted kissing her lips
this
long. God help him, she had a miracle of a mouth, soft and warm and silky. And the feel of her arching into him, rising to the kiss like bread beneath a master baker’s hands . . .
His
hands. For the moment at least, she was his to enjoy, his to savor . . . his to kiss. Not Keane’s or anyone else’s.

The unexpectedly possessive thought knocked him back on his heels. He was losing his mind. This was a flirtation, nothing more.

Yet it felt like more. She clung to his neck with a need that roused his hunger . . . and met an answering need in him as he plundered her mouth and fought not to stroke the body that would beggar a king. That would beggar
him
if he attempted to claim it.

So why couldn’t he let her go?

Because . . . because . . .

He had no clue. All he knew was that he’d been itching to taste and smell and touch her ever since the last time. And this . . . flirtation wasn’t scratching that itch.

A moan sounded deep in her throat that spiked his itch to an ache, and then to a dark craving he couldn’t seem to satisfy. He kissed her harder, deeper, hoping to assuage the hunger, but it only made him more reckless. With a groan of defeat, he let his hands roam her
body—down over her hips, up the length of her slender waist . . . higher and higher, until they rested right beneath the breasts he ached to caress.

That must have alarmed her, for she tore her mouth from his. “I gave you a dance. I met the terms of our agreement.”

At least she wasn’t shoving him away. “This has naught to do with our agreement.”

He dragged openmouthed kisses down her jaw to her neck. She had the softest skin. Was she this soft underneath her clothes? Or even softer? The very idea of exploring all that delicate, creamy skin with his mouth and hands stiffened his cock painfully.

“Then why are you—”

“Because I want to.” He sucked at the place where her pulse throbbed in her throat. “Because you want to.”

Her heart beat a wild tattoo against his mouth. “For a man who doesn’t like me, you certainly seem to like
kissing
me.”

“I could say the same for you, princess,” he murmured against her throat.

“You’re the one who blackmailed me into dancing with you,” she said peevishly.

He dropped a kiss on the upper swell of her breast. “And you’re the one who’s still here, even though the music has ended.”

Stiffening, she started to pull away, but he caught her head in his hands and stared down into her gorgeous eyes. “Stop lying to yourself, for God’s sake. You danced with me because you wanted to. Because you
don’t really want to sacrifice yourself to Keane for the sake of an estate that isn’t even yours.”

Her lips tightened into a mutinous line. “Perhaps I don’t see it as a sacrifice.” She arched one perfect eyebrow. “My cousin is a handsome artist, after all. And
he
regards me as something more than a mere conquest.”

The very real possibility of that hit Tristan with an unfamiliar jolt of an emotion he’d never expected to experience. Jealousy. “Then why aren’t you in the ballroom with
him,
instead of out here with me?” he asked with a possessive edge to his voice.

She paled, then shoved free of him. “An excellent point. I shall remedy that situation at once.” Whirling on her heel, she marched off toward the French doors.

“Hell and thunder, he’s not right for you, and you know it!” When that halted her, he added in a low voice, “You deserve a man who wants you for yourself. Who doesn’t give a damn about your bloodlines and your estate and your title.”

She faced him with an unreadable expression. “And do you have a likely candidate to offer?”

He went rigid, then muttered a curse under his breath.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Thank you once again for the utterly useless advice.”

“Zoe—”

“I don’t have a choice! Can’t you see that? Every other possibility has serious risks. Marrying my cousin is the responsible thing to do, the
prudent
thing to do.”

“Since when are you prudent?” He walked up to her.
“Being prudent didn’t get you a chance at hiring us. Being prudent didn’t send you looking for the truth. Don’t be prudent about this.”

“Why? So you can add another conquest to your list, just for the pleasure of thumbing your nose at men like Papa and my cousin?”

“Certainly not,” he bit out, even though he feared there was a sliver of truth in that barb.

“This is just an amusing entertainment for you.” She wrapped her trailing shawl about her like armor. “But for me, it’s my
life.
I’m going to be hard-pressed as it is to coax my cousin into marrying and staying in England. So I would appreciate your not trying to make this any harder, merely so you can have a bit of fun.”