The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (23 page)

Royce took a deep breath and released the pole, then made his way to the bank. He untied his skates and tossed the stupid things into the nearest snowbank and stalked to his waiting carriage. This was no longer about keeping a friend; it was war. And to the victor went the spoils, every delectable, irritating inch of her.

Chapter 7

Another standout in the I-Clearly-Have-Not-Skated-Since-Early-Childhood category was Sir Royce Pemberly, who was seen desperately clinging to one of the Swan Lane Pier poles while his feet made a mad scramble for purchase beneath him.

It is probably a good thing, don’t you think, Gentle Reader, that Sir Royce was not aware that the ice was thinning near those poles? This Author should not like to have seen the number of people knocked to the ice if Sir Royce’s feet had instead been making a mad scramble for safety.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
4 F
EBRUARY
1814

“P
ardon me, miss. It’s Sir Royce Pemberley.”

“Sir Royce? Here?” Liza was somewhat surprised. When she’d seen him earlier that day at the Moreland skating party, she’d rather thought her calm, aloof air had warned him away.

Poole nodded gravely. “He says he has come for your dancing lesson. Shall I show him in?”

Liza bit her lip. Memories of their passionate kiss flooded through her, and it was in a slightly panic-stricken voice that she said, “No.”

Poole bowed. “I will tell him you are not at home.”

Then he would leave. For some reason, that wasn’t an acceptable answer, either. “No.”

The butler raised his brows. “Shall I tell him you
are
at home, but are not receiving?”

Liza bit her lip. If Poole told Royce that she was at home, but not receiving guests, he might think she was avoiding him. And she wasn’t. Not really. She was just a bit befuddled, though not too befuddled to realize the dangers of being alone in her own house with a man who could send her common sense spiraling out the window with just one heated look.

What she needed was a valid reason for not seeing Royce. Something innocuous. But what? Perhaps she should just have Poole inform him that she was on her way to the modiste’s—she
did
need a new gown for Meg’s ball.

But no, he’d just offer to go with her.

Maybe she could claim an inflammation of some sort.

But then he might think she had a red nose or something equally repulsive.

Which left the truth. She didn’t want to see him for fear of losing her virtue.

Actually, “fear” wasn’t quite the right word. She didn’t fear Royce
or
his touch. She craved them. If she married Durham, she knew she’d never experience the kind of spine-tingling excitement she’d felt in Royce’s arms. Ever. That much had become clear the second Royce had kissed her, and then today’s little visit to the Moreland skating party with Durham had confirmed it. Though she’d had a lovely time, it was painfully obvious she would never feel the way she should about him.

The question was, then, was calm companionship enough to sustain her throughout her life?

“Pardon me, miss.” Poole’s warbly voice intruded on her thoughts. “What should I tell the gentleman?”

If she had any sense at all, she’d avoid Royce Pemberley like the plague, even if all he wanted to do was teach her how to dance. That was exactly what she should do, and Liza almost always did what she should do.

Thus it was with a mild sense of astonishment that she heard herself say, “Show him in.” As soon as Poole left the room, Liza jumped to her feet and raced to the mirror by the fireplace. For once, thank God, her hair was not trying to make its own way in the world. And her green-striped gown was quite presentable, too. She pressed a hand to her heart where it thudded like a badly played drum.

Not that she was nervous or anything. Of course not. Everyone had to learn how to dance, sooner or later. Liza was just an example of a “later.”

“I’m always a bloody ‘later,’” she mumbled to herself.

The door opened, and Royce entered, looking indecently handsome. Dressed in a dove gray coat over a deep wine-colored waistcoat, his black hair falling over his brow, he seemed to be examining her intently, as if searching for something. Poole closed the door quietly.

To Liza’s chagrin, her heart gave that strange little beat. “Damn it,” she muttered.

He lifted his brows. “Pardon?”

“Nothing. Just thinking aloud. Poole said you came for our dance lesson. I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.”

A wicked gleam lit his eyes, sending a shiver of expectation through Liza. “I love dancing.” His deep voice lingered over the last word, giving it new, sensual meaning. “Don’t you want to learn how to dance, Liza?”

Yes
. The word rang clearly through her mind. It was exactly what she wanted. And now. “Of course.”

Royce smiled then, his gaze never leaving her. “I promised to meet Wexford at White’s at seven. That gives us only two hours.”

Hours? Surely he didn’t need a whole two hours to—Liza frowned. Perhaps he
was
talking about dancing.
Real
dancing.

To mask her disappointment, Liza fixed her gaze on her new lavender shoes. “Royce, I don’t think I feel like dancing now—” She looked up and found herself face-to-face with a snowy white cravat. Blast the man, didn’t he know what being near to him did to her poor, ragged nerves?

Liza smoothed her hands down her skirt.
This is just Royce
, she told herself. She’d spoken to him, sat beside him, whispered to him, laughed with him, more times than she could count. Dancing, even real dancing, would be nothing new.

Then why am I shaking like jellied calf’s liver?
“Royce, I can’t—”

“If you can go skating with that clod digger Durham, then you can dance with me.” His hand slid to her waist. “Come. What are you afraid of?”

Liza looked dumbly down at his hand. Large and warm, it rested lightly on the curve of her hip. “Durham? Who is that?”

He laughed softly, and her other hand was captured and held by his other hand, which proved to be just as large and just as warm.

“This…what dance is this?” She dared to lift her eyes and found Royce smiling down at her, a wicked glint in his gaze.

“The waltz,” he said softly.

“Oh. The waltz,” she repeated stupidly, too befuddled by the nearness of him to do more than repeat his words like a mindless parrot.

“You
have
heard of it?”

“Of course I have,” she lied, hurriedly reviewing the dances she
did
know. Was it the quadrille that began with a curtsy? Or the boulanger? “Raspberries and cream, how does one keep up with all of this nonsense?”

“Perhaps you begin by realizing it’s not nonsense at all.”

“Humph.” Liza realized now why she’d climbed the ranks of the eccentrics with such willingness—she didn’t have an ounce of nonsense in her solid, plainspoken soul, and it hurt her shins to pretend otherwise.

Still, there was something to be said for an activity that allowed one to stand so close to—well, she might as well admit it—to such an attractive man. Royce was more than attractive; he was dashing and oh so dear. That was the problem; she knew him so well that such close contact was bound to cause some sort of a reaction.

Especially since he smelled so good. Spicy and masculine, the scent drugged her senses worse than any brandy she’d ever consumed. Liza took a step back. “Perhaps instead of dancing, we should practice playing piquet. I daresay Durham has a liking for the game, or could develop one, once someone taught it to him.”

Royce pulled her back into place, the ruffles on her dress just brushing against his waistcoat. “You play piquet like an ivory turner. In fact, you play all card games well and you know it. I daresay I’ve lost over a hundred pounds to you in the last year.”

That was true, but only because she could always tell when Royce was going to trump—he was so expressive. His eyes would light and he’d get this adorable little triumphant smile that quickly turned to frustration when she won. She peeped up at him now and noticed that he was wearing that exact same triumphant grin. “I—how is Prinny?”

“Your horse is fine. You must come and visit him sometime.”

That would be lovely, she told herself, trying to think about something other than the way Royce’s long fingers looked clasped about her hand. Yes, she would enjoy visiting Prinny in the countryside. Perhaps she and Royce could even go for a ride and—it wasn’t working. Just as she fixed a safe picture in her mind of the very fat and unattractive Prinny the horse, she’d have another, less safe picture of her and Royce, in the country, frolicking in the hay, like two—“We can’t dance,” she said with a touch more urgency.

“Why not?”

“No music.”

“I’ll hum.”

“That table is in the way.”

“We’ll dance around it.”

“I don’t like dancing.”

“Neither do I, but if we wish to silence Meg’s requests, we must. She has asked me no less than ten times if we’re doing as she’s asked.”

“She’s very bossy.”

“Isn’t she? Now, put your hand here.” He placed her hand on his shoulder, and her fingers brushed across his wool coat. “I’ll hold your other hand like so.”

They were standing toe-to-toe, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He clasped her other hand loosely, her fingers curling over his. His skin warmed hers, a delightful contrast to the freezing cold outside.

She peeped up at him, feeling as awkward as a newborn foal. “Now what?”

“Now we move. Like this…” He hummed a soft tune; his deep voice reverberating through the breakfast room. He really had a lovely voice. She remembered hearing him sing just this past Christmas and commenting on it.

“Now,” he murmured, “just follow me. One. Two. Three.” He hummed again, tightening his hold on her hand, and began to move.

Liza gulped some air, then began to count in her head.
One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.
This wasn’t so bad after all. She took a step back, pulling him with her.

Royce stopped, amusement and exasperation in his voice. “You aren’t letting me lead. Just relax.”

How humiliating! She tugged, trying to free her hands. “I hate dancing. I always have.”

He tightened his grip. “Then don’t think of it as dancing.”

She stopped struggling. “What should I think of it as?”

“Think of it as an emotion and not a thing.”

“An emotion? Like fear?”

“I was thinking of a friendlier emotion. Like passion.”

Good heavens, he wanted her to
pretend
to feel passion. Pretend when in reality, she was beginning to feel passion all too often. “No.”

He frowned down at her. “I promised Meg I’d teach you how to waltz. Do you want me to go back on my word?”

Liza thought she detected a very real flash of disappointment in his eyes. He
wanted
to dance with her. She didn’t know what to think about that. After a moment, she said in a very small voice, “Meg would be very sad if we didn’t at least try, wouldn’t she?”

“Very much so.”

“And she
is
my best friend.”

“She thinks the world of you.”

Liza closed her eyes, aware that her heart was beating far faster than necessary. Why did she have to feel this way for Royce, of all men? The fates were as brutal as they were fickle.

He leaned forward so that his chin brushed her hair. “Close your eyes, Liza. Let me take care of you for just one moment.” He began to hum again, and Liza tried to relax.

“One, two, three,” she whispered. It wasn’t easy and she twice trod on his feet, but Royce didn’t seem to notice. He just kept humming, moving to the music, his warmth and the deep timbre of his voice pulling her on.

She relaxed just a touch…and danced. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t had her luncheon yet. Or perhaps it was because she had her eyes closed. But whatever the reason, she could feel something…more. Something almost magical. It was as if for an instant, she and Royce became one.

The thick rug scuffed beneath her feet, softening her step and impeding her ability to glide the way the music seemed to ask. But it didn’t matter. Everyplace Royce touched her—his large, warm hand over hers, his palm resting on her hip, his broad chest brushing against her breasts—felt alive and warm, as if the music had invaded her body and moved it for her.

Royce’s hum deepened. It rumbled through his chest and down his arms, through his fingers into hers. She could feel the sway of the music and she went with it, letting him lead. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. She stopped thinking and just felt. Felt warm and loved. Felt happy and cherished. They were swirling now, slowly still, as if Royce knew this state was fragile. But each swirl sent her a little further into Royce’s arms. Her breasts no longer brushed his chest—now they were so close that it was rare that they parted. And Liza reveled in every second, forgetting everything except the feel of this one moment.

Suddenly, they were no longer dancing. His lips had found hers and he was kissing her, tasting her, his tongue gently teasing hers. Liza kept her eyes tightly closed, wanting the moment to last and last. It wasn’t real, just a figment of imagination brought on by the heady dance and Royce’s presence. She flowed with the kiss, melting into it, accepting it without thought or reason. And her soul flew, expanded like a winged hope, wider and wider.

“Royce, please…” she whispered.

The words sifted through Royce, feeding the heat that built within. Liza lifted her gaze to his, her eyes dark with some emotion. He saw in that instant that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

Silence filled the air, deepening the tension, teasing and tormenting. Royce found that he could not look away. It was as if she’d melded him to her and he was powerless to resist. He wanted to call her name, to tell her that he cared about her, that he didn’t want her to marry Durham. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, other words formed and spilled out, words about the smoothness of her skin, the silk of her hair, the curve of her lips.