A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)

And he’d never seen her looking like this.

Good God, she was beautiful. She stood in profile to him, deep in conversation with Minerva Highwood, the new Lady Payne. He stopped in his paces a moment, just to drink in the sight of her. And to remember how to breathe.

She wore deep blue silk, the color of fathomless oceans and dark night skies. Set off by the lush fabric, her shoulders were smooth, pale perfection. Tiny brilliants spangled her dark, upswept hair, and satin gloves sheathed her arms to the elbow. He heard the sparkling melody of her laughter float high above the music.

She was too elegant for him, too beautiful for words.

But he’d come this far. He would dare to ask for her anyway.

He started to move. The crowd shifted around him. Across the hall, Katie shifted her weight and swept the room with an unfocused gaze. She looked right through him, with no hint of recognition—then went back to her conversation.

He strode toward her, moving with purpose now.

When he’d covered half the distance, her eyes darted to him again. Once, fleetingly. Then a second time, narrowing. As though she were trying to place him. The wrinkle of her brow was one of mild concern. He could almost hear her thoughts. Who was that hulking, overdressed brute across the ballroom, staring her down?

God. She didn’t know him.

It’s me, Katie. You know me.

Their gazes connected. He felt it in his bones, the moment recognition struck. That sweet jolt of affinity shot down his spine.

Then a waltzing couple twirled between them, blocking his view.

Damn it.

Damn, damn, damn. He had to see her reaction. That was his entire purpose in coming here and making an entrance. How would she greet him? Would it happen this time, at long last?

By the time the waltzers passed, the whole crowd had shifted. He pushed his way through the throng, scanning for her. His heart pounded so fiercely, he thought it would burst.

“Samuel!”

He turned on his boot heel.

There she was, poised on tiptoe, her neck elongated like a swan’s, the better to call over the crowd.

He changed course, veering for her. And stopped, two paces away.

Waiting, with his heart in his throat, to see if she’d light up for him.

She didn’t glow. Her eyes didn’t twinkle. No small flame of joy flickered to life behind her expression.

No, this was so much better than that. It made everything worthwhile—not just the past week, but the lifetime before it.

She went incandescent with the brilliance of a thousand fiery stars.

“Samuel. It’s you.”

Kate struggled to compose herself. He had a lot of nerve, keeping her waiting all this time and then showing up looking like this. He was still his unbearably handsome self, only . . . he was more.

More, in every way.

She could have sworn his new, fashionable Hessians made him a full inch taller. The tight fit of his black tailcoat made his shoulders look a touch more broad. She couldn’t begin to articulate what the clinging buff breeches did for his thighs, or she might suffer an attack of light-headedness.

His hair was clipped with precision, glossed with a touch of pomade. Even from an arm’s length he smelled wonderful—like leather and cologne and clean linen, blended with the essence of raw, manly strength.

Most of all, there was an air about him. It wasn’t quite elegance or refinement, but perhaps . . . self-possession. Purpose. Oh, his face was still hard, and his eyes remained chips of ice. But beneath it all, there was fire.

“Might I have this dance?” he asked. So suavely. The velvet darkness of his voice sent a thrill coursing all the way to her toes.

“I suppose you may.”

What was this game they were playing? Were they supposed to pretend they didn’t know one another? All she wanted to do was fly into his arms.

But she put her hand in his. As he led her to the dance floor, her heart fluttered.

They faced one another, and he fit his hand between her shoulder blades. The expression on his face was so stern.

“You look magnificent,” she whispered. “So handsome.”

She waited for him to compliment her gown or her hair, but she waited in vain. The expression on his face was both intent and somehow uncertain. What did it mean?

“I’ve missed you so much.”

He swung her into the waltz. They moved through several bars of the dance, haltingly. He never said a word.

“Samuel, are you . . . Have you changed your mind?”

He blinked. “About what?”

“About me.”

He frowned at her, as if chiding her for the question. “No.”

She waited for further assurances. He didn’t give them. Her heart began to pound. She didn’t know what it was, but something was wrong.

“If you don’t want to be here,” she said, “I don’t want to force you.”

He made no reply. Except to curtly sigh with impatience and stare at the orchestra.