Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

Her hands were warm in his, even through gloves. She danced beautifully. She smiled the entire time. She also did not look at his face, not once. Instead, she concentrated her attention on the second button of his coat, even though she had to look down to do it.

What Evan needed to say to her was too important to be delivered cavalierly. But with talk so momentous on his mind, his skill for small conversation seemed to slip away.

Finally, he managed, “Your gown is lovely.” It was, he supposed, although he was hardly the judge of such things. Pink silk, large sleeves, a skirt so wide he might have tripped over it. Might still do so, if he didn’t watch his step.

Her gaze flicked up, and then back to his button, its touch on his face as temporary as a hawk moth flitting by a window.

“I’ve lost all sense of fashion myself,” he told her.

Her perusal of his coat became more marked, and too late, he realized what he’d said—he’d praised her gown, and then implied that he had no taste. It came out as the worst sort of backhanded compliment.

Lady Elaine raised her eyes to him. He felt a sort of shock travel through him as she did so. Her eyes were gray and luminous. She was smiling at him, but there was a knife-edge to her expression. “Indeed,” she said, her tone solemn. “I can’t recall the last time I saw a gentleman wearing brown gloves.”

A little bit of an insult in return. Good for her; he deserved it.

“All my gloves are brown,” he confessed. “It’s a habit remaining from my mountaineering days. If your clothing is too dark, it absorbs too much sun and you become overheated. If it’s too light, the dirt shows. I long ago abandoned fashion in favor of function.”

She raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “Would you believe I still have my waistcoat pockets lined with mackintosh?”

“I hardly know what to think,” she said. “I cannot envision you as anything except an outright leader of fashion. You were always quite the dandy.” She spoke lightly, but he could almost hear the accusation underlying her words. He had been a useless fribble.

His hand tightened about her waist. “People change.” He had changed. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”

Her hands tensed against him, and her face went as still as a deer sighted in the forest. But she didn’t flee. Instead, that smile of hers broadened.

“How ungallant,” she replied. “You did ask me to dance. And here you represent yourself as a gentleman.”

“You misunderstand,” he said. “I do not wish you out of my presence. I wish I had not made it necessary to say what I must. I am sorry.”

She had never flinched at any of his insults. But at his apology, she jumped.

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “You cannot know how dreadfully sorry I am.”

“Whatever for?” Her face was so guileless that for one instant he believed she might forgive him. But then her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about that,” she said. “It’s quite easy to misstep in the waltz. You must keep time carefully—one two three, one two three—”

She was addressing his button once again. He hadn’t misstepped, the little baggage. Somehow, over the years, she’d developed the talent of delivering the most splendid snubs in that breathy tone of voice. She hid her claws behind that innocent demeanor. But, by God, she was insulting him.

And, by God, he liked it. He liked that the fire and zest he’d seen in her that first Season had not completely faded. He glanced down and his gaze fixed on the creamy skin of her throat. For just one second, he contemplated leaning down and setting his lips right there, on her shoulder. He wondered, not so idly, what she would taste like.

She was probably counting the minutes until the waltz ended.

He shook his head. “You know what I’m referring to. My conduct all those years ago was inexcusable. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, because I don’t see how I could merit it. But I must let you know I regret it.”

She fixed her eyes on him. “You know, Westfeld,” she said, in that same breezy tone that she always employed, “I have no notion what you could possibly be apologizing for.” Her eyes cut away. “In point of fact, I scarcely recall you at all.”

Ouch.

A hint of color touched her cheeks. “If you are perhaps referring to the last time we danced—”

Oh, hell. He didn’t want to think of that.

“—I assure you, I thought nothing of your inebriation. My father, Lord Stockhurst, says only a very weak fellow drinks to excess, and I am not so unkind as to hold your incapacity against you.”