“Teach me? Now? Here? Where are you taking me?”
“To the wilds of South America,” she intoned dryly, rolling her eyes. “To the middle of the room, Nicholas.” Letting go of his hand, she scooted a chair to the side. “Sheesh, you act as if you fear I’ll ravish you.”
Quite the reverse, I fear I’ll ravish you.
“All right,” she declared, holding up her arms as if an imaginary man stood before her. “This shouldn’t take too long, seeing as how well you danced the other night. And you did watch the others dance, I presume.” She smiled at him. “Come on. I promise not to stomp on your toes. Seven seasons and not a single victim to date.”
Like an imbecile he just stood there, frozen at the prospect of holding her in his arms. Sitting next to her on the sofa had been one thing—there had been other people in the room, after all. But they were most definitely alone now. Alone and unchaperoned. Clearly, she had no idea at all about how attracted he was to her, which was a good thing, but he suspected the threads of his restraint were popping free, cord by cord, each time he had to touch her.
It’s only lust, he kept telling himself.
His every step measured, Nicholas came before her, resigned to her little dance lesson.
“Now,” she said, her tone befitting one of his old mathematics tutors. “You do know the waltz time? The music for the minuet last night was in waltz time . . . one . . . two . . . three.”
He responded with a grunt.
“Good.” She smiled. “Now hold me.”
“What?” he asked a bit loudly.
She sighed, though he detected a shakiness to her breath. “Encircle my waist with your right arm. Keep your posture firm.”
Hardening his resolve to behave, he closed his eyes and slid his arm around her. He felt her shiver.
“Now, hold my right hand with your left,” she said softly. “Keep your arm bent at the elbow.”
On purpose, he held it too high.
“Lower. Almost to the height of my waist.”
And then, because Nicholas was a little bit wicked, he let the hand that splayed across the base of her spine lower inch by glorious inch until his thumb rested at her waist, his fingers at the top of her backside.
She did not correct him.
He opened his eyes, knowing full well he could not keep the heat from his gaze any longer.
She stared up at him and swallowed. “You are responsible for guiding me across the dance floor.”
He nodded slowly and began to move, hesitantly at first, but soon in perfect time.
Rosalind was impressed. It took skill to traverse the room—and furniture—without whacking into something.
“How am I doing?” he asked, his gray eyes alight with unmistakable heat.
“Wonderful,” she choked out, suddenly breathless. Truly, she’d never had a more capable partner. She supposed it helped that she loved this man and might very well be a touch biased, but he was marvelous, masterful.
He was either a quick learner or she was a brilliant teacher.
Or he had been lying about not knowing how to waltz in the first place. She could not dismiss that possibility.
Rounding the sofa they had sat in earlier, he came to an abrupt stop. She had not expected it. Her skirts swished between them and she started to slip sideways.
Nicholas grabbed her fully around the back and twisted their positions, presumably so that he would feel the brunt of the fall and not her. As he tripped backwards, Rosalind was helpless but to go along with him from the momentum. He landed in a sitting position on the sofa with Rosalind sprawled on top of him, straddling one of his thighs.
Breathless, she gazed into his hooded eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Panting himself, he shook his head.
His gaze lowered to her neck. His head tilted. His hot mouth fastened tenderly to her throat.
Rosalind shuddered with a moan. It was as if she had been starving for this moment. Her head lolled to the side and she straightened, undeniably giving him the signal that she wanted more.
His tongue lapped at her skin. His teeth grazed her. His sculpted lips soothed the bite and suckled her. It was as if she was this delicious treat that he hungered for and now savored every taste. And she wanted Nicholas to devour every inch of her.
Soon, his lips feathered across the swells of her bosom and she shivered. When his tongue stabbed into her cleavage, she inhaled sharply and writhed upon his hard thigh, every nerve alive and superbly sensitive.
As he nipped and nuzzled the tops of her breasts, one of his hands sat heavy on her back, keeping her close, while the other was sliding up her arm, his fingers curling into the cap sleeve of her dress.
He trailed his intoxicating kisses upward. Their open, panting mouths met, hesitated, and then joined. He kissed her ferociously, gently, his tongue sweeping inside again and again. Waves of sensation buffeted her.
She should have been shocked. She shouldn’t have known how to respond, but it all seemed so natural to her, like she was born to love this man, to be made love to by this man.
The hand at her back lowered to her bottom and squeezed, rolling her hard onto his thigh. She moaned as unspeakable pleasure throbbed at the apex of her thighs. He buried his head against her chest, and she could feel him trembling.
And then his hands slowed. And then he stopped.
His hands fell away and he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Gradually, her senses returned. She blinked open her eyes and looked about the room. The door to the hall was open. Tristan and her aunt were home—not to mention the fact that Briggs was in the hall and the maid could have come to take the empty cake plate away.
She looked over her shoulder, slightly relieved that it sat there untouched.
Grabbing her skirts, which had rucked up to her thighs, she slid off of Nicholas and stood on shaky legs.
What was she thinking? That was just it. She wasn’t thinking. By luck alone no one had walked in on them. If someone had, she’d be considered compromised and would soon find herself married to a man that quite possibly only wanted her but didn’t love her.
“Nicholas, I—”
He held up a hand and stood. “You needn’t say a word.”
“But—”
“No. My actions were reprehensible.” He wouldn’t look at her.
She took a step toward him and he jerked away.
“I apologize. It should not have happened. I don’t know what came over me.” Holding out his hands in front of him, he looked at them. They were shaking slightly—almost as much as her legs.
She reached out a hand to still them.
He evaded her touch with a backward step. “I-I’m going now. We shall pretend this never happened.” He turned, striding to the door.
Rosalind could have sworn she heard him curse himself.
Would she ever see him again? Given his past history of making himself scarce of late at Wolverest, it was a possibility. “Nicholas, wait.”
She didn’t expect him to listen, but he surprised her by halting at the doorway, although he didn’t turn around to look at her.
“Tomorrow afternoon is the Fairfax musicale. Did you, by chance, get an invitation?”
He was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. “Are you going?” he asked, his deep baritone clipped and cold sounding.
“I attend every year.”
“Then I shall be there as well.” And with that, he stepped out into the hall and let himself out.
Despite his apology and promise that nothing like that would ever happen again, Rosalind smiled to herself. Perhaps the gentleman in him was embarrassed by his attraction. In truth, she was a little shaken by the strength of the passion that had ignited between them, as well. However, one thing was perfectly clear in her mind: Nicholas seemed to be spending a lot more time in her presence, and that could mean only one thing—he liked her.