Beyond recall. She drew breath, read his eyes; their expression was openly predatory—his intent could not have been clearer. Realization, as inescapable as the dawn, burst upon her.
Deep within her, something quivered.
Tony looked up, over her head, wishing for once that she possessed a more definite mask, a countenance less easy to read. One long look into her eyes, and he was aching. If Cranbourne House had boasted any suitable room, he’d have whisked her off to it, there to pursue, however impulsively, the connection growing between them. Unfortunately, Cranbourne House was small, pokey, a totally unsuitable venue. Added to that, her sister was present, which meant she’d be distracted. When he finally had her beneath him, he didn’t want her thinking of anything else.
He noticed Geoffrey standing by the side of the room, not exactly scowling, yet clearly not happy. A quick glance about the floor located Adriana waltzing in the arms of a somewhat older man.
“The gentleman waltzing with your sister—who is he?”
Alicia had been studying his face; she answered evenly, “Sir Freddie Caudel.” After a moment, she asked, “Do you know him?”
One distraction was as good as another. Resigning himself to yet another night of escalating frustration, he glanced down at her. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Very old family. Why? Is he interested in your sister?”
Alicia nodded. “How interested, I’m not sure, and I doubt his interest, at whatever level, will be reciprocated, nevertheless…”
His lips quirked; he glanced again at Geoffrey. “Another iron in the fire?”
Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Precisely.” One with which she might prod things along.
“I take it the footman met with your approval?”
“Maggs?” Bearing a written introduction, the man had presented himself at the back door in Waverton Street. She met Torrington’s gaze, let a moment pass; Maggs, as he had to be aware, was the most unprepossessing specimen. His features were irregular, his face appeared pushed in, yet he seemed possessed of an easy disposition and had already, in just a few hours, gained acceptance from Cook, Fitchett, and, most importantly, Jenkins. For which she was grateful. “I daresay he’ll suit well enough. As I pointed out, we really have little use for a footman.”
“Nevertheless.” Torrington’s black eyes quizzed her.
“Just so that I can rest easy.”
She suppressed a humph.
The waltz ended. Without instruction, Torrington led her back to her position not far from Adriana’s court. He remained by her side, chatting inconsequentially on this and that, the customary exchanges of tonnish life. Others joined them, remained for a time, then moved on; she tried not to dwell on the fact that she preferred having him near, that his easy, in many ways undemanding presence made her evening distinctly more enjoyable.
More relaxing on one level, more unnerving on another.
It was the minor moments that tripped her up, that set her nerves jangling. That brought what was between them flooding back into her mind, blocking out all else, even Adriana.
Like the moment when having remained by her side, her cavalier through the rest of the evening, Torrington parted from them in the Cranbournes’ front hall. They were among a small crowd of departing guests; to gain her attention, he touched her shoulder.
His fingertips brushed lightly. Despite being decently sheathed in ruby silk, her skin reacted. Goosebumps rose and spread in a wave; her nipples tightened.
Her eyes flew to his, wide, aware; he read them, his lips thinned, and she knew he knew, too.
Then he met her gaze fully. The expression in his eyes nearly slew her; the heat was so open, so intense, it was a wonder it didn’t melt her bones.
His lashes swept down; he grasped her hand and very correctly took his leave of her.
She mumbled some response, then watched his back as he walked away through the crowd; only when he disappeared through the front door did she manage to breathe again. Manage to give her attention to the footman waiting to be told which carriage to summon. Thankfully, Adriana hadn’t noticed; her sister seemed as distracted as she.
The journey back through the night-shrouded streets provided a welcome respite, a quiet moment all but alone when she could gather her wits, review what had happened, all she’d felt, how she’d reacted, without worrying about her betraying blush.
Finally to make some attempt at defining where she stood. And whither she was heading.
The first seemed all too clear; she stood teetering on the horns of a dilemma. As for the second, the possibilities were varied but uniformly unsettling.
Her dilemma was clear enough. She had to play the part of a tonnish widow, an experienced lady aware of, indeed personally acquainted with, all aspects of intimacy. The question now facing her was simple: how far should she go in preserving her charade?
To her perturbation, the answer was not at all simple.
Dedication to their cause argued the answer should be as far as she needed to go to see Adriana through her Season and secure their family’s relief. But that immediately raised another highly pertinent question: how far could she go without Torrington realizing?
He was not just experienced; he was an expert. She’d been scrambling to keep up with him thus far; at some point she would falter, and he’d realize….
The social strictures at least were clear. Regardless of her charade, she wasn’t a widow, but a virtuous spinster—she shouldn’t permit him even the liberties he’d already taken. Unfortunately, her inner voice was quick to argue, to speak in support of those wishes and needs she was only just realizing she possessed; where, that inner voice asked, was the harm?
She’d accepted over a year ago that she’d missed her chance at marriage; she was twenty-four—not unmarriageable by ton standards, yet in reality the likelihood had faded. Once Adriana was established, she, Alicia, would disappear from society; she’d imagined she’d retire to the country to watch over the boys, to keep home for them whether with Adriana and her husband or otherwise.
That plan still stood; nothing had happened to alter her path. Any liaison with Torrington would be, as such things generally were, temporary, fleeting. A liaison with him might, however, be her only chance to experience all she was presently pretending to know.
He was the only gentleman who had ever engaged her on that level; even now, she wasn’t sure how he’d done it, how it had happened. Yet it had; the possibility now existed where it hadn’t before. If she wanted to know more, wanted to experience all that could be between a man and a woman, all she had to do was let Torrington teach her.
The carriage rocked along, heading into Mayfair, pausing here and there as other carriages crowded the streets. She barely noticed the delays, indeed was grateful for the opportunity to let her mind range ahead, examining, imagining.
If she did indulge in a liaison with Torrington…
He would realize she was a virgin, would guess she’d never been married. However, she doubted he would expose her to the ton; there was no reason he should, not once she’d explained.
There was, however, another danger. One her instincts, uneducated though they were, had detected. Just how real that danger was she couldn’t be certain, yet Tony— Torrington—was a nobleman to his toes. Arrogant, yes, with a definite streak of ruthlessness behind his charming facade, and…she searched for the word to describe what she sensed when he looked at her, held her, kissed her, caressed her.
Possessive.
If she gave herself to him, trusted him that far, would he agree to let her go?
She wasn’t foolish enough to overlook the point; if she became his mistress, allowed him to become privy to her secret, he’d be in a position much as Ruskin had been, able to dictate her behavior. She recognized the possibility, viewed it clearly, yet she couldn’t, despite all, see it happening. Adriana had mentioned Geoffrey’s assessment of Torrington; it concurred with her own reading of the man. He was simply not the sort to hold a woman against her will. Regardless of all else, he was an honorable man.