Were the woman and her father mad? He simply couldn’t fathom them or why they refused to accept the offers he’d made. The only answer he’d gotten from her was a letter four weeks ago from Samuel Newhouse, flatly refusing to sell and stating her position that the new duke couldn’t buy or bully his way into upending their lives, and he hadn’t seen her since the day when she’d declared like a general that she’d never surrender.
Apparently, she’d meant it.
She’d managed to stall work on the lock and back him into a corner where his next move could only be asking for an act of Parliament. A move he certainly didn’t want to take, preferring willing cooperation over legal edicts. But if the lock wasn’t built soon, the canal wouldn’t go through. All of his planning and work would come to naught, and he’d be left with nothing more to do, no work to engage in. It would kill him.
White flashed at the top of the stairs. His gaze darted to the landing—
Her.
A low tingle rose inside him as he watched her give her invitation to the Master of Ceremonies. His breath hitched with nervous anticipation despite a soft chuckle to himself as her name was announced. Lady Swan. A graceful, gliding vision in white silk and feathers, one in perfect opposition to the black clothes of his panther, of her softness and elegance to his hardness.
Her gaze moved over the ballroom below as she slowly descended. Halfway down the stairs, she found him and stopped.
Holding her gaze across the room, he held out his hand toward her in invitation, as if she were only a few feet from him rather than across the grand ballroom. The party faded away around them until it was only the two of them. No one else in the room mattered.
She drew in a nervous breath, her slender shoulders stiff. Then a smile spread beneath her white satin half-mask, and she moved on, gliding down the remaining stairs and into the crowd which parted around her as she came to him.
As she reached him, the musicians struck up the opening notes of a waltz.
Wordlessly, she slipped her trembling hand into his. He raised it to his lips, unable to resist this small kiss, then led her forward to the dance floor, to take her into his arms and twirl her into the waltz.
CORA LAUGHED as happiness bubbled through her, the soft sound rising and falling with the music that swirled around them. He led her through the steps, and they moved together as if they were one, oblivious to the party around them. She knew only the warmth of his brown eyes as he held her captive beneath his gaze from behind his black mask, his attention fixed on her as if she were the only woman in the world.
He gave her fingers a light squeeze of reassurance. The soft gesture raced up her arm and landed in her chest, making her heart race like a drum and her breasts grow heavy.
“Lady Swan,” he murmured with a curl of his sensuous lips. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“And you,” she answered breathlessly, knowing it wasn’t the waltzing that was stealing her breath away, “my Lord Panther.”
His eyes gleamed. “Sweet heavens, you are beautiful.”
Thank God that she wore a mask, or he would have seen the scarlet flush of her cheeks despite her soft laugh. “But you cannot see my face!”
“I don’t need to.” Another squeeze to her fingers, this time with a shift of his body to draw her slightly closer. “I’ve seen into your soul and know how precious you are.”
She would have stumbled if not for his strong arms that kept her securely in position. “But,” she whispered, unable to find her voice, “you don’t even know my name.”
“Yet I know you nearly as well as I know myself.”
They reached the end of the ballroom and started back in a series of turns that left her light-headed. No—he made her light-headed with his stare, warm and rich like melted chocolate, and his seductive words that twined down her spine.
“Names hold no significance.” He lowered his head to murmur in her ear. “You’ve revealed your heart to me in your letters. I know exactly how beautiful you are, and it has nothing to do with how you look.”
Before she could say the same about him, the waltz ended. He dropped into a low, formal bow to match her curtsy, but when she rose to walk off the floor, he stopped her.
“Give me another dance.”
She wanted nothing more. But she knew society’s rules, even if she’d never been part of it. “Two dances in a row with the same man is scandalous.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re wearing masks.” He took her hand between his, unwilling to let her go. “I just found you, Lady Swan. I can’t bear to give you up so soon.”
His hopeful gaze undid her. How could she resist?
With a nod, she took her place for the next dance, and when the quadrille started, oh, how glad she was that she’d agreed! They moved back and forth, close and away, and something about the roiling knots of dancing couples struck her as more intimate than the waltz had been. Snatches of conversation when they came together, curious gazes when they parted…enough for her to realize that he was broad shouldered and physically fit, that his black clothes clung to a muscular body used to hard work, that his jaw was firm and masculine, his hair curly dark brown and most likely as silky soft as it looked.
Her fingers itched to touch his hair. And to trace along his jaw, to brush over those lips—more, she wanted to kiss those lips. Those full yet strong lips that even now twisted into a lazy grin as he audaciously returned her stare, as if he knew exactly what improper thoughts were racing through her mind.
She lost count of the number of dances they shared, but not the number of times he smiled at her. Nor could she ignore the electric tingle that sparked through her with every brush of his hand against hers, or the heat that blossomed inside her from the way he watched her…the way he made her feel as if she were truly as beautiful as he’d claimed.
When the dance ended, she was breathless and beaming. The masquerade was proving to be the grandest night of her life, and all because of this man, whose real name she still didn’t know. Whenever she’d asked during the dance for his given name, he’d only murmured, “Later,” then circled away.
“My lady.” A deep voice at her shoulder caught her attention, and she turned to find a man beside her dressed as a tiger. But for all his finery, he sorely lacked in comparison to her panther. “May I request the next dance?”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he interjected as he stepped to her side with an easy-going smile that belied the sudden tensing she sensed in him at the approach of the other gentleman. “Lady Swan has given her evening to me.”
He took her arm and led her away toward the wall of French doors that opened onto the garden terrace and let in the fresh night air to cool the crowded room.
“Lady Swan has, has she?” He wouldn’t be able to see the arched brow beneath her mask, but from his low chuckle she knew he heard it in her voice.
He leaned down to bring his mouth close to her ear. “At least, I hope she will.”
A shiver swept through her, and not from the cool evening air as he led her outside onto the terrace and into the shadows, where they could finally be alone.
“Perhaps she would,” she countered playfully as she stepped away, her hand trailing up his arm as she moved past, “if she knew the name of the man she was with.”
He grinned at her obstinacy. “John.”
Her shoulders sagged. That wasn’t at all helpful. For heaven’s sake, half of the men in England were named John. “Just John?”
“For tonight, yes.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, to place a lingering kiss of apology against her fingers. “If you learn more, you might not like me so much.”