A_Little_Harmless_Fascination (27 page)

He smiled down at her and she fought the shiver of dread
that raced along her flesh.

“I hope you are enjoying yourself tonight.”

She forced her lips to curve into a welcoming smile as she
offered her hand. He bent over it. Even with her skin protected by gloves, the
top of her hand grew cold. Bile rose in her throat as she watched him. Most
women—especially women decidedly on the shelf and with no dowry—would kill to
be this close to him. The idea that she wanted to flee whenever she spotted him
made no sense.

“I always enjoy the Smyth’s ball. It is very amusing.” She
tugged on her hand, twisting it to free it from his grasp. “And you, my lord?”

“I thought to ask for your hand in the next dance.” The
moment he said it, the first strains of a waltz filled the massive ballroom. A
sick ball of dread filled her stomach. “I assume you are free?”

His smirk told Cordelia he knew she did not have one dance
on her card. She rarely did. She was not on the marriage mart, far too old and
poor to grab attention—except from the Viscount. Now she regretted not securing
a dance partner for the first waltz.

“I--”

“Lady Cordelia.” A strong masculine voice filled the air
around her and sent a rush of heat along her nerve endings. Even without
turning she knew who stood behind her. The man she had been chasing for three
days straight. The man she was positive ran illegal businesses in London. The
subject of her now-due article.

Nicodemus Blackburn.

She turned to face him, her heart beating hard against her
breast. As blood rushed out of her head, she felt a bit lightheaded. Where the
viscount and his patrician features were attractive in a very English gentry
way, Mr. Blackburn was dark and dangerous. If women sighed over the viscount,
they fainted when Blackburn gave them his attention. Cordelia wanted to be the
exception to that rule…but he was heady indeed.

“Yes, Mr. Blackburn?”

“I believe this is my dance.”

For a moment, she didn't respond. She couldn't. Her mind
simply could not formulate a reply. Blackburn, who rarely danced and had been
known for disdaining most of the ton, had just asked her to dance. No. He lied
and said she had promised him the dance.

One black eyebrow rose as she said nothing. The curving of his
lips was enough to pull her out of her trance.

She offered him her hand and said to Hurst, “If you will
excuse me, my lord.”

Hurst tossed Blackburn a nasty look before offering her a
pleasant smile. “Of course. Perhaps the next waltz?”

She merely smiled but said nothing. Cordelia would make sure
not to be in sight of the viscount. Blackburn led her out to the floor and
pulled her closer, swinging her into the rhythm of the dance. She drew in a
deep breath. The scent of bayrum filled her scenes. That lightheaded feeling
returned.

“A bit of advice, my lady.”

She looked up at Blackburn trying to keep her wits about
her. Everyone sought information on this man, especially her editor who had
told her to dig into his character and find out just where he got his money.
And he was here, like a ripe peach for the picking. She had a list of questions
memorized. Unfortunately, she found herself staring into his mesmerizing eyes
and could not gather her wits long enough to ask him anything.

It was Blackburn’s fault. His attractiveness did not come
from a trained valet who knew how to dress his employer. He possessed the most
remarkable gray-blue eyes and blacker than midnight hair—worn unfashionably
long. He was put together well, solid. She could feel his muscles flex as he
guided her through the waltz, maneuvering around couples with ease.

His attractiveness turned heads, but there was more to it
than that. It was the strength she sensed beneath the surface of the polished
veneer. Something about him, dangerous and male, seethed just beneath his
polite façade.
 
It almost made her giddy
to be this close to him.

“Lady Cordelia?”

She blinked. “Yes? Oh, you had advice.”

“You should stay away from the Viscount.”

She nodded at his comment. No, not truly a comment. A command.
She didn’t know Blackburn, knew nothing of his family—and he only could know of
the gossip surrounding hers. But, for some unknown reason he felt the need to
tell her what to do. Of all the cheek!

“Whatever to do you mean?”

His eyes flashed with irritation as they narrowed. “I mean
the man is trouble. I fear that he is after but one thing in his pursuit of
you.”

Where was the tact Blackburn was famous for? Everyone in the
ton knew her situation, or thought they knew. It was much worse than she let people
know, otherwise she would never be invited to these functions. And while
everyone attending knew that her brother was drinking away her inheritance,
none of them knew she was so close to living on the street.

People may gossip about her, but they did not do it in front
of her. Did Blackburn realize he insulted her? Looking at his serious
expression, she thought not. The man actually thought he was helping.

She adopted her most innocent look. “What would that be Mr.
Blackburn?”

His expression blanked as he studied her. “I beg your
pardon. I was led to believe you were somewhat of a...”

“What, sir?”

Oh, he did not like being put in the corner, but she was
happy to shove the man there. The gall of him to insult her so. Granted, she
was positive Hurst was after her for the reason Blackburn implied. Though, even
that was odd because the viscount could have his choice of most women of the
ton—married and unmarried. Why he would want the Lady Fionna's bastard daughter
who had no dowry and penchant for books? His pursuit made little sense. But,
most men of the ton had little sense.

With an aggravated sigh, he maneuvered them through the
French doors out onto the patio. Light from the ballroom spilled out over them
as the cool night air hit her skin, cooling her anger and desire.

Blackburn hesitated, then released her. The dark night
surrounded them, the tension in the air rising. She walked away from him, to
the edge of the terrace. “Whyever are we out here?”

When he did not answer, she turned to face him. He placed a
hand on each of his hips and frowned at her. Again. “Stop playing the
simpleton.”

She blinked. “Playing?”

“Lord Hurst is not a well man.”

That was not what she expected to hear. She dropped all
pretense. “Not well?”

He hesitated then said, “There have been rumors about him.”

“Indeed. There are rumors about almost every eligible man
here tonight, including yourself.”

He nodded in acknowledgement.
 
“He has certain...tastes that would shock
you.”

“Do you mean he frequents the House of Rod?”

That had his eyebrows rising. “You know of that?”

“Why do you think I accepted your dance? I didn't have to.
After eight years in the ton, I am well aware of how men behave. I know there
is something wrong with the viscount.”

His gaze sharpened. “You do?”

His intense study suddenly made her very wary. It was if she
were a specimen he was trying to decipher. Blackburn’s attention filled her
with an unusual flash of warmth.

“Y-yes. He...well, he acting just a bit strange.” She could
not come up with another way to describe it.

“Strange?”

She nodded. “Quite.”

He sighed. “Well, thank goodness you have some sense. Most
women swoon over him.”

“Yes, but as you said, he isn't after my hand in marriage.
Many ladies have set their cap for him.
I
am not one of them.”

“Indeed. I do apologize for my insensitivity.”

She waved it away. “You are not the first, and you will not
be the last.”

With a smile, he offered her his arm. “If you would allow me
to walk you back into the ballroom?”

“Before you do, could you answer one question?”

He dropped his arm as his brow furrowed. “That depends.”

“I understand you are in the shipping business.”

“Yes.”

She bit back an irritated sigh. He was not going to make
this an easy task. “There have been some questions about the nature of the
shipments.”

His expression darkened, his eyes narrowing again as he
studied her. As his gaze moved over her face, but she did not allow her own to
waver. Breath clogged her throat; her pulse doubled.
 

“I import many things, Lady Cordelia.” She opened her mouth
to ask another question, but Blackburn took another step closer. He towered
over her, but she did not feel threatened as when other men did it. She
felt…hot. Her whole body shimmered with heat.

“My company is known for its fine silks. I understand they
are in demand by many ladies. Have you ever felt truly fine silk?”

She could not answer. His voice had dipped lower, caressing
her like the fine silk he spoke of. Cordelia knew she should step back, but she
could not make her feet move. He inched closer, his legs now brushing the front
of her dress.

When she did not answer, Blackburn continued, leaning down
to place his hand on the stone wall behind her. He was now much closer than
propriety allowed, and her heart threatened to beat from her chest.

 
“Fine silk slides
against flesh,” he murmured.

His breath heated her earlobe. Cordelia pulled in a deep
breath trying to regain her wits. But her breasts brushed against his chest and
tingles shot through her body like shooting stars.

 
She shook her head. Other
questions swirled in her brain, and she knew that Blackburn was trying to
divert her attention. Her body did not care. Need coursed through her veins,
urging her to move closer, into Blackburn’s heat.

At that moment, a group of younger people came out laughing
and talking, their excitement of the season easily heard in their voices.
Blackburn’s head whipped around, and a growl rumbled in his chest. For a
moment, she thought he might attack them.

“Mr. Blackburn.”

She whispered the words as not to gain the others attention.
He hesitated, then looked down her.
 
Fierce hunger darkened his eyes. Cordelia was not sure he even heard
her, but a moment later, his expression blanked, the harsh lines of his face
smoothing.
 
He drew in a deep breath,
then stepped back, the cool night air replacing his heat. She shivered as goose
bumps rose over her flesh. Cordelia should be thankful he had pulled back in
time. With her background, she had to be careful. There was always a chance
that she would step over the line. And at that point, her invitations would
stop and she needed them to earn money.

He offered her arm once again. “May I escort you back to the
ballroom, Lady Cordelia?” He pitched his voice just loud enough for the group
to hear.

She nodded, laying her hand on his arm. “I do thank you sir
for your help. Hurst is a nuisance and I could have deflected him. Your help
just made it much easier.”

He guided her over to a group of matrons. “I trust you will
be able to avoid him in the future.”

It was not a question, but an order. Odd, because, before
tonight, she had barely spoken to him. She sent him a sharp stare to tell them
man he had overstepped his bounds. Little shock that he ignored her.

Instead, he bowed and, loud enough for a group of nearby
matrons to hear, he said, “Thank you for the dance, Lady Cordelia.”

She had been in his company for the last five minutes and
had yet to ask him more than one question about his finances. As she stared at
him, that eyebrow of his rose again. Mr. Blackburn knew she had questions for
him…which was why he had avoided her for days. Now that he was dumping her with
the matrons, she had no way of asking them. She was stuck—and he knew it.

She offered him a smile she reserved for the most vapid of
young misses. “You are most welcome, Mr. Blackburn.”

His lips twitched as if he repressed a smile. After a nod to
the matrons—watching the whole scene as if they were at the theater—he turned
and walked away.

And Cordelia cursed herself again. She still didn’t know if
the man earned his money legally or not. She thought back to the dance, the way
his body pressed against hers, the heat she saw in his eyes and sighed. She had
to learn how to keep her wits about her the next time she encountered Mr.
Blackburn.

Her livelihood depended on it.

*

“You look ready to faint, Blackburn,” Grayson, Duke of
Nothingham said, amusement threading his voice. “Done in by a little mouse of a
woman?”

Nico threw him what he hoped was a nasty look and grabbed a
drink as a waiter passed by him. Bloody hell, his hand was shaking.
 
“You are treading on thin ice.”

“I've never known Lady Cordelia to have this affect on
anyone but Hurst, and seriously, I cannot understand why he is interested.”

Without knowing or caring what the drink was, Nico tossed
back the contents in one huge gulp, wincing as the warm lemonade slid down his
throat. God, he needed to get out of there, find a woman. The moment he thought
it, he caught sight of Lady Cordelia. His body responded as if he’d been struck
by lightning.

“So, tell me, how did Lady Cordelia ensnare you? Was it her
modest gown, or her discussion on anything political?”

How could he explain it? Not once in society had he come so
close to losing control. How could one petite, blue-eyed miss have brought him
so close to the edge? Even now he had to grind his teeth together to keep his
incisors from descending. He had been moments from taking her, and she would
not have resisted. It was in her makeup to respond to him—even if she did not
understand. His plan to divert her attention had gone horribly awry.
 
Even now, he could remember the feel of her
hardened nipples as they lightly brushed his chest.