Most Improper Miss Sophie Valentine (16 page)

Lazarus had gone to the assembly rooms only because he overheard Mrs. Bentley at the cobbler's that week, babbling on about Sophie's attending with Mr. James Hartley.

He knew the moment she entered the place, but he kept his gaze from admiring her. Finally, during a pause in the dancing, he allowed himself a glance in her direction. At that moment, she stood with her back to him, Hartley's hand cupped under her gloved elbow, claiming possession. It seemed to confirm the rumors of an imminent engagement. But she'd said nothing to him about it.

Why should she? He was nothing to her but a lowly young man who came to her for lessons. A young man who'd probably been too forward. But he didn't know how else to be. Subtlety was not his way, and time was not on his side.

Now, when he looked for her again, she was chatting away with another woman, their heads bent together in a conspiratorial fashion. Suddenly the dark-haired one looked up, caught his eye, and grinned. He knew then they were talking of him.

“Honestly, you'd think she wouldn't dare show her face after the scandal of that advertisement,” Amy Dawkins exclaimed, her voice rising shrilly from somewhere in the region of his right shoulder. “Some women have no shame. Just like her aunt, of course. And poor Mr. Hartley has even agreed to pay off her brother's debts. I daresay they would have bled you dry of every penny, Mr. Kane, had she got her hooks into you, too.”

So the popinjay was paying off Henry Valentine's debts. Interesting news, indeed. While Henry was too proud to accept coin from
him
, he took it readily enough from a Hartley. No doubt, between gentlemen, they had a different name for it, but where he came from, selling a woman for money was one thing only.

His temper flared quickly, induced by the spiteful whispers of Amy Dawkins and encouraged by his own white-hot jealousy.

He abruptly strode up to the curly-headed young lady who'd grinned at him, and interrupted her conversation with Sophie by asking her to dance. The lady accepted his hand with only a slight hesitancy. As he whirled her away, his shoulder knocked against James Hartley who, having watched his rival approach the two women, speedily returned to stand over them. Lazarus did not stop to apologize.

***

Sophie swallowed a breath of Ellie's perfume as they swept by. Of course he'd spotted Ellie Vyne in her flattering apricot silk. Half the men in the room were probably in love with the delightfully sociable young woman.

“Did you see that?” James hissed, his expression one of superior, pinched disdain. “He deliberately knocked into me, the blackguard.”

“I'm sure it was an accident,” she replied.

“Accident, indeed!” His eyes followed the dancers down the room. “I might have known Vyne would be attracted to him,” he muttered. “Birds of a feather. Not a jot of propriety. Perfect for her.”

Sophie struggled not to be envious of her friend, but it was hard indeed. “They are of the same age,” she said softly. “Both lively and open-hearted young people.”

“I don't suppose it has occurred to you, that for a young woman of reduced circumstances, she gets about the country with remarkable ease. You know Admiral Vyne is in debt and has almost been forced to sell Lark Hollow.”

“She never mentioned it to me, but then money has never mattered to Ellie, and I don't believe it matters that much to you either. You're just looking for things to criticize about my friend, as always. She's always gotten under your skin.”

The dancing couple looked over at them, and Ellie laughed, throwing her head back as if her partner had just told the most amusing jest.

James sneered and quickly turned his back to the dancers, pointedly giving them no more of his attention. It was then he spied a group of acquaintances nearby, and Sophie gladly gave him leave to join them. “Don't worry, James, I have Aunt Finn to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

He looked dubiously at her aunt, who was still talking with the very sensible-looking Mr. Derwinter. “Very well. I'll be back momentarily.” She watched him hurry away through the swarm of overheated bodies, and for a while, she tried to pay attention to Mr. Derwinter's conversation with her aunt. But she sensed she was intruding. She slipped back slightly and soon found herself surrounded by prettier gowns, younger women with ringlets, and painted faces. The gentlemen looked down at her and immediately, upon seeing her scar, looked away again. Someone stepped on her foot, and another spilt wine on her frock. Behind her, whispers slithered through the crowd.

“Is
that
her? Surely not. That plain little woman?”

“Don't be deceived by her mousy looks. She's a dreadful trollop, and no man is safe…”

“What can a man like James Hartley see in her?”

“On a billiard table, so they say…”

“Look at that dowdy gown! Well, you know they're practically penniless now, for all their Valentine pretensions.”

“Throwing herself at Hartley for his fortune…”

“You heard, of course, about the Billiard Table Incident…”

“One would never think it to look at her…”

“An unrepentant hussy…”

Her face throbbed in the heat, and she couldn't find anything to do with her hands. In the way, once again, she began to feel nauseated, penned in, suffocated by thick layers of perfume.

And suddenly a hand gripped hers.

He tugged, and she followed, slightly dazed. In her panic, she hadn't even realized the music had changed.

“Dance with me,” Lazarus said. His arm around her waist, he spun her in a rapid circle, and cooling, soothing air rushed by. “Put your other hand on my shoulder.”

He held her close, his fingers spread against her back, his other hand firmly clasping hers. Usually, a gentleman asked politely before he held a lady's hand and danced with her, but Lazarus Kane did it his own way.

“This is a waltz,” he informed her proudly.

It was a scandalous dance she'd only heard about. Very soon they were the destination of every startled, questioning eye—the subject of every whisper. She could not see where Ellie had gone. As he swung her around, clumsily knocking into other dancers, she laughed. It burst out of her in a rush of giddy relief after feeling trapped by the crowd moments earlier. “Are you sure these are the right steps?”

“Uh hmmm.”

She laid her cheek to his strong, firm shoulder. She had no choice, she assured herself, for he whirled her around so fast she could barely keep her toes on the ground, and without his strength to hold her upright, she feared she might fall to the floor in an ungainly mess. “Where did you learn?”

“Dance lessons.”

“From whom?”

“The landlady here at the Red Lion Inn. She was most obliging.”

I'll bet she was
, thought Sophie dourly. It seemed there was no shortage of women willing to tutor him. “Is she young and pretty…the landlady? I suppose it was an excuse to hold her close.”

He spun her faster, until they bordered the dance floor. And then they were in the corner, where, as they turned again, he blew over his shoulder, extinguishing three small candles in their sconces. Now he drew her to a halt in that shadowy corner. Her gown swung against his legs, and he held her tightly, in a manner that would never be seen in the finer ballrooms of Society. “I learned it in case I needed an excuse to hold
you
very close, Miss Valentine. I came to marry you, remember? Before you so rudely rejected me.”

“What
are
you doing?” she exclaimed. “Everyone is looking!”

“Let them look.”

“Mr. Kane!”

“My God, you smell wonderful.” He leaned into her, sniffed her hair and then her cheek. She prayed no one would see them in that darkened corner. “You stir my appetite, Miss Valentine. Give me something, anything to stave off this hunger.” She felt the size of that hunger as his groin pressed against her thigh. “If you had any idea what you do to me, you would take pity.”

“I can't…” What did he expect of her, in public, in a room full of people? “What is it you want?”

“I want to know when we'll begin
your
lessons, Miss Valentine. I believe I've been patient enough. Give me some assurance, a promise to start soon.”

“Please take me back into the dance.”

“When you answer my question.”

He held her hostage in that corner. She daren't look over his wide shoulder to see if anyone was watching. “Very well. Soon.”

“Soon? How soon?”

“Within the next week. Now dance on…
please
.”

“Name the day.” His voice deepened, and she felt his large shaft again, just as insistent as its master. “Or I will.”

“Wednesday,” she gasped, plucking it out of the air and knowing she was sealing her fate at his hands.

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “I'm sorry, Miss Valentine, to take these extreme measures for your attention, but I can't help myself.”

“A consequence of extreme youth,” she replied dryly.

“And of your stubborn refusal to admit you find me desirable, which, coupled with your sheer, unbearable, sweet-scented loveliness, makes me wild. But you know all that, of course, being so much older and wiser.”

In the next moment, they were out again on the floor, moving with a few couples who dared participate in the new dance.

He was the sort of man who got away with anything, she mused. He didn't seem to understand that ladies were never meant to talk about their desires or acknowledge their needs and wants in that regard.

“What did Ellie tell you about me?”

“A great many things.”

“Don't believe half of them. She's a mischievous soul.”

“Like you, then, my lovely and wanton Miss Valentine.”

He should have had two dances with Ellie, she realized. A proper set was two dances. Yet he'd come for her instead, breaking the rules. Very few men would give up a second dance with her friend.

Sophie pressed her cheek very briefly to his shoulder and tried to hide her blushes. “We must never dance together again. People will notice.”

“What will they notice?”

“Don't be a fool. You know what I mean. You
know
.” And then, giving up, she tipped her head back to look up at him. “You just said it very succinctly—and arrogantly.”

He smiled, and warmth flooded his face. Those clever, all-too observant eyes were a deep, rich brown tonight.

“It cannot possibly do anyone any good,” she added. “It's only lust. And very unwise for either of us to pursue. I'm not the right woman for you, and you are definitely not the right sort of man for me.”

“My body, Miss Valentine, takes issue with that statement. See?”

He moved against her, shameless.

“I'm trying to make you see good sense,” she hissed. “Wretched man!”

“Good sense has nothing to do with it. This is pure desire. It's all animal.”

Sadly, he was right. Passion sparked between them with the slightest touch. Yet they were so wrong for each other, completely unsuited. Where James corrected her wild streak, Lazarus encouraged her rebellious tendencies, and that could be very dangerous, indeed.

“Don't worry,” he murmured, “I won't ask you again to marry me. I have my pride to consider.”

Her heartbeat faltered. “Thank goodness,” she managed tersely.

“But a lover has more fun than a husband, in any case. All the pleasure and none of the responsibility.”

The man was utterly infuriating, incorrigible. She could have protested, but she knew it would be a waste of breath.

“You may as well give in to me,” he whispered, confirming her worst fears. “It's only a matter of time.” Oh, dear Lord, he had just let the tip of his tongue trail across her brow. Had anyone seen?

“You taste as good as you smell,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I'm going to feast on you, Miss Valentine. Soon.”

He spun her even faster. They danced up one side of the hall and down again, because Lazarus forgot how to negotiate a corner turn. But Sophie didn't mind at all. It couldn't last forever, could it? She may as well make the most of this stolen pleasure for one dance.

He brought her back to her aunt and kissed her hand with rather more exaggeration than necessary. James strode over with a thunderous frown on his handsome face, but before she could introduce the two men, Amy Dawkins came running to claim Lazarus for the last dance of the evening.

“Why did you dance with him?” James demanded crossly. “And
that
dance of all things?”

“Don't fuss, James.” She was still more than a little breathless. “You're beginning to sound like Henry.” With one trembling hand, she struggled to tidy her disordered hair. No one had seen what he'd done. No one had seen him taste her damp skin.

“Your brother cares for your well-being, Sophia, as do I. What that gypsy cares about is plain to see, and it is not your well-being.”

She was amused. Henry and James had never got along, even at university when they first met. Yet now, they'd put aside past differences to join forces against the outsider.

“You've heard, of course, what people are saying about his past, Sophia. He has no family, no background, no breeding. He evidently came by his coin through no legitimate means. He is rootless, a wanderer, a drifter.”

“I hear a great deal of unfounded speculation from people who should worry about their own lives and spend less time—”

“Now he has a houseguest who, so they say, walks about with no clothes.”

She was giddy from the dance, blood rushing through her veins, and she snorted with laughter.

“I thought Henry said the gypsy changed his mind about marrying you when he arrived in Sydney Dovedale and found you scarred. Why would you dance with him now?”