The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (8 page)

"Yes, of course, Bernard," she said.

He moved off, presumably to join her father in a game of whist. Jillian's heart pounded with excitement and disquiet as the duke approached.

Silently, he held out a gloved hand. Silently, she took it. Graham's grip settled upon her waist, his heat like a burning coal through the fabric of her gown. Jillian swallowed and they began the waltz.

In his arms again, this time in full view of society. Fully clothed. Her hand tightened on the broad shoulder encased in black silk, remembering her fingers gripping the hard muscles of his back as he thrust inside her...

Though extremely nervous, she found dancing with him much easier than with Bernard. Jillian glided along to his expert lead, and arched her neck to glance up at him.

"You expressly stated we must never see each other again. Why the dance?" she asked bluntly.

"Perhaps so we could talk without prying gossips eagerly eavesdropping."

"Very well. Talk then."

He chuckled. "You're very direct."

Only with you
, she thought. With everyone else, she was a quiet, redheaded mouse. A shadow of her real self.

He cut a very smooth turn and she followed effortlessly. They matched each other well, as they had last night. A dull flush burned her skin as she remembered. She hoped he would not notice.

"You're very becoming when you blush," he remarked.

Jillian raised her gaze to his and cut off his pleasantries. "You need to talk to me, Your Grace? Tell me what you wanted to say."

He gave her an intent look. "Perhaps I merely wanted to compliment you on the real color of your hair. It is like golden fire, or the flare of an Egyptian sunset."

"Is that all? Praises of my hair? No poetic homage to the beauty of my eyebrows and how they resemble winged doves in flight? Or how softly rounded my elbow is, like a ripe rich peach?"

His lips twitched with amusement. "I fear I have no such eloquence within me. I must confess, I am not an authority on women's elbows—unless they be the kind that are rather pointed and jabbing me in the ribs."

Jillian laughed. Heads turned, stared. Her mirth died as soon as it began; she could not risk drawing attention to herself. She looked away from the duke, away from the man who had taken her virginity.

"I told you last night, it's best we remain strangers in the dark," she said, staring over his shoulder.

"It was best," he agreed. "But that was before we saw each other across the room. Then it became wiser for me to ask you to dance, to acquaint myself with you should anyone sense... we know each other somehow. Pretense is not my strongest suit."

She gave a wry smile. "It is mine."

"Only when necessary, I think. You disguise yourself, but I sense you long to show the world who you truly are," he murmured.

Startled, she did now look at him. "But aren't we all in disguise, in some form or another? Don't we all hide our real selves from the world? Even you, Graham Tristan."

He nearly stumbled, but recovered quickly. "Who are you?" he asked.

"A stranger who shared last night with you. A nobleman's daughter who wishes discretion." Boldly, she looked at him. "And you, Your Grace? Who are you?"

A mysterious smile took his lips. "A duke, dancing with a nobleman's daughter. A stranger sharing a second night."

"Had I known who you really are..." she began.

"You'd have turned and walked away?"

Jillian compressed her trembling lips. She looked directly into his eyes. "No," she admitted. "I would not have."

Satisfaction filled his gaze. She did not stiffen as he pulled her closer than polite society allowed. The air between their bodies grew warm from their combined heat.

"Your Grace, would you have walked away had you known my identity? Had I stated my name and revealed all?"

The strains of violin and cello filled the silence as a second dance began. His scent teased her nostrils, a faint spice she could not identify, mixed with the smell of clean skin and shaving soap. Jillian awaited his answer. Some unknown emotion flickered in his eyes. Then his gaze darkened.

"No," he admitted quietly. "I could not have."

His gaze softened as they regarded each other. For a magical moment, she felt they were the only two people in the immense ballroom, and they had not met previously, but were starting anew. Filled with the wonder of discovering each other.

She smiled, fresh courage filling her. "Why would you not have walked away?"

But he made no reply. A distant look came over his face, as if he had shuttered himself off from her and desired no further contact. Jillian was surprised and hurt, but she resigned herself to finishing the dance in silence. She stiffened much as she had in Bernard's arms. Their steps became more halted and less relaxed.

Thankfully, the waltz ended. She curtseyed and Graham executed an elegant bow. She sensed impossible layers to this man, hidden to the chattering
ton
by his perfect manners and cool indifference. He wanted to blend, and so he withheld part of himself.

She had been physically intimate with this man, he had known every part of her body, and yet she did not know him at all. They were strangers.

Graham put a hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the crush. His touch was light and yet seared through the dress. He relinquished her to her aunt, whose soft smile held a hint of approval. Oh, goodness, did her aunt think a man such as this charming, wealthy duke could rescue her?

She was beyond rescuing.

The duke's mouth quirked upwards as he took her hand, kissing her gloved fingers. "My thanks for the enormous privilege you accorded me, Lady Jillian. Our dances gave me great pleasure. It was like... waltzing in heaven," he said softly.

She stiffened, caught off-guard by the words. An echo of the ones she'd spoken last night. Smoky desire darkened his gaze. She knew his true meaning, knew he spoke of the dance where they tangled and twirled and strained together in naked, blissful abandon. He wanted her yet.

Jillian tilted her chin up. "I experienced equal pleasure, Your Grace. It was indeed... paradise."

He studied her intently. She grew uneasy at the spark in his eyes.

"I trust you are well, Lady Jillian, and our dancing did not leave you feeling flushed or... sore in any way? I tried to be as gentle as I could, for I know strenuous physical activity can sometimes prove painful for gently reared ladies."

Damn him! Did he not know such talk could prove dangerous to them both? Why was he doing this?

Her aunt interjected, seemingly eager. "I assure you, Your Grace, my niece can well handle the duty of dancing. Even gently reared girls are quite capable. And a dance may leave her sore, but such discomfort is easily overcome and should not cause undue distress."

"However," he murmured, his gaze never leaving Jillian, "your discomfort would cause me distress and an eager desire to amend it. I'd wish to experience the delights of another dance as soon as you felt comfortable enough to engage me."

Oh, damn the man! What was he thinking? Jillian tried to control her wildly beating pulse, her desire. She gazed at him coolly, but gave in to his fire.

"I am quite well, Your Grace. I am quite capable of dancing as often as any partner."

"It sounds as if you quite enjoy the dance," he suggested, his knowing gaze transfixing her. Jillian flushed.

"Every season I prove myself most competent," she retorted, this time refusing to follow his lead.

His dark eyes twinkled. "Do you?" he asked in a deep, lazy drawl. Then he added; "I can imagine the man who was your first partner shared a very special moment, indeed."

She raised her gaze boldly to him. "Special indeed, good sir. I shall never forget."

His eyes widened and darkened, and a look of pensiveness came over him. Unsmiling, he regarded her. She could see a pulse beat in his throat. Her own heartbeat echoed its cadence. Thick tension hung in the air. What was happening? Jillian had never met a man before who made her feel this way—as if all her careful plans might crumble to dust and she'd care not a fig. Not even about Radcliffe.

The sweet tension broke as Bernard appeared. Murmuring excuses, Aunt Mary slipped away. Jillian felt herself shrink back into the old position. She stammered polite introductions, but misspoke, saying, "Graham, the Duke of Caldwell."

She'd called him by his first name. Flustered, she quieted.

Bernard shook his head mildly, haughtily amused. "Forgive Lady Jillian, Your Grace. She is usually not so gauche."

The duke did not return his smile. His eyes grew cold. "I rather think her introduction was correct. Graham is my name—a name I ask certain people to call me."

Bernard blanched. "I apologize. I did not realize Lady Jillian was familiar enough to address you by your given name."

"We shared a wonderful dance, and that certainly makes her familiar enough," he replied, glancing at her.

"I do hope she didn't step on your toes, as she did mine," Bernard said lightly, to Jillian's mortification.

"On the contrary, I found Lady Jillian quite accomplished at dancing. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves."

Jillian shot him a warning look. Graham ignored it, his dark eyes dancing now.

"Do you dance often, Mr. Augustine?" he inquired.

"I'm afraid I'm not as skilled at dancing as some," Bernard admitted. "I do not enjoy it."

"Indeed?" The duke lifted his dark brows.

"Dancing is necessary, but it can be quite dull," Bernard continued, oblivious to the conversation's subtext. Graham refused to let up.

"I daresay you are wrong, Mr. Augustine. With the right partner—such as Lady Jillian—a man must find it a very pleasurable experience." His sensual, full lips lifted in a crooked half smile. A hot flush lit Jillian's cheeks.

Graham couldn't help biting back a chuckle. Bloody hell, Jillian had spirit. He sensed it brimming beneath her calm surface, stifled by her upbringing. The dull gray gown she wore hid everything. She looked like a stern governess. But the covering intrigued him as he imagined stripping it slowly from her to reveal ivory-white skin that gleamed as it had last night in the dull glow of the brothel's lamps, kissing each inch of her white skin, coaxing a throaty little cry from her long, slender throat now concealed in a froth of severe lace.

Ah, but the passion he'd coaxed from her last night... surely it still burned within her. He hid a smile, contenting himself with mentally stripping Lady Jillian nude, waltzing with her on the mattress, this redheaded woman with green eyes blazing with desire... laughing at him in the desert as she trapped him there—

His fantasy ended abruptly. Graham's smile faded. He must leave their liaison a secret and swear off ever meeting her again. Every cell inside him warned she was dangerous. Even the question she'd innocently asked:
Why did you not turn and walk away?

It mattered not. After tonight, after he found his quarry, nothing would matter. Not even one sweet night in her soft arms. Passion and heat. That would die with him as a memory when he hanged.

His icy composure broke. Never again to taste her, to experience such bliss as they had, tangled as one...

The self-important little prig who called himself Bernard was saying something. Graham forced a smile to his lips and inclined his head.

"Lady Jillian and I plan to honeymoon in Bath, Your Grace. Have you ever taken the waters there?"

What? Jillian was to marry this pasty-faced fop? Shock gripped Graham, but he managed a noncommittal answer as he stared at her. Two delicate roses of color stained her cheeks. She looked away.

An unexpected surge of male possessiveness shook him. If she'd known of her engagement, why had she surrendered her innocence to him, a virtual stranger? In a whorehouse?

Unless she had a good reason for not remaining a virgin... His troubled gaze returned to Jillian. Ah God, she was beautiful, her slender figure standing so proud, those delightful white shoulders he'd adored kissing now hidden by ugly, dull gray.

Jillian paled. She gave a curtsy and murmured, "Please excuse me." Then, pivoting on her heel, she turned and pushed off through the crowd, as if to leave the ballroom.