To Catch an Earl - Kate Bateman Page 0,43
her neck prickled in warning. His huge, warm body materialized behind her, a solid masculine presence impossible to ignore. He must have learned such tactics in the army; how to sneak up on an enemy unobserved. How to take advantage of the terrain and natural cover to gain an advantage.
She tamped down a delirious sense of anticipation. She’d known he would seek her out. His presence just added another level of excitement, of danger to the game. She had the feeling he would always be within arm’s reach. Was that a desirable thing or not?
His low voice came from over her shoulder. “Miss Danvers. Fancy seeing you here.” His tone was drier than a desert.
Her whole body seemed to light up, like a breathed-upon ember. “Lord Melton,” she said coolly.
Had she really kissed him senseless a few days ago? It seemed impossible. She wanted to do it again.
“Tell me one thing about yourself that very few people in this room know,” he said.
Emmy kept her gaze on the dancers. I’m a brazen, unrepentant jewel thief. She shouldn’t even be talking to him. Every piece of information might be used against her. But politeness won out.
“Very well. I enjoy discovering foreign words that have no direct English translation.” She glanced over her shoulder and caught his look of mild surprise. Any other woman would have told him she liked embroidery or playing the pianoforte or sketching.
“Hmmm.” The sound he made was encouraging, as if he’d received the pleasantly satisfying answer to a puzzle that had been plaguing him for some time. Emmy decided to elaborate.
“The French have several of them. L’esprit de l’escalier, for example. It literally means ‘staircase wit’ and is used to describe that perfect, clever retort you think of only after someone’s left and you’re going back upstairs.”
Harland smiled—a wide, genuine smile that lit his eyes—and her heart seized in her chest. His smile was a thing of beauty, something rare and wonderful. She wanted to make it appear again.
“Sortable is the adjective to use for friends and family members you can take out in public without fear of being embarrassed,” she said.
He was très sortable. Any woman would preen to have him on her arm.
Now that she’d started, Emmy couldn’t seem to stop. “The Scots have a good one: tartle. It’s that panicky hesitation just before you have to introduce someone whose name you cannot quite remember.”
“That is a good word,” he said. “I have definitely been tartled, on occasion.” He tilted his head, still not looking at her. “I’ve travelled extensively on the continent—Bonaparte’s unofficial Grand Tour. I must have picked up a few words to add to your collection. Let me think.”
He gazed out across the dance floor, apparently deep in thought, and Emmy stole a glance at the clean line of his jaw and firm lips. Her skin tingled.
“I have one,” he said finally. “See that annoying fellow over there? In mustard-yellow pantaloons.”
“Lord Eversleigh?”
“Indeed. The Germans have a word for him.”
She raised her brows in silent question.
“Backpeifengesicht,” he supplied.
“Bless you,” she said, straight-faced.
He shot her a chiding sideways glance. “It means ‘a face badly in need of a fist.’”
Emmy quelled a snicker of amusement. “Interesting.”
“The Russian soldiers I met had plenty of entertaining phrases too. Most of them were related to drinking. They have a whole host of words to convey various levels of intoxication. Soosh-nyak, for example, is that dry feeling you get in your throat when you wake up after a night of heavy drinking.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Emmy said virtuously. “But no doubt you’re intimately acquainted with the sensation.”
He ignored that little jibe. “They have another word that describes the disappointment of seeing a woman who appears pretty from behind but not from the front. I can’t remember what it is, though.”
“That’s very helpful,” she said with faint irony.
The realization of how much she was enjoying herself crushed her chest. This easy, teasing banter was a tantalizing glimpse of what could have been, had circumstances been different. But any friendship between the two of them was an impossibility. These brief, forbidden moments were all she could ever have.
The dance ended, and another set began to form. Harland stepped past her and caught her hand. “We should dance.”
She didn’t have time to voice an objection. He led her onto the dance floor and turned her neatly in his arms. The heat of his palm warmed through her glove where their hands were joined. His left hand settled easily at the small of her