Don’t tell me, we have to sacrifice a chicken and spread its entrails in the street or something equally ludicrous.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Nothing so gory. The person who was stepped on just needs to return the favor.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, we’ll be enemies forever.”
He sent her an ironic look. “We’ve been at odds for the entire time we’ve been acquainted, Your Highness. Do you really think it would help?”
She met his eyes, and he felt the punch right down to his gut. “Not the entire time,” she said softly.
His body hardened to the point of pain. Bloody woman. As if he needed reminding.
“Step on my foot!” she hissed again through her teeth, pretending to smile for the benefit of their interested onlookers.
“I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Just do it.”
He exhaled a put-upon sigh. “Fine.”
Using the cover of her skirts, he waited until the dance slowed and very gently pressed the toe of his boot onto the top of her foot, acutely conscious of the fact that she only wore the flimsiest of dancing slippers beneath her skirts. That, naturally, led to him imagining everything else she had on under there, from silken stockings to soft-as-a-snowdrift skin.
Seb sucked in a breath. Dancing was a mistake. Just being in the same room with her was a mistake. He almost wished Petrov would appear and make his move and put an end to this torment.
Almost.
“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said, praying she didn’t hear the ridiculous combination of resentment and longing in his tone.
She glanced up at him, and he had to remind himself to breathe. Her eyes sparkled. “Thank you. So do you.”
“I don’t think a man can be beautiful, per se,” he countered sternly.
She tilted her head, as if considering the notion. “How should I compliment you, then, Lord Mowbray? Should I call you handsome? Noble? Irresistible?” Her lips parted on a teasing smile and he resisted the urge to say: Mine. You should call me mine.
“Any of those will do,” he said lightly. He cast around for a safer subject. “Have you been enjoying yourself with the dowager duchess?”
She nodded, and he cursed the fact that they were reduced to speaking of such inane things. God, they’d be discussing the weather next, or the dancing. Inches separated them, but it might as well have been a hundred miles.
“Geoffrey gave you a reticule,” he said, and could have kicked himself for sounding like a jealous fool.
“He did. It’s lovely. Although I prefer the gift you gave me.”
“The tiara?”
She shook her head, making the item in question catch the light like hoarfrost in the dawn.
“No.”
She saw his surprise and hastened to explain. “The tiara is, without doubt, the most wonderful present anyone’s ever given me, but I wasn’t thinking of that.” She sent him a secret, confiding smile. “I meant the vial of sleeping potion you gifted me at the Tricorn.”
Seb lifted his brows. “You prefer that to Geoffrey’s reticule?”
“I do. Unless I hit someone over the head with the reticule, it’s of very little use in terms of defense. The tincture, on the other hand, makes me feel invulnerable. It is potential. A chance to control my destiny. It is freedom.”
Seb tried to ignore the disproportionate amount of gratification her words gave him and failed miserably. The way she said it, so reverently, made him want to give her a vat of the stuff. Hell, he’d order Lagrassse to cook nothing but mandrakes for the next month. She could bathe in it if she wanted to.
The sudden scorching image of her in the bath, flushed and dripping, assailed him, and he almost stumbled.
“All that in a little bottle,” he managed lightly.
She nodded, her eyes bright. “I carry it wherever I go.”
“Even tonight?” he teased. His eyes flicked over her chest. “I can’t imagine where, in that dress.”
“It’s in the pockets of my skirts,” she whispered.
“Well, just remember you swore never to use it on me.”
She laughed up at him. “Of course not.”
They made another swirl around the floor, and Seb realized with a start how effortlessly they danced together.
“I enjoyed meeting your friends,” she said. “They were extremely interesting.”
Seb made a noncommittal sound.
“I should like to meet them again.”
He bit back a silent groan. That was all he needed. For her to be everywhere he went, laughing with his friends, posing an impossible temptation at every turn. Reminding him of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Napoleon himself couldn’t have devised a worse torture.
* * *
The Harlands and