Reckless - By Anne Stuart Page 0,6

two left feet. She tugged at her hand again, but he held fast, stronger than she would have guessed. "Release me. Now."

Her peremptory tone wasn't the wisest choice, she realized as his eyes narrowed. "I think not."

Her slippers were light and soft, made for the dancing she refused to participate in. She gave him a deceptive smile, moving closer, and stomped on his foot with all her weight.

With her light slippers she couldn't have done nearly the damage she would have wished for. Had it been up to her she would have broken his foot—but it was enough of a surprise to have him momentarily loosen his grip, and she pulled free, whirled around and escaped.

She was half-afraid he'd follow her past the green baize door to the servants' passageway, but she'd overestimated her fascination. By the time she dared look back he was gone.

She'd made it up to the servants' narrow staircase when she heard the music start. She was three times a fool, but there was a spot from the second-floor staircase with a perfect view of the ballroom. She'd done just that in her own house with Lina when they were both young girls, fascinated by the workings of society and the behavior of their shallow parents.

At that point the two of them had judged it deadly dull.

Lina had changed her mind, sailing through a glittering first season, capped with an extravagant wedding to the aging but extremely wealthy and still-handsome earl of Whitmore.

Charlotte, on the other hand, had relreated in abject failure. Her ordinary looks, lack of fortune and unhappy tendency to speak her mind had made her part of a commodity that society had no value for, and she retired back to her family's ramshackle estate, her parents' only child a total failure.

She remembered Viscount Rohan from that disastrous first season, though she'd presumed he'd forgotten entirely. He'd been presented to her as a suitable partner by one of the well-meaning hostesses, and bored though he was, he'd done his duty, standing up with her and displaying barely the trace of a martyred

She had never been a good dancer—her family had had no money for a dancing master and she'd had to rely on Lina's lessons. Her nervousness at being in the presence of her secret crush had completely undone her. She'd trampled all over his elegant shoes, missed her cues, throwing the complicated country dance into total disarray.

He'd said nothing, his elegant mouth growing grimmer as he tried to rescue the figure, to no avail.

When the supreme torture was finally over she'd curtsied to him, and he'd bowed politely.

And then he'd murmured, "I hadn't realized dancing was a blood sport. Miss Samson. You might consider warning prospective partners that they're taking their lives in their hands if they dance with you." His light, casual words were accompanied by a faint glint in his eye that she couldn't read.

She hadn't tried, as her shame overwhelmed her. The fact that he didn't know her name was a relief rather than an added insult, and shed never danced again. At least never in public, and never with a partner.

There were times, after Lina had chosen to retire to the countryside, that Charlotte would find herself alone in the sprawling manor house. She'd find an empty hallway or a deserted field, and she'd realize she was humming a melody beneath her breath, and it had naturally evolved into a carefree dance, moving with the wind, free and happy.

Still, even Rohan's cruel, casual words hadn't managed to give her a disgust of the man. On the rare occasions when she accompanied Lina to evening parties her eyes would hungrily seek him out, and when he left for the continent her relief had been faintly tinged with disappointment.

She'd come face-to-face with him twice since his return, and his blue eyes had swepl over her with the same bored disinterest he evinced toward all and sundry, with the occasional exception of the great beauties. Charlotte Spenser was just a part of the anonymous horde of plain virgins desperately seeking a husband.

Not her, though. Not ever. Her parents were dead, the ramshackle estate had passed on to the nearest male relative, a distant cousin she'd never even met. Evangelina had been widowed, and begged her to move in with her, and Charlotte had done so quite happily. She'd managed lo assiduously avoid any social occasion that smacked of the marriage mart, and in truth she'd been happier than she'd ever been in