Reckless - By Anne Stuart Page 0,5

perfectly within the bounds of propriety, there was cloth between his flesh and hers, and yet this touch burned.

Bloody hell, she thought again, having finally grown comfortable with the phrase. Of all people, why did it have to be Rohan that she barreled into?

"Miss...?" He clearly racked his brain. "Miss Spenser, isn't it? Have I done something to offend you?"

She dropped a swift curtsy, difficult enough in the swirl of guests, and surreptitiously tried to pull away. How in heavens did he remember her name? She was hardly part of his world. His long fingers tightened. "Of course not, my lord. I do beg your pardon. I have no excuse for such appalling language."

Now that he was actually looking at her, the plague of emotions was even worse, she thought, scowling. It had been bad enough, always watching him from across crowded ballrooms, fighting off the foolish daydreams that went all the way back to Ihe fairy tales of her youth when she knew full well that this was no handsome prince—this was a wicked wizard, an evil faerie out to cast a binding spell on her.

Up close it was far, far worse. The warmth in her belly, the tightness in her chest, the tingling in places she wasn't even going to think about. And the burn where his hand touched her arm. He was looking down at her. "You're Lady Whitmore’s companion, are you not?”

"Cousin," she snapped before she could stop herself. And how in the world did he know that much?

She'd counted on her own invisibility.

Again that faint smile. "I stand corrected. Though aren't poor relations often required to serve as companions ? "

It was a rude question, but nothing compared to the shock of her language. And he still wasn't releasing her. "If you'll excuse me. Lord Rohan," she said firmly, yanking her arm free a bit too roughly.

He released her arm, only to catch her gloved hand in his. Then he smiled at her, a smile faintly tinged with malice. "I think I must insist upon a dance. Miss Spenser. Penance for your shocking breach of

That was all she needed, she thought. She'd danced with him a hundred times, beneath the starry sky, dressed in a gown that suddenly turned her into an irresistible beauty, all in the dreams she'd wickedly allowed herself. Dreams she'd known better than to indulge in, but which she'd allowed herself any way, and now she was paying (he price. She knew from watching him that his grace on the dance floor was something quite extraordinary, his form perfect. And yet there was a certain something in the way he moved that had more than one chaperone shaking her head, looking for some reason to bar him from (he innocent young ladies who clamored around him.

She had no chaperone, though at the advanced age of thirty she was too old to be considered innocent, she reminded herself.

"I don't dance," she said. "Please release my hand."

He didn't, not for a long moment. He truly had the most unsettling eyes, she realized. Usually his lids drooped down lazily, hiding his gaze, but she could see their deep blue depths, summing her up quite handily, and she thanked God those years of practice kept her blushes from showing on her pale skin, no matter how she squirmed inwardly.

"Now, why do I get the impression you disapprove of me. Miss Spenser?" he said.

She was feeling curiously light-headed and she deepened her scowl. Her expression was usually sufficient to scare men away, but clearly Viscount Rohan didn't scare easily. "I don't know you. Lord Rohan. How could I disapprove of you?"

"Perhaps my reputation precedes me. You've got that starched-up look like you tasted something particularly nasty."

People were watching. She'd never held a public conversation with a man for more than a few brief moments, and never with a pink of the ton like Rohan. She was supposed to be invisible, for heaven's sake.

And he certainly had never paid any heed to anyone other than his most recent flirts, all of them stunning beauties. A plain old maid such as Charlotte Spenser would never qualify as the type of woman to interest someone like Adrian Rohan.

He was still holding her hand, she realized with horror. "Where is your dance card?" he persisted.

"I told you, I don't dance," she said through grilled teeth. Lina had long ago ceased insisting she carry a dance card, knowing it was a lost cause. In addition to never being asked, she had