eyes reached his and stopped. She nodded, and stepped towards the open doors.
She did not take his arm as he led her out, but they were as joined as any lovers. He allowed himself one moment of fantasy in a long lifetime of hard factuality.
Marguerite had never been this close to a man in private – inhaled his musky scent, been the center of his attention. She swallowed as she looked up into deep, quicksilver eyes. Still, this was Tristan. He was a marquess, a gentleman, even if she had not long made his acquaintance. He would never take liberties – not that she knew exactly what “liberties” consisted of – surely she was safe with him.
She took a step toward him, into the dusk of the garden, away from her sister’s ballroom. His eyes darkened, the black centers eclipsing the liquid gray surrounding them. Desire in his gaze, he traced over her features, as the heavy scent of night jasmine drifted about them. Her breath caught as his glance rested on her lips and she fought the urge to lick them. The taste of lemons still lingered from the punch she had drunk.
She shivered – and they had not even touched. As if he sensed her thought, Tristan reached out and caught her gloved hand between his own, his palm warm through the supple leather. Never had such emotion flickered through her when she’d touched the gloves of other dance partners. He trailed his fingers across her palm, sparking wild sensations with each caress, then inching back as if to gauge her readiness.
Was her nervousness apparent? She did not resist when he turned her palm up and drew it to his lips. She released a long-held breath when his fingertips played at the wrist fastening of her long glove, slipping his fingers between the buttons. Flames licked her skin. Locking eyes with her, he opened the buttons and ran his still-gloved hand over the bare skin of her wrist. Marguerite squeezed her legs together, an exquisite sensation coursing through her.
When he pushed his finger up into her glove, against the fleshy pad of her thumb, her knees weakened. How could she bear this? He rubbed back and forth across her skin, and her whole body trembled.
Her breath grew rapid and shallow. She fought for control. When he withdrew his firm fingers, a protest nearly escaped her lips. Do not stop now, Tristan. Please. Then his bare hand crept to replace the first. He had removed his own glove, and Marguerite swayed against the wall. The heat of skin on skin seared. She never imagined a man’s touch would be so strong, so wonderful. Her eyes fluttered shut and she gave herself over to his demands.
He peeled back her glove to expose tender, virgin skin. She lost all thought and purpose. The tiny tingles of each touch thrilled her and her muscles tightened. His breathing grew heavy and her skin grew hot.
She glanced at him from under her lowered lashes and was undone by the intensity of his gaze. He drew the glove further over her fingers and pulled it back. The burn of his rough skin left her dazed.
Tristan raised her hand to his lips again, and she tried to draw back. How could she allow such a thing? Then his warm, dry lips pressed against the flesh of her wrist. She swallowed hard as they progressed to the mound of her thumb. When his tongue flitted out to trace the base of her fingers, she gasped, then surrendered, eager for more. They breathed in unison, and Marguerite drew towards him, standing so close that the hem of her skirt trailed over his evening slipper. She tipped up her head and opened her eyes. Deep in her heart she knew she was his forever. His gazed locked on her mouth again, her lips burned at his look. Her body coursed with the force of the pull between them. Stillness. Then he lowered his head towards her.
The pound of footsteps came from the path. Fearing discovery, she darted away. Blushing deeply at the improprieties she had allowed, Marguerite hid her bare hand in her skirts and fled toward the ballroom – toward safety.
Chapter One
London, 1817
The hack jerked to a stop, sending Marguerite sliding along the bench seat. She pressed a palm to her lips to control another wave of nausea. Travel had never made her so sick before. It was lucky she lacked the coin for food, or surely she