Winter's Whispers (The Wicked Winters #10) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,35

himself or Lady Felicity.

“You know quite well this dance is not yours,” she murmured as they took up their positions.

“It is now,” he informed her, leaning too near to her ear for propriety’s sake and not near enough for his own.

Jasmine, fragrant and lilting, wafted to him.

The dance began in truth, and they faced each other in the fashion of prizefighters squaring off. He felt ridiculous. This was surely the most spoony notion he had ever entertained. They moved, their gazes holding. Strangely, his feet knew what to do. The cursory lessons he had taken returned to him.

What was he doing? Why was he dancing with her? Why were her hazel eyes burning into his? Their hands linked, and they spun nearer each other as the song played on.

“You surprise me,” she said softly so their fellow dancers could not overhear.

He surprised himself, but he was not about to admit it.

“Oh?” They spun.

Her warmth and nearness were doing the damnedest things to his ability to think, concentrate, speak. At least his feet continued to move and do as they were meant—uncivilized clod that he was.

“I did not suppose a ball would appeal to a man like you.”

“A man like me?” He frowned.

The steps of the dance separated them once more. He had to wait an entire eternity for their hands to link and for her to hover near enough for private speech again.

“You have claimed to be common,” she elaborated. “Baseborn, I believe you said, a scoundrel, a rogue, a rookery thief. An assassin. A bastard. Yet you dance as beautifully as any gentleman.”

She was insinuating he was not a gentleman. And she was right. It was a fact he had once prided himself upon. But now?

Now…

He was beginning to wonder if he wanted to continue being the man he had always seen himself as. Or if he wanted to be the man who deserved her. The man who could effortlessly dance with her, whisk her away from a ball. A man who bowed and spoke prettily and plied his charm and allowed a valet to knot his cravat into something ridiculously architectural.

“I learned to dance this afternoon,” he admitted.

He had attended the ball to see her, for this chance to meet her as an equal. To twirl about a ballroom with her.

They pranced about each other some more, and Blade was reasonably certain he missed a step. Or three. But the smile she gave him made him feel as if he were the best damned dancer in England.

When they linked hands once more, her countenance had turned thoughtful. Her teeth worried her lush lower lip. “Why this afternoon?”

“Because I wanted to dance with you,” he admitted. And then nearly kicked himself in the arse.

He sounded like a lovelorn swain.

Which was mad, of course. He was not in love with Lady Felicity Hughes.

Was he?

She smiled, her fingers squeezing his. “You did this for me?”

He was spared from having to respond when they resumed their frolic about each other once more. Damn it, he had learned to dance for her. He had come to this bloody ball for her. And she had gone off with Lord Bloody Chilton and allowed the arsehole to kiss her.

He should be angry. He should not be dancing a minuet.

And yet, he was. And dancing with Lady Felicity was… Hell, it felt natural. He did not even mind it. Indeed, part of him was enjoying it.

He would have shuddered, or thrown his favorite dagger at the nearest available wall, but he was still doing his utmost to make certain he did not trip over his feet. And Lady Felicity’s hazel gaze was warm and unwavering upon him.

At last, the dance came to a halt, and he bowed to her as elegantly as he could muster with the weight of so much upon his chest. By God, he could not be going the way of his brothers. Devil and Dom had fallen in love with their wives and were happily married, babes on the way.

Blade had no intention of marrying.

He never had.

And yet…

Nay. He would not contemplate anything else. Not now. Not in the warmth of the ballroom with Lady Felicity’s sweet scent rotting his mind. He was still bloody dizzied from all the twirling.

“Shall I escort you to your aunt, my lady?” he asked, pleased with himself for the evenness of his tone.

“Mayhap a turn about the ballroom first?” she suggested softly.

The aunt in question was leaning upon her cane and glaring in their direction. Of