Earls Just Want to Have Fun (17 page)

“I think Susanna enjoyed it, but Brook and I suffered through. The last thing a young boy wants is to be stuck inside and forced to learn the steps of the quadrille. And then to have to partner his sister.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips as she watched the dancers. “I can imagine. But look at your sister now. She is the most graceful dancer by far. I'm sure she feels like a princess.”

Dane glanced at his sister, but he could not stop his gaze from returning to Marlowe. He did not know if Susanna felt like a princess, but he knew one lady who certainly deserved to feel like a princess. And shouldn't every girl feel beautiful and royal at least once in her life?

He'd strictly forbidden her from dancing—and with good reason. She did not know the dances. But he had not considered that she would want to dance. He had not considered that this might be her one and only ball. This might be Marlowe's only chance to feel like a princess before she had to return to the squalor of St. Giles. The waltz was not a difficult dance. He could lead her through it. She deserved one dance, one chance to be swept across the ballroom.

Dane lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, handed one to Marlowe, and downed the other. She watched him, brows raised. “Thirsty?”

“I need fortification.”

Her brow furrowed. “Forti—like a castle?”

He chuckled. “Courage. My mother is going to murder me.” The set was coming to a close, and Dane could only pray his mother had left the ballroom and would stay away for the next half hour. And that was about as likely as George IV and Caroline of Brunswick reconciling. He took her glass and his own and motioned to a footman. When the servant approached, he set the glasses on a tray.

“Why is that?” she asked.

Dane took her arm. “Because, Miss Marlowe, you and I are going to dance a waltz.”

She shook her head. “But you said no dancing.”

“I changed my mind.” He nodded to the dance floor. “Come.”

“No. I don't know how to dance a waltz.” Her accent had lost a bit of its polish, confirming her nervousness at his suggestion. But she did not need to talk to dance—at least not to anyone but him.

“I'll show you. Just follow my lead.” He tried to steer her toward the floor, but she resisted.

“No!” she hissed. “I don't want to dance.”

Dane gave her a long look. Her blue eyes met his, and he raised a brow. “Yes, you do.”

Her gaze held steady, and he thought, for an instant, he might have misjudged. And then, slowly, her gaze lowered and dropped to the floor. Dane released her elbow. If he would do this, he would do it properly. He would make her feel like a princess. He executed a deep bow, sweeping his hand with a flourish. “Miss Marlowe, may I have the pleasure of this dance?”

She didn't answer, and he glanced up at her. Her mouth had dropped open, and there was laughter in her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“The correct response is
yes, my lord
.” He straightened and held out a hand. The invitation could not be clearer. All she had to do was accept it.

She stared at his hand for what seemed an eternity. Dane had time to consider what he would do if she refused. At least a dozen people in the ballroom had seen his bow. There was no question as to his purpose. Before the night was over, the story would be all over the
ton
as to how his gallant request for a dance had been denied. He wouldn't have the pleasure of holding her in his arms before his mother murdered him.

But just as Dane had resigned himself to a cold, lonely death, Marlowe's warm hand joined his. “Yes, my lord,” she said, her accent in place once again.

Dane almost wished she hadn't used it. He liked her real voice so much more than this affected one. With a smile, he led her to the dance floor amidst the other couples. Susanna, who was still a debutante, was not dancing the waltz. It was not an appropriate dance for innocents, and Dane had a moment to wonder if he'd done Marlowe more harm than good by leading her out there. But then the music began, and he had no more time to think. He swept her into his arms and, with minimal instruction, began to lead her across the floor.

She was a quick learner. He had but to count the rhythm for her once and show her how to position her arm and hold her skirts, and she was following him as though she'd danced the waltz a thousand times. He'd anticipated having to talk her through the first few minutes, having to suggest she relax her rigid body, having to count the beats for her. None of it was necessary. She danced so easily, she was almost an extension of him. Did she realize the entire room was probably watching them? He glanced at her face and saw nothing but pure joy. The smile on her lips took his breath away, and he forgot about his mother, the duchess, the entire ballroom. If dancing could make Marlowe smile, he would waltz with her every hour of every day.

“Do you like it?” he asked, though he could see quite plainly she did.

“It's like flying!” she said, her voice breathless.

Dane laughed. “I'll show you flying.” And he turned her, spinning her until he was certain she was dizzy. She laughed, and when she looked at him, her face was pleasantly flushed. In that moment, he thought her the most ravishing creature he had ever encountered.

“More,” she breathed. And Dane could not resist. He twirled her again, catching her back to him and pulling her in close. He danced faster, passing other couples, and sweeping her across the room. He held her tightly, ensuring she would not lose her footing—at least that was what he told himself. But he could not deny the closeness of her body affected him. She was warm where his gloved hand touched her bare back. He knew her skin was as soft as the satin of her dress. He remembered marveling at the feel of it when she'd been in his bed. Now he had the urge to stroke that bare flesh, to remove his glove and touch her, skin to skin. Even greater was the urge to slide the hand at her waist down and over the curve of her hip. He could feel it there, where her waist indented, and he longed to fit his hand to that gentle swell.

This was why the waltz was not for innocents. How could a man look down at her and not want to kiss her, not imagine himself taking her to bed, undressing her, kissing those ample breasts? If there was such a man, Dane was not he. He wanted her, and when he met her gaze, the dark blue of her eyes told him she wanted him too. As their gazes held, her lips parted slightly into an
O
, and Dane's hand on her back closed into a fist to keep from sliding to her neck, cupping it, and bringing his lips down to hers. He could imagine kissing those perfectly pink lips. He could imagine sliding his tongue between her lips and tasting her. Would she taste of champagne or something darker, more alluring?

She took a deep breath, and her breasts brushed his chest. He wore a shirt and a coat, and he could not feel the softness or the heat of them, but he was as aware of the movement as he was of his own heart racing.

“I feel a bit warm,” she said, her voice husky and breathless. Dane wanted to groan aloud. He'd known dancing with her would be a mistake.

“Perhaps we should step outside.”

“Yes,” she said with a nod. He turned her until they were near the doors to the garden, and then he took her hand and led her through one of them. A footman nodded at them and offered a tray of champagne, but Dane waved it away. They stepped into the cool night air, and it felt refreshing against his heated skin.

She wore gloves, and he could not feel her flesh, but he could feel the way her hand trembled in his. She was as affected as he was by the dance. He should lead her back inside, perhaps give her another moment to catch her breath, but that was all. The lights from the ballroom lit the garden, with aid from several lanterns, and he could see she was struggling to catch her breath.

One minute more, and he would bring her back inside.

“Shall we walk?” he asked. No, that was not what he'd meant to say. He should take it back.

“More walking?” she asked.

“Yes, but this time we won't speak of the weather.” They wouldn't speak at all, and that was why he should take her back inside. He should play the gentleman. He knew the rules. A gentleman did not lead a lady into the darkness, where the couple could not be observed. A gentleman did not draw a lady against him. A gentleman did not steal kisses from someone to whom he was not betrothed.

But Dane could not stop himself. He didn't understand it. He'd never had trouble resisting such temptations before. But with Marlowe, Dane suddenly felt so bloody sick of playing the gentleman. He paused in the darkness behind a hedge and turned to face her. In the shadows, he could see little of her, save the white of her gloves. He took a step toward her, pulling her into his arms. She didn't resist. He wished she would. He wished someone would stop him, because he feared once he took this step, he would never be able to go back. Once he kissed her, he would never be able to resist doing so again.

But she went willingly into his arms, her body soft and supple against his. She was so delightfully warm, so petite, so lush. He wanted to ravish her and protect her all at the same time. The rush of sensations was enough to make him curse. Instead, he bent his head and did the one thing he knew would shut out everything else.

He kissed her.

The moment his lips brushed hers, everything inside him came alive. It was as though he'd been wearing a heavy cloak, one that weighed him down and muted all sensation. Now he'd shrugged it off, and he could feel again. He was so damn light that he could have run for miles and not tired. He brushed his lips against hers again, feeling the frisson course through his entire body. He was suddenly too warm and yet not warm enough. Had he ever been warm before? Nothing could compare to the heat he felt with her body pressed against his. His hand flexed on her back, and he wished he'd taken off his gloves so he could trace her skin with his bare fingers.

Marlowe's hands, which had been at her side, moved now. She brought them to his chest and rested them there. He half-expected her to push him back, but she didn't. She didn't kiss him back, either. She simply stood, seemingly undecided. Dane wanted to crush his mouth to hers, to sate the need building every time his flesh brushed against hers. But he couldn't forget he was a gentleman, and she—whether she was Lady Elizabeth or not—deserved his respect.

“I apologize,” he said, releasing her. “I overstepped.” She didn't remove her hands from his coat, and he tried to discern her expression in the darkness, but her head was lowered, and he couldn't see. “Allow me to escort you back inside. I assure you this won't happen again.”

Now she looked up at him, and he saw the flush of her cheeks and the way her breathing was uneven and fast. “Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She shook her head, probably annoyed at his politeness. “Why won't it happen again?”

“I…because I overstepped.”

She shook her head. “I don't understand. You don't want to kiss me?”

He stared at her. Hell, but he wanted much more than that. “I do want to kiss you.”

“Then why apologize?”

“Because this”—he indicated the dark, deserted section of the garden—“is not appropriate. I'm a gentleman and should respect—”

She slid her hand up his chest, resting her finger on his lips, effectively silencing him. “I've never had much use for gentlemen.” She stepped closer, so her body was flush with his again. “All of this talk—
overstepped
and
pardon
and
appropriate
—means nothing to me. Kiss me again.”

Now it was Dane's turn to question. “Why?”

“Because I finally understand what Gideon meant about sparks. Kiss me.”

Who was he to deny a direct request? Her arms wrapped around his neck, and he lowered his lips, pressing them against hers. She let out a soft sigh, and he closed his arms around her body, feeling it tremble against his. He needed to take this slowly, so as not to frighten her. He had no idea what sort of experience she had—if any. His own was not extensive, but the women he'd known had never trembled in his arms. Could she be an innocent? He supposed chastity was not reserved for the upper classes. He moved his lips against hers gently, carefully, resisting the urge to delve inside and taste her.

Her fingers threaded into his hair, and she pulled him down. Dane lifted his head. “Marlowe—”

“Kiss me,” she said, her voice low and ragged.

“I don't want to frighten you.”

“With that? I wouldn't even call that a kiss, much less a frightening one.”

Dane raised his brows. “Is that a challenge?”

“Too much of a gentleman to take it?”

Dane pulled off his gloves. “You tell me.” Throwing restraint and his gloves to the ground, Dane yanked her against him and claimed her lips with his. This time he didn't wait for her to accustom herself to his touch; he teased her lips open with his tongue and entered her. She let out a small gasp, but he didn't retreat. His hand slid up her back, and there was that silky skin he'd been longing to touch. He spread his hand over the cool skin of her back, tracing it until he reached the nape of her neck. He closed his fingers protectively around her, angling her head for better access. His tongue tangled with hers as his mouth slanted over hers. She tasted of champagne, and when she tentatively stroked her tongue along his, he almost lost all control. His hand fisted in her hair, and he deepened the kiss until he was drowning in her.

Every fiber of his body was alive. He could feel the soft thickness of her hair on his fingers, the smooth satin of her gown, the whisper of the night breeze, and hear the low strains of the orchestra inside the ball. And he could feel her breaths coming short and ragged, and his own matched hers. If he allowed this to continue, he'd lose his last ounce of control, lay her down, and take her right there. Instead, he drew back, keeping one hand about her waist to steady her. He drew in a labored breath.