Regency Desire: Mistress to the Marquis / Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

Razeby saw Alice the minute she came into the room. He saw the evening dress she was wearing—the emerald silk—and he understood her message too well.

By his side he knew Linwood was watching her, too. Every man and woman in the room was. How could they fail to? She was the celebrated Miss Sweetly and looked golden and radiant and downright irresistible.

He thought of the rows of fine silks and satins she had left hanging in her wardrobe in Hart Street, and of the diamond bracelet and cheque that she had turned her back on. He had not understood it at the time. But now he did. She had chosen her weapon well. Saved it. And now she wielded it, pointed and sharp as a stiletto blade.

Linwood murmured something, but his friend’s voice went as unheard as the music that played.

He watched Devlin lead her out on the floor. He knew he should go and claim a woman to dance with. Any woman. It would not matter. But he did not. He just stood there and watched Devlin handle her upon the dance floor, wearing that dress.

He could hear the beat of his own heart, the rhythmic thump so hard that it seemed to reverberate in his throat, through his bones, deafening in his ears.

She did not look at him. She did not need to.

And all of the past was whispering through him, taunting him as surely as she was.

Something inside of him felt dangerously close to snapping.

Alice sipped her champagne and let herself relax a little. They were halfway through the evening. She had got this far. She could manage the rest of it. Just about.

The notes of the next piece of music began, just those first few notes and her stomach sank and her blood turned to ice. And she was gripping the glass so tight that her knuckles shone white.

Fate could not be so cruel. Please God, let her be mistaken.

But the notes played on, blossoming into music, and there could be no mistake. She knew that music, knew that dance. The Volse. Their dance. Hers and Razeby’s.

Her heart faltered, stumbling over its beats.

‘Shall we dance, Miss Sweetly?’ Devlin’s voice was warm and close.

She felt frozen with horror. No! she wanted to say, categorically, unreservedly. No! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. ‘I’m only halfway through my champagne, Lord Devlin. We’ll dance the next one.’ She forced the smile to her lips.

‘Come, Miss Sweetly,’ he chided in a teasing tone. ‘Leave the champagne. I’ll buy you a bottle of the stuff when we come off the floor.’ And then to her horror he held his hand out in a gesture that was an obvious invitation on to the dance floor. Anyone that was looking would have known that he was asking her to dance.