Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 42
The champagne was sweet and refreshing as it flooded her tongue with effervescent kisses. The bubbles did nothing to quiet her nerves, however. She had been perfectly ready and willing to stand here all night like a wallflower watching the dancers from a distance, but now she was engaged to join them. She hoped Mr. Norcroft was a good dancer, for she certainly was not.
Milli suddenly placed an insistent hand on Emma’s forearm. “Look, it is the Strange sisters again.”
Emma glanced around to see Ana, Mina, and the white-haired woman moving through the crowd, their eyes fixed to Victoria. “Tanith,” said Emma, suddenly remembering the blonde’s name. “Was not that her silly name, Milli?” It was strange how completely the name had eluded Emma till this very moment. Milli herself had not recalled it after the brief meeting—collision—on the street.
“Indeed.” Victoria had also followed the direction of Emma’s gaze, her expression unreadable. She made no move to acknowledge or approach the women. “The eldest Miss De Grigori.”
“I did not know,” said Emma, catching Victoria’s eye, “that you were acquainted with the De Grigoris. I was surprised to see you with them at Vauxhall.” Truly, she was perplexed by the association, for Victoria seemed to regard the sisters with as much distaste as Mina had evinced for the Winterlys.
“They are…distant relations,” Victoria replied, glancing past Emma’s shoulder.
“And”—the voice of the wicked viscount was suddenly at Emma’s ear—“I should esteem myself eternally glad if they continued to remain distant.”
Emma turned to face Winterly, spilling a little of her champagne. “Lord Winterly.”
He bowed. Emma found herself momentarily lost in his limitless, obsidian gaze. Upon realizing that she was staring, she immediately diverted her hot face. She had been trying to differentiate between his pupils and his irises, but found that she could not. The one was as coal black as the other. It was an almost unholy stare that the man possessed, so it was better that she looked elsewhere and, thereby, preserve her soul.
Preserve her soul, indeed. She almost laughed at herself. How nonsensical she could be. Markus Winterly was only a man. A compelling one, yes, but still merely a mortal.
Chapter Twenty-One
A Dance With The Devil
“Miss Rose,” said Winterly, “that gown becomes you.” His skin appeared luminous tonight, impossibly pale and beautiful. He was dressed in a black tailcoat and matching trousers, his hair gleaming like a raven’s back. “I daresay it shall become you far better if you dance.” He held his palm out, the gesture almost imperious. “I believe I will take the first for myself.”
Emma was doing her best to appear composed as she fanned the heat from her cheeks. Hopefully, he would think the warm ballroom the cause of her…discomfort. “Mr. Norcroft wants the next dance.”
“Then he must want a little longer. I believe my want is of a more implacable kind.” That said, Winterly availed himself of her hand and lead her away without a single thought for Mr. Norcroft’s claim, or for Emma’s mild protest. Once they were in place, he transferred the empty champagne glass from her other hand to a passing footman’s empty tray, all without tearing his eyes from her.
Emma was still reeling over the contact. Even through the barrier of a glove her flesh had beaded with excitement when he’d taken her hand. “Are you not a little sorry for your conduct just then?” she asked, gesturing towards Mr Norcroft who was, instead, leading Milli towards the center of the room.
“A very little,” was the reply. “It was not I that promised him this set.”
“Then it is just as well that I am sorry enough for the both of us.”
“Come, come, Miss Rose, the quadrille is for flirting not scowling.”
Whatever might have been her reply was interrupted forever by the start of the familiar notes of L’été as it filled the ballroom. She answered his bow with a stiff curtsy and then, blushing, turned to do the same to Mr. Norcroft and Milli who occupied the adjacent corner of their dance square. For the first few movements, she and Winterly stood observing—he dispassionately and she nervously—as two of the four couples met in the middle.
“I really oughtn’t be surprised at your conduct,” she said, paying close attention to Milli’s lightsome feet. “You do take delight in shocking me.”
He smiled, taking her hand. “I won’t deny it.”
It was their turn to move into the center, and she found herself suddenly buoyed by his redoubtable self-assurance. Her hands were transferred from his to another’s and then back to his again, and it was always the same when he touched her—that ineluctable awareness radiating out from the epicenter of their touch, rippling across her flesh like fire.
In the two-handed turn their eyes locked, hers in thrall to his. Never had she felt so vulnerable under a man’s regard, no dance had ever been so sensual and, yes, flirtatious. He held her quite captivated and, though she was not a particularly efficient or graceful dancer, her movements were effortless as she allowed herself to be swept away by the music and by her skillful partner. He was fluid and elegant and, therefore, so was she. Dancing with Winterly was like floating beneath the surface of a mulled wine, muffling the sounds of the ball the while she drowned in his intoxicating gaze.
“If you keep looking at me that way, Miss Rose, I might be tempted to shock you again.” He’d brought his lips to within a fraction of a space from her neck.
She lowered her eyes, her breathing unsteady. By the time she had completed a tour de deux mains with another gentleman, she was much composed, a smile in place as Winterly reclaimed her. “Well, I refuse to let you shock me again. I am prepared for whatever mischief you devise.”
His hand tightened around her waist as they turned. “Shall we test your mettle?”
Emma raised her fan between them, suspicious. “Only