Page 52 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

Darcy smiled, and her heart lurched when Sebastian approached her then. “The next dance is mine, Mrs. Whitley. Say you will honor me.”

Her heart gave a sudden thump as she placed her gloved hand in his. “The waltz?” she asked.

“The waltz,” he confirmed.

He led her onto the floor, and as his hand settled at her waist and their fingers entwined, a sharp awareness moved through her, immediate and undeniable. Would her body remember his instruction too readily? Would he recognize the feel of her in his arms and understand that he had already taught her this dance at Aphrodite?

“Please forgive me if I stumble over my feet.”

His mouth curved in a lazy, unconcerned smile. “Your quadrille gave no evidence of clumsiness.”

“Our mother engaged a dancing master for the country dances,” she replied, staring into his eyes and fervently hoping her admiration was not plain for everyone to see. “The waltz was not among his lessons.”

The strains of the waltz began, and immediately the world seemed to fall away as he guided her through the sweeping turns, his movements assured, his hold steady, drawing her into graceful arcs that felt at once exhilarating and perilous. She followed, her body responding instinctively, the rhythm carrying her forward even as her awareness sharpened with every step.

And then the temptation he had spoken of when they danced at Aphrodite made itself known, the subtle narrowing of space, the awareness of how little separated them, the intoxicating pull to lean closer, to surrender to the proximity that polite society pretended was nothing at all.

So this is the first pull of temptation.

How wickedly hypocritical society was to permit such a dance, then profess astonishment when young ladies fell into the clutches of libertines. She felt unbearably tempted to shift even closer and nuzzle her nose against his throat…then brush her mouth over his skin. Darcy’s heart raced, and she found herself wishing they were at Aphrodite, where she might kiss him in the center of a crowded ballroom, and no one would gasp or swoon at the sight. A soft sigh, one unquestionably of longing, slipped from her when he led her into a wide sweep, then pulled her closer.

“Not the sound you asked for, but I will take it,” he drawled. “What is it that you long for?”

Darcy flushed. “Are you so certain it was longing, my lord?”

“I am long acquainted with the sounds women make. I am certain of it.”

“Yet my earlier squawk quite overset your equanimity.”

He chuckled, and she liked the warmth of him when he forgot to be politely indifferent. More than once she had wondered why he had brought her here. He had remembered the wish she voiced at the museum, but had something deeper moved him?

“You are staring, Mrs. Whitley.”

“I find myself compelled to stare whenever you are near.”

His dark blue eyes gleamed provocatively. “You silver-tongued devil. Pray continue. I find myself greedy for flattery.”

Darcy laughed, the sound louder than she intended. “You are a very accomplished dancer.” She lifted a brow at his droll expression. “Surely you did not expect something more lavish? Emelia once mentioned the most artful compliment one can give a gentleman is about the poem he writes or his excellent form when dancing.”

Sebastian’s mouth curved faintly. “I had an excellent teacher.”

“Your tutor?”

He guided her through another turn, the movement bringing her close enough that her skirts brushed his legs. “My father.”

“Your father taught you to dance?” she asked, her tone touched with astonishment.

“Indeed,” he replied, a hint of dry amusement entering his voice. “We made a rather comical pair. I proved impervious to my tutors’ instruction, and my mother’s attempt to remedy the matter was an even greater failure. My father, however…” He paused, his gaze briefly distant. “He suffered me to tread upon his boots until I learned.”

Darcy chuckled, delight rising unbidden within her at the image. “He taught me to play chess,” she blurted.

Sebastian’s gaze sharpened as it returned to hers. “He taught me as well.”

Their steps slowed as the music softened and began to fade, guiding them toward the close of the dance.

“I have only ever beaten him twice,” he continued. “He was a brilliant player.”

“Interesting,” she said, her smile deepening despite herself. “I beat him four times, though it required many hours of play.”