They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
"Probably. But I want very desperately to dance with you."
"But there's no music-"
"I can hum."
Whatever was wrong with him? Why was this need to dance with her so strong?
Laughing sweetly, she rose. "Very well."
She came around her desk. "As I recall, I'm supposed to stand on your toes."
He chuckled. It was the way the old gent had danced with her. He'd seen that they had lessons, so many lessons. Why did Mabel feel as though she needed more now? Surely she'd not forgotten everything they'd been taught.
"The movements are the same but you keep your feet on the floor." He placed one of her hands on his shoulder, took the other in his, settled his free hand on her waist.
He began to hum the tune that had been playing while he'd danced with Josephine. And he moved Mabel in rhythm to his horrendous humming. The space was small. He couldn't sweep her across the area, but it was enough.
With Mabel in his arms, his body didn't tighten, his mind didn't bring forth carnal images. He told himself it was because when he looked down on her, all he saw was buttons and cloth. When he looked down on Josephine, an entirely different portrait emerged. He saw clearly the swell of her breasts, the gentle slope of her throat. He saw her smile. The joy reflected in her blue eyes.
He stopped waltzing and very subtlety drew Mabel a fraction nearer. He cradled her chin as though it was made of the finest porcelain, as though it could so easily shatter. He watched as her eyes widened slightly, as her tongue darted out to dampen her lower lip. He felt a pleasant thrumming low in his belly.
He lowered his head, her eyes slid closed, and he, very gently, brushed his lips over hers, before drawing back.
"There, that wasn't so bad was it?" he asked.
Nor was it particularly satisfying, but that would come in time, as she became more familiar with the physical nature of men.
She shook her head. "No, not at all."
"I adore you."
"I know."
He stroked his thumb over her bottom lip. He should want to lean back in for another kiss. Lord knew he could never seem to get enough of the taste of Josephine. And yet what he and Mabel had shared seemed to be quite...adequate.
Adequete. Not passionate, not fiery, not all-consuming.
Civilized. Not barbaric, not beastly, not untamed.
Proper. Not scandalous, not to be whispered about, not disgraceful.
"What's wrong?" Mabel asked.
And he realized he was scowling, his brow furrowed so deeply he was going to give himself another one of his blinding headaches.
Shaking his head, he released her and stepped back. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
But something was terribly wrong, because he was doubting his affection for Mabel, something he'd never done.
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