The thought that he might have gone out into the gardens – which were gaily lit with stunning brass lanterns that gleamed in the moonlight – with another woman annoyed her somehow, and for no discernable reason.
It had gotten so late that the majority of her hangers on had already left, but she couldn’t quite pull herself away, despite the fact that she found herself feeling somewhat lightheaded and woozy. In defiance – and denial – of those feelings, she rose, smiling vacantly as the three remaining devotees snapped to their feet as if she were their queen, then turned abruptly away from them and took one determined step towards the door, right into the Count’s waiting arms.
Cassie stiffened, holding her body as far away from his as she could, pulling out of his embrace and nearly stumbling back because he did nothing at all to hold her. She didn’t have to fight against him in the least – he just let her go. Damn the man! He was acting contrarily to every other man in the room under fifty, and it was driving her crazy that he seemed to dismiss her as easily as he would a trollop in the street.
“A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,” he murmured, bowing low, but Cassie had the distinct feeling he was laughing at her as he did so, which infuriated her to no end.
The fact that she was so irritated at this man and yet so equally attracted at the same time set her off kilter a bit. Her response was brusque and hard bitten. “I nearly fell. You would do well to watch where you’re going, Count.” She made as if to go around him, but he reached out quickly and grabbed her hand, kissing it again as he had when they were introduced – dryly and perfunctorily, like she imagined she would kiss was his frail great-aunt.
“I apologize, Mademoiselle Winthrop. Sometimes I’m a clumsy oaf.” His tone indicated that he in no way thought of himself as such. “Would you do me the great honor of giving me this last dance?”
Cassie’s heart leapt into her throat and all of a sudden she found it hard to draw a breath. The idea of being whirled around the dance floor in his arms – he was head and shoulders taller than she was, with broad shoulders that strained the seams of his obviously well made coat, his trousers hugging well-muscled legs a bit more immodestly than was strictly proper, not that anyone would ever confront him about it – had her feeling somewhat dizzy.
She opened her mouth and stammered, which was unheard of for her. “I – I believe that Gilbert de Rothchilde has this dance, Sir.”
“He went home an hour ago,” one of her admirers piped up helpfully.
At a loss, she closed her mouth tightly when she realized it had been hanging open.
“Well, then, it seems our bumping into each other was fortuitous.”
He didn’t give her a chance to say no, really, but escorted her out onto the floor as the musicians struck up a slow waltz, holding her unacceptably close with an arm snaked around her waist, his hand splayed at her lower back, keeping her right where he wanted her, which was much, much too close for her comfort – indecently close, if it came to that. Cassie didn’t even bother to give him her usual fake smile as she reached behind her back to try to loosen his hold, which only got her hand trapped there by his.
Her eyes flashed angrily, not that he seemed to notice beyond the slightest of upturns to the corners of his mouth, as if he found her attempts at extricating her to be mildy – but only mildly – amusing.
He ruthlessly used her disadvantage to his advantage, forcing her lower body even more tightly against him.
Cassie tried to regain control of her other hand, through which he had his gloved fingers had interlaced with hers as he waltzed them expertly around the room that was graced by only one or two other couples, but no amount of elicit tugging – so as not to call attention to them and the scandalous position he had forced her into – did the trick.