Page 118 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Chapter Thirty-Six
Cecelia graced the night, eyes sparkling and her mouth painted an ungovernable carmine red. A woman who embodied life. When his Bow Street assignment had first begun, he’d watched her vividness from afar, drawn to her incandescence. The Scotswoman was a beautiful fighter. She had pushed through her painful history and still found reasons to dance.
Her request was an invitation. An opening, and he would seize it.
“Yes, I want to dance with you,” he said.
He drew her as close as her panniers allowed and maneuvered them into the throng of dancers. A row of forty or fifty men bowed to a row of curtseying women. With a light handhold, they ventured into their first steps. Bodies pressed, the hot, noisy swarm expanding and contracting to violin music. Cecelia laughed joyously, her pointed toe kicking shimmering hems under a hundred blazing candles.
“Have you always been a flirt?” he asked.
Her hazel eyes sparkled. “I was born a flirt.”
They linked arms for the first spin. Miss MacDonald was lost in the fluid freedom of dance.
“You should try it. Flirting more,” she said.
Their hands switched for another rotation. Her silk hems brushed his calves, the whispery touch sending a thrum of pleasure up his limbs.
“I never acquired a taste for it... until you.”
They parted, as befitted the dance. The Scotswoman’s mouth curved a very pleased, very feline smile—the same artful look when she walked in on his standing bath. They turned, keeping time with dancers.
From her row, her gaze locked with his and her lips parted softly. Seconds passed, two measures of music, an eternity for him.
The rows came together. Their hands clasped, her touch exciting.
Her panniers brushed his hip, a small agony that.
She angled her face to him. “What else have you acquired a taste for?”
They were side by side, rotating, her rosewater scent soaking him.
“Since meeting you, I have acquired a taste for river swims, for reading in bed, and—”
They spun around and rejoined their hands.
“—I have a new appreciation for surly but loyal housemaids.”
She giggled and he adored the sound of it.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“You want more, do you?”
“From you? Always.”
A tender pang twisted his heart. How fast and hard could a man fall for a woman? He was in danger of sweeping Miss MacDonald into his arms and runningoff with her into the night. If he did, he’d never let her go.
They separated, the paces between them stretching his agony. Oh, he had it bad, a besotted man counting the seconds until he could touch her again. A hundred dancers’ shoes clicked the wood floor. Sweet violin notes played, his heart dipping and swaying with them. They pranced to each other and linked arms. Cecelia’s pretty nose tipped to his, her eyes expectant.
“I’m not poetic.” His mouth dented sideways. “As you read in my pocket journal.”
“Your words are poetry to me.”
She was a little breathless, a vein ticking at the base of her throat. They slowed their rotation, and he was caught by the bright prettiness of her hazel eyes and her brown lashes framing them.
“Since meeting you I want to revel in the summer sun and play cricket again. I want to feel silk ribbons binding my hands, and spend the day in your bed talking—”
