Page 13 of Never a Bride
Unique shade of her hair?he thought in disgust, as he allowed a maidservant to refill his tankard.Hellfire.She was only a stubborn challenge to be overcome.
He watched Blythe search the crowd, and when their gazes met, he raised his tankard to her and bowed. He grinned as he saw Emmeline’s frown directed at him. And he strode toward them.
Old Bess herself sat on a golden throne beneath a canopy raised on a dais above the crowd. Perhaps she would not be too offended if he danced with Blythe. The queen loved to dance, and many a time he’d partnered her, showing her off to the crowd as if she were still a young woman. She certainly danced like one.
Before he could reach the sisters, another man approached Blythe, and she was gone, off in a wild dance before the queen’s amused regard. Emmeline smiled triumphantly at him.
Alex should have taken offense, since he hated to be bested. But…he’d never seen her smile, and it lit up a face she seemed to try to conceal from the world. She had lovely high cheekbones, and eyes that never seemed the same color twice. He stared at her lips, and imagined them against his. He could almost feel the slide of her innocent tongue.
Why did the mystery of her draw him?
Annoyed with himself, he was glad when Blythe returned from her dance, breathless and laughing. He slid his arm under hers. “Shall we dance, my lady?”
She nodded and waved to her sister as he pulled her away. Alex refused to turn back and look at Emmeline. Minutes later, when he drew a laughing Blythe out of the dance for a moment’s talk, Emmeline was nearby, the chaperone who kept a proper distance, guarding her sister’s virtue.
All he wanted was a kiss, by God, but he’d never win the wager with Emmeline watching over them so closely.
He sighed and turned back to Blythe, who suddenly she seemed…so young.
“You dance beautifully,” he said in so soft a voice she was forced to lean nearer.
“You are too kind, Sir—Alex. My sister taught me.”
He wanted to groan aloud. There Emmeline was again, in conversation, if not in sight.
Blythe giggled, an unexpectedly annoying sound.
“I’ve never seen your sister dance,” he said.
“She is a lovely dancer, quite graceful. She just doesn’t dance in public anymore, not since—”
She stopped, and Alex was appalled to findhimselfthe one leaning forward, hanging on the girl’s every word. “Not since…” he prodded.
But she shook her head. “’Tis a personal thing, Alex.”
“Are you sure you do not wish to tell me?”
Blythe giggled again, and he found his gaze lifting until he saw Emmeline standing against the tapestry-covered wall not ten yards away. She wasn’t close enough to hear what they said, but he could swear she was blushing again. Then an older woman drew her away.
Blythe glanced over her shoulder. “When I was younger, a man wanted to marry her once,” she said in a rush, as if someone might stop her. “But he was only a poet, a tutor, and beneath her. Since then, no one has asked her to dance.”
Alex felt a coldness move through him. Why had he thought Emmeline was different from the others? She was just like every other woman he’d pursued when he’d been the viscount. Only a title and circumstance mattered.
For a moment, it seemed that he was once again at the queen’s celebration of the defeat of the Spanish armada. His brother was in attendance, and both of them were relieved to be alive, after having spent a few days in the Tower of London contemplating charges of treason.
He had approached Spencer, who was the center of a group of admirers. Good old Spencer had pulled him into the circle, claiming he could not have spied for the Crown without Alex’s help.
But Alex remembered the vivid feeling of being dismissed. One after another, Spencer’s friends tried to insist they’d known all along something wasn’t right, that Alex had behaved too scandalously to be Spencer. When Alex had had enough, he’d tried to draw away Lady Margaret, the woman he’d been most enamored of, only to have her look back at Spencer longingly. She’d pulled away, claiming their being together wasn’t seemly. Yet she hadn’t minded when he’d taken her out into the dark garden for stolen kisses only a week before.
He’d still been the viscount then.
But he’d been too stubborn to see the truth all around him. When women weren’t pretending to be away from home when he visited, they literally discussed marriageable noblemen in front of him—because he was no longer in consideration. He was the younger son not the heir, and they had been quick to forget their association with him.
And Emmeline was the same.
Yet there was still something about her that drew him—surely only the mystery of her, why she hadn’t found another man to marry. With Blythe, he thought only of a stolen kiss; with Emmeline he thought of stolen passion, hot flesh against hot flesh in the night. He wanted to peel away each garment and reveal everything about her, to prove she was no better—nor worse—than any other woman.
~oOo~
