Page 7 of How to Court a Rake
She might also have taken a bit of pleasure in knowing that Caine Parkhurst would resent being put in the position of eligibleparti. Perhaps the universe had a sense of humour, after all, although she wished it was a little more discriminate in where that sense of humour was aimed. She could use a good turn these days.
Since her father’s ultimatum, she’d taken a more proactive hand in the offerings on her dance card, paying careful attention to the young men on it: who could she cultivate with tolerable results? Who had the potential to be a life partner without causing her grief and regret? Because if there was one thing her father was not, it was flexible. Once he decreed something, it was the law. He never backed down from his position once it was staked.
She knew other men admired this about him, called him steadfast and reliable for it. She rather thought it stemmed from a fear of being wrong. She often felt that minds should be free to change if new information came to light that impacted a previously held opinion. Not that her belief mattered. If he was determined she would wed by Season’s end, she was determined to at least have a hand in the matter.
She sipped her lemonade and watched Caine from across the room. His shoulders seemed broader, his near-black hair more tousled, his profile more darkly handsome. There was something different about him. Or was that simply because he’d become respectable in theton’s eye? Now that the Duke of Harlow was all but off the market, matchmaking mamas were scrambling to refocus their attentions. For them, the timing of the Parkhurst elevations could not have been better. The one eligible Duke had been replaced withthreesuddenly eligible gentlemen—a viscount, an earl and a marquess.
How lovely, Mary thought acerbically, that a man could have his future arranged so neatly. With one flick of the royal wand the three dastardly Parkhursts had joined the ranks of the decent Parkhursts. But at a price, she reminded herself. The papers had been rather tight-lipped about what had happened in Wapping and why the brothers had been there in the first place, but everyone knew Stepan Parkhurst had been lost. Just as everyone surmised without saying it aloud that the titles were a recompense for whatever had happened. It had been two weeks since their dance, since Wapping. Still, it was something of a surprise to see him out at a ball with the loss of his brother so raw. But perhaps the titles had something to do with that as well.
Caine’s dark head with its thick tousled waves swivelled in her direction, his eyes resting on her. She nearly choked on her lemonade. Perhaps she’d been staring too long and he’d somehowfelther gaze. She’d heard that some people could do that—feel when others were looking at them. Or perhaps she was being fanciful and this was nothing more than chance.
She took another sip of her lemonade and this time she did choke when it was plain that it wasn’t chance at all that kept his gaze on her—on her lips. He was looking at her lips. A delicious frisson took her as she watched a slow, stalking smile take his mouth. He was coming for her, seeking her out, and every eye was trained in his direction, especially the eyes of the women he’d left behind. Drat the man. He was bringing her to attention in a ballroom once again.
‘Lady Mary.’ He bent over her hand, kissing her knuckles while his dark eyes remained fixed on her face, lingering on her lips. A warm wave of awareness moved up her arm at his touch. How was it thathistouch was sonoticeable? There were other noticeable changes, too. His eyes were darkly serious—more serious than they had been the last time—a silent reminder that he’d lost a brother not long after leaving her on the dance floor. Against her better judgement, her heart went out to him. She wanted to acknowledge that loss, wanted to offer words of comfort, but she didn’t know him well and a ballroom was not the place to do it. Here, all she could do was flirt.
‘Lord Barrow.’ She made a small curtsy, remembering his new title. ‘To what do I owe thehonourof your presence?’
His mouth quirked at her emphasis on honour and the implication that the honour was indeed a dubious one. ‘My lady, I believe Ioweyou a dance.’ Ah, he was here to make reparations.
‘You think a dance will repair my reputation after last time?’ she replied coolly, playing the ballroom game. Her heart wanted a different conversation altogether—what happened in Wapping? Her pride wanted to send him packing. She didn’t need a pity partner. Her dance card was full enough. But the thrill of pleasure his touch sent through her argued otherwise. No one on her dance card tonight moved her like this.
‘I’m decent now,’ he bantered, his words light, although his gaze remained dark. His actions belied those words. He had not relinquished her hand as a decent gentleman would have done and the low rumble of his voice was too intimate and entirely more appropriate for a bedchamber than a ballroom. All of which suggested he was mocking those that thought so.
She laughed, too, a low throaty, conspiratorial chuckle. ‘Are you now? I’m not sure a title can change a man. A wolf in sheep’s clothing will always be just that.’ That was too much, she reprimanded herself the moment the words were out of her mouth. He had a way of making her say things, do things, she’d otherwise keep to herself.
The response seemed to please him. He tucked her hand through his arm. ‘Dance with me and find out.’ The dare glittered in his eyes—the first light she’d seen in them—and hovered unspoken on his lips. Mary knew she’d never really had a choice in the matter now any more than she’d had a choice the first time. From the moment he’d taken that first step towards her, the matter had been decided. When one was Caine Parkhurst, asking was a mere formality.
Chapter Five
She’d agreed to a dance. What she got was a waltz—proof that the universe was still toying with her. Proof, too, that her mind had not exaggerated the memory of him: the magnetic pull of his dark gaze, the warm command of his touch where his hand fitted to the small of her back as if it had been designed to do explicitly that, the hard muscled breadth of his shoulder where her own hand lay on him taking in the hard form beneath the fabric. Every inch of his body vibrated with masculinity and power. It was enough to make even a level-headed woman giddy.
He smiled down at her, teeth white and straight, eyes intent with a gaze that drew a woman in, that made her a part of whatever mischief lurked behind that gaze. ‘Shall we give them all something to talk about, Mary?’
Mary.The low, husky gravel of his voice elevated her plain name to the realms of the sensual, sending a frisson of erotic awareness through her, as if she were Mary of the Magdalene sort and not the Virgin. This was how lovers might speak to one another. Never had her ordinary name sounded so delicious. Or so wicked, given that he had no leave to use it.
She ought not be surprised. Permission was not something Caine Parkhurst asked or waited for. It was part of his roguish charm—a man who did not stand on niceties, a man perhaps better suited for an era less dependent on manners for the definition of a gentleman. His recklessness inspired recklessness in turn and she was overcome with the desire to be equal to it, to him.
‘We might as well.’ She laughed up at him, trying out her own boldness. In answer, his hand tightened at her waist and drew her close until her skirts flirted with scandal. It occurred to her in those moments that this might be the closest she’d ever been to a man. ‘They’re bound to talk, regardless.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he murmured, and moved them into the dance.
It was a quick waltz and Caine wasted no time getting them up to pace, taking her through turns with a rapidity that left Mary breathless, her cheeks flushed from the exertion and the sheer thrill of waltzing at top speed. ‘I’ve never dared to dance so fast,’ she said with a laugh as he guided them through a sharp turn, expertly avoiding another couple.
‘You’re a good dancer.’ She managed to catch her breath long enough to make conversation. Caine had a keen sense of navigation on a crowded floor and an innate confidence in his own skill. She was struck once more by the agility and enjoyment on display when he danced.
‘You seem surprised by that.’ Caine took them through a corner using a reverse turn as if on cue to illustrate the point.
‘Big men aren’t usually so gifted with such grace,’ she managed to say, still somewhat in awe of the reverse he’d just executed. It was one of the most difficult parts of the dance and he’d managed it effortlessly.
‘Aren’t we?’ He raised a dark brow, his gaze fixed on her, the hint of a sinful smile teasing his lips. ‘Are you an expert on big men, Mary?’ A low purl of naughtiness rippled through his words and her breath caught for entirely different reasons than the speed of their dance. She didn’t understand his reference entirely—no decent girl would—but she understood enough to know his innuendo was wicked. While she wasn’t an expert on big men, she suddenly wished she was, especially if that big man was him.
‘It’s only that you don’t dance much. I assumed it was because you didn’t enjoy it or lacked skill,’ she confessed openly, smartly letting his innuendo go untended. That was a battle of words she hadn’t the experience to win. She cocked her head and took in the dark gaze, the smiling lips. ‘Surely you see the contradiction. If you love to dance so much, why do you do it so seldom?’
His gaze lingered on her, meltingly warm. ‘Perhaps because there are so few partners worthy of my efforts.’
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks yet again at the implied compliment—thatshewas worthy. His flattery irrationally pleased her perhaps because it was true. She was a good dancer. What hadn’t come naturally had been drilled into her by countless dance instructors. Heaven forbid the Earl of the Carys’s daughter not be an asset to any ballroom she graced. One could not catch a duke without dancing. ‘I’m glad I do not disappoint.’
His gaze had gone from melting to smouldering and, despite the heat of it, she felt a shiver, a portent of excitement at his words. ‘You definitely do not. In fact, one might say you exceed expectations.’
