Page 8 of Wynter's Bite

She couldn’t stop reliving the moment they’d first touched when he’d led her to the dance floor. The rapid beat of her pulse roared in her ears as his hand rested on her lower back and she’d grasped his firm, warm shoulder. When their gloved fingers intertwined, how her breath caught as electricity seemed to surge through their palms.

He was a rake, she reminded herself. She’d even heard snatches of conversion that hinted at a past dalliance between him and their hostess, which made her stomach clench with jealousy.

Yet now, as he tipped her a wink before turning back to Lord Darkwood, all Bethany could think of was the patient way he’d guided her in the dance, and how they’d talked of literature until their punch was long since finished. When he’d at last escorted her back to her mother, she’d felt a sharp pang in her chest, as if she’d just lost a dear friend.

Bethany’s lips curved in a self-mocking smile. First she’d regarded him as a dangerous rogue, and now suddenly he’s a friend? Perhaps her mind was indeed addled from reading too many books, as her father insisted. Yet it had felt so good to talk about her great passion with someone who’d understood. Like she wasn’t alone in the world.

Perhaps she could recreate the experience with a gentleman who could be a potential suitor. Ignoring her mother’s advice, Bethany attempted to discuss books with her next three dance partners. Alas, every one of them eyed her with the same impatient boredom as Lord Darkwood had.

She cast Darkwood a quick spiteful glance. Why did de Wynter have to be friends with such a cad? As if sensing her scrutiny, Darkwood’s black eyes suddenly whipped to hers. She shivered. There was something frightening about that man. He brought to mind a villain in a gothic novel.

For the rest of the evening, she caught de Wynter looking at her, sometimes even starting toward her as if to ask for another dance, but he never did.

Disappointment weighed on her as her mother packed her in the carriage shortly after midnight. Decent maidens never stayed until the wee hours of the morning, after all.

Just as Bethany was about to step into the conveyance, she spotted a glimmer of crimson. Lord de Wynter stood on one of the balconies. He raised his hand in a wave.

She couldn’t wave back, but she flicked her fan in his direction, smiling over the lace.

Her father interrupted the covert exchange. “Did you enjoy your first ball, my dear?”

“Oh yes,” she said sincerely. Unable to tell him the true reason, she spoke of everything but. “I very much enjoyed the dancing and Lady Ellingsworth was a capital hostess. And her decor brought to mind a fairy kingdom.”

His eyes narrowed in displeasure. “Fairies are not real. What have I told you about speaking of fanciful nonsense?”

“I did not mean—” she broke off at his warning glare and bowed her head. “I am sorry, Papa.”

As silence fell over the carriage, she scolded herself for forgetting Father’s odd terror of anything that fell beyond the bounds of realism. It seemed to consume him so much that even when they’d arrived at home, he still regarded her with a worried look as if he expected her to declare that Pegasus had conveyed them here, or pixies were on the roof.

However, even his reprimand could not dull her happiness of this night.

Once tucked into her bed, Bethany closed her eyes and once more relived her dance with the captivating viscount. The feel of being in his arms, his charming smile, the delight and interest in his eyes as they’d discussed Chaucer.

And finally, that secret smile and wave from the Ellingsworths’ balcony.

Perhaps he was interested in her. Perhaps he would even pay her a call upon the morrow!

But he did not. In fact, no gentleman dropped by the Meads’ country house all morning. Between visits with matrons who came to call, Lady Wickshire cast Bethany censorious glares and admonished her to try harder to be charming at the next gathering.

Yet it was difficult to muster charm when her emotions were ratcheting back and forth between disappointment that she’d misjudged de Wynter’s interest, and embarrassment for being so foolish as to think she would mean anything to someone such as him. He dallied with married women and never showed interest in green girls like her. Why did Bethany think she would be any different?

She tried to hide her desolation as she accompanied her mother to a musicale performed by Miss Chatterton, one of the girls who had dared her to approach Lord de Wynter in the first place. Her sadness turned to joy when she saw a familiar red-haired figure sitting with the other bachelors on the far side of the music room. Their eyes met and he tipped her a wink.

Her flesh heated all over even as she chided herself for responding to him. He could only be interested in one thing. Quickly, she averted her gaze, resolving to ignore him. But throughout Miss Chatterton’s dull plinks on the pianoforte, Bethany could feel de Wynter’s gaze on her. Even worse, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at him whenever no one was looking.

Blast him! How was she expected to find a husband with him distracting her? Rakes promised ravishment, not marriage. Suddenly, a vision of de Wynter holding her tight in his arms flashed across her mind. Of his lips covering hers, his hands caressing her bare skin...

Bethany bit back a gasp. What was the matter with her? Surely she did not want to be ravished!

When silence fell and the people around her began to clap, Bethany tore her attention back to her surroundings and rose with her mother to mingle with the guests and nibble on tea cakes. She would ignore him, not look his way again. She would—

A light touch on her elbow made her shiver. She whipped around to see Lord de Wynter smiling down at her. He held an old book in his hands.

“I thought you might be interested in this one,” he said softly. “You may borrow it if you like.”

Their gloved fingers touched as he handed her the slim, battered volume. Once more, an electric thrill coursed through her body at his touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered, heart blooming with delight. A book!

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