tapering fingers curled about his arm, and he breathed in the hint of jasmine that hovered in the air about her.
He stopped himself from leaning closer. He was here to protect her from a right bastard, not to spend the evening basking in her perfume.
“Now you’ve done it. You’ll set Mama off,” she muttered, as, with subtle pressure, she drew him upstairs toward the drawing room. “No one else has arrived yet. Stick close beside me until we go down to dinner. That way I can avoid Ludlowe.”
“Has he been making a particular nuisance of himself? Just say the word, and I’ll be glad to take care of him for you.” Glad. Such a mild word for the pleasure it would give him to see that bastard get a little of his own back.
With a sharp jerk of her head, she looked up. “Nothing that requires you to defend my honor.”
He let her words sink in. He’d love nothing more. “You only need say the word, my lady, and I shall gladly take up my lance for your sake.”
He twisted his lips into an ironic smile. Her laughter echoed through the drawing room, and he joined her until the realization struck. Overly dramatic phrasing aside, he’d willingly take up arms to defend her, if necessary.
She leaned closer. “If you’re to be my champion, perhaps I ought to give you my favor. Isn’t that the way they used to do things?”
In spite of himself, he stiffened. The blood drained from his face to pool in his groin. Damn her. This was Julia, and yet, ever since the waltz the other evening, she’d become a regular feature of his dreams.
Her lips hovered inches from his, plump and tempting. His sleeping mind already knew their flavor, their pliancy. In dream-state, he’d already experienced the paradise of her body gripping his in climax.
Her breath hitched, a sharp intake, and the awareness deepened. If he closed those final inches betweenthem—if he put his fantasy to the test—would she repay him with a slap?
Or would she respond with all the wonder and enthusiasm of the Julia who figured in his dreams?
A commotion downstairs in the foyer interrupted his thoughts. New arrivals, thank God. Given Julia’s reputation for spurning all suitors, he suspected his face would have been stinging in another minute or two.
Turning, he bit back a groan. Just visible from the drawing room, Ludlowe appeared ascending the stairs, grinning as if tonight’s dinner was held in his honor—his and Julia’s. Head held high, he propped his walking stick in a corner.
Benedict ground his teeth. How he’d love to break that shiny oaken staff right over Ludlowe’s thick skull.
To make matters worse, Ludlowe’s gaze shifted in their direction, and he strode into the drawing room. “Ah, Miss Julia.” His smile faded slightly. “Revelstoke. Such a coincidence, you being here. It seems every time I run into Miss Julia these days, you’re never far behind, are you?”
Julia’s fingers wound themselves into the crook of Benedict’s elbow and squeezed a warning. His gaze fixed steadily on Ludlowe, he covered her hand with his. “I’m here as an invited guest.”
Julia nodded and leaned into him, a fleeting touch of her shoulder, nothing more. But it left a pleasant tingle in its passing along with a heightened sense of her proximity.
“Yes, well.” Ludlowe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if, for once in his life, he had no idea what to say. “Frightful weather we’re having lately. Hardly springlike at all.”
“Indeed.” Julia’s one-word reply held all the chill of tonight’s wind.
Benedict fought off a grin.
S OPHIA stared at the glass a footman had just pressed into her hand. Deep red liquid sloshed from side to side, emitting a sweet, cloying odor that turned her stomach. She’d never manage a bite when the gathering went down to supper.
Her father raised his glass and with his other hand smoothed the burgundy brocade of his waistcoat over his belly. “A toast. To the happy
He stopped himself from leaning closer. He was here to protect her from a right bastard, not to spend the evening basking in her perfume.
“Now you’ve done it. You’ll set Mama off,” she muttered, as, with subtle pressure, she drew him upstairs toward the drawing room. “No one else has arrived yet. Stick close beside me until we go down to dinner. That way I can avoid Ludlowe.”
“Has he been making a particular nuisance of himself? Just say the word, and I’ll be glad to take care of him for you.” Glad. Such a mild word for the pleasure it would give him to see that bastard get a little of his own back.
With a sharp jerk of her head, she looked up. “Nothing that requires you to defend my honor.”
He let her words sink in. He’d love nothing more. “You only need say the word, my lady, and I shall gladly take up my lance for your sake.”
He twisted his lips into an ironic smile. Her laughter echoed through the drawing room, and he joined her until the realization struck. Overly dramatic phrasing aside, he’d willingly take up arms to defend her, if necessary.
She leaned closer. “If you’re to be my champion, perhaps I ought to give you my favor. Isn’t that the way they used to do things?”
In spite of himself, he stiffened. The blood drained from his face to pool in his groin. Damn her. This was Julia, and yet, ever since the waltz the other evening, she’d become a regular feature of his dreams.
Her lips hovered inches from his, plump and tempting. His sleeping mind already knew their flavor, their pliancy. In dream-state, he’d already experienced the paradise of her body gripping his in climax.
Her breath hitched, a sharp intake, and the awareness deepened. If he closed those final inches betweenthem—if he put his fantasy to the test—would she repay him with a slap?
Or would she respond with all the wonder and enthusiasm of the Julia who figured in his dreams?
A commotion downstairs in the foyer interrupted his thoughts. New arrivals, thank God. Given Julia’s reputation for spurning all suitors, he suspected his face would have been stinging in another minute or two.
Turning, he bit back a groan. Just visible from the drawing room, Ludlowe appeared ascending the stairs, grinning as if tonight’s dinner was held in his honor—his and Julia’s. Head held high, he propped his walking stick in a corner.
Benedict ground his teeth. How he’d love to break that shiny oaken staff right over Ludlowe’s thick skull.
To make matters worse, Ludlowe’s gaze shifted in their direction, and he strode into the drawing room. “Ah, Miss Julia.” His smile faded slightly. “Revelstoke. Such a coincidence, you being here. It seems every time I run into Miss Julia these days, you’re never far behind, are you?”
Julia’s fingers wound themselves into the crook of Benedict’s elbow and squeezed a warning. His gaze fixed steadily on Ludlowe, he covered her hand with his. “I’m here as an invited guest.”
Julia nodded and leaned into him, a fleeting touch of her shoulder, nothing more. But it left a pleasant tingle in its passing along with a heightened sense of her proximity.
“Yes, well.” Ludlowe shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if, for once in his life, he had no idea what to say. “Frightful weather we’re having lately. Hardly springlike at all.”
“Indeed.” Julia’s one-word reply held all the chill of tonight’s wind.
Benedict fought off a grin.
S OPHIA stared at the glass a footman had just pressed into her hand. Deep red liquid sloshed from side to side, emitting a sweet, cloying odor that turned her stomach. She’d never manage a bite when the gathering went down to supper.
Her father raised his glass and with his other hand smoothed the burgundy brocade of his waistcoat over his belly. “A toast. To the happy
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