A Stolen Season by Tamara Gill

her. It was like having an electric charge fire her blood. That was a constant since her first glance at him. Now, her body begged to fall victim to his silent charms.
    His lordship grabbed a second glass of brandy from a waiting footman and drank it down in one swallow. A trickle of unease pricked her senses. Was he drunk? She watched with growing concern as he commandeered yet another brandy and downed it as well.
    Why did he want to be intoxicated? An appalling thought crossed her mind. Was Eric so embarrassed and regretful over their past actions, he was afraid to face her without fortification? How embarrassing — and not at all helpful when she planned to seduce the fellow.
    Perhaps he was to expose what they had done? He certainly looked tense, his face aloof and not at all welcoming.
    Sarah choked on her drink as his gaze met hers like a physical blow. His dark, sinful gaze roamed her body and a satisfied smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Goosebumps rose over her flesh, and, part thrilled and part nervous, Sarah tried to get her emotions under tight control. She smiled when the blasted man had the audacity to wink at her before taking another glass of the intoxicating liquid he had a penchant for tonight.
    The master of ceremonies announced the first dance and, much to Sarah’s amusement, a dashing figure bowed before her.
    “Kentum, please do the honor of introducing me to your delightful company.” Lord Dean grinned and Sarah found herself laughing at his light-hearted flirting.
    His shirt collar was far from starched. His clothing, although clean, looked in need of a good iron. Dandy extraordinaire, he definitely was not. His hair had an unkempt look, sun bleached and scraggly. It was easier to imagine him surfing Bells Beach in Australia than dancing away the night in nineteenth century England.
    “May I have the next dance, Miss Baxter?”
    Sarah nodded. “Of course.” He walked her out onto the dance floor and pulled her into his arms for a waltz.
    “I do believe I am the object of every gentleman’s jealousy in this room at present, Miss Baxter.”
    Sarah remained amused at his open manner and saucy words. The smile faded fast, however, as it dawned on her what he was truly after. “You tease, my lord. If anything they are jealous I’m dancing with a future duke,” she said, attempting to draw some boundaries.
    Lord Dean’s eyes smoldered. Sarah swallowed her annoyance that his lordship wore the same expression Lord Earnston had in the garden, as if she was a delicious morsel to be devoured.
    “You do yourself disfavor, Miss Baxter.”
    He yanked her close for a turn. How many men were going to try to pick her up in nineteenth century England?
    And just what did one say to a randy partner that would not get her thrown out of this party, too? She played it safe and said nothing.
    “Can you not feel a certain earl’s eyes upon us, Miss Baxter? If the fellow could draw a sword, I’d be dead.” He laughed as his hold increased for the coming turn — or to annoy Lord Earnston, Sarah wasn’t sure.
    But she knew her game, and refused to react to or acknowledge the truth of his words. She knew Eric was watching them. His stance against the wall may have looked relaxed, but his face proclaimed something else entirely. And for some ridiculous reason, Sarah liked it.
    The dance ended and Lord Dean glided her to a stop. He clasped her hand and bowed over it. “Thank you for a wonderful waltz, Miss Baxter. I can only say how sorry I am that I did not meet you first.”
    “Thank you, my lord, it was most enjoyable. I hope we may have the chance to do it again someday.”
    Lord Dean’s eyes searched hers, once again setting off stalker alarm bells in the back of her mind. She raised her brows and refused her body’s urge to tell him to take a hike.
    “That, Miss Baxter, you can count on. Until I see a golden band on your ring finger, a gentleman must never give up hope.”

Chapter Ten
    “Excuse