That Tender Feeling by Dorothy Vernon

her, her hair, her forehead, her shining, frantically striving to be guarded eyes, the soft pinkness of her mouth, her working throat. And down, concentrating for endless moments on the well-defined hollow of her cleavage and the rising fullness of her breasts, revealed to him by the cut of her dress. It was odd, but there hadn’t seemed quite as much of her exposed in her bedroom mirror as there was now as seen through his eyes.
    Without lifting his glance, he said: ‘Pity that old-fashioned custom of buying a corsage for a lady has lost its popularity. The difficulty I would have encountered in knowing where to pin it would have been offset by the fun of trying.’
    He was rubbing the thumb and forefinger of one hand together. It was a gesture that displayed his own inner tension and was without ulterior motive. He could not know what it did to her. A shiver ran through her as though his thumb were not rotating on his own finger, but on a part of her body that her dress did not bare to him. It was a relief when his gaze slid farther down, going no lower than a faintly protruding hipbone before returning to her by now flushed face.
    â€˜Very lovely. Very elegant. You look taller. The transformation has measured you more up to my size.’
    That was not strictly true, although her precariously high heels meant that he didn’t have to look as far down to locate her eyes. But of course he wasn’t referring to her height at all. He meant that she now measured up to his level of sophistication.
    â€˜Are you ready?’
    For what? she wondered as she picked up her evening wrap and nodded in silent consent.
    * * *
    A tall, heavily branched Scotch pine tree dominated the entrance hall. Another stood in the corner of the room where the dinner dance was being held, its towering branches laden with baubles and blazing with Christmas lights. Crackling logs shot flames up the wide chimney of a fireplace that was huge enough to walk into, and a three-piece orchestra was playing Christmas carols. Silver garlands looped above their heads, and streamers and other party novelties decorated each table. The one the head waiter led them to was at the far end of the room on the edge of the dance floor.
    Ros gulped on laughter as she feasted her eyes on the blazing gaiety of the room. Her happiness overflowed and showed in the exuberance of her smile. As the last notes of a popular carol faded away, Ros put her hands together and clapped louder than anyone else, but whether she was paying homage to the musicians or clapping for the sheer joy of being there with Cliff was difficult to tell.
    There were variations on the menu, but both she and Cliff stuck to the traditional Christmas fare. Couples had taken to the floor between courses, but so far they hadn’t joined them. It wasn’t until twin glasses of brandy sat alongside the coffee cups that Cliff asked her if she would care to dance. She nodded and went into his arms on a blissful sigh of contentment. They’d had little to drink, just a glass of wine with the meal and then a few sips of brandy, but the people around them had imbibed freely; and streamers whirled in the air with cast-off inhibitions.
    Gathering her closer, he did not talk, and both of those things suited Ros. She wanted to imprint the lovely evening on her memory for all time. Oddly, in the midst of her enjoyment, a thread of unease ran through her mind. There was an inexplicable bittersweet quality about everything. Later, she was to ask herself if, by some uncanny instinct, she had perceived some inkling of what was in store for her.
    Normally, her head would have rested against the steel wall of his chest; but her higher heels enabled it to fit in the curve of his neck. The hand on her back rested just above the line where her dress ended. The trespassing tip of his little finger strayed possessively beneath the material, while on the higher level, his stroking thumb shivered over her