The Elopement by Megan Chance Page A

intrude.”
    “You’re not. I’ve grown weary of my own thoughts. I should like to hear someone else’s for a change. Please.” He gestured to the rail, and she went to him, though to do such a thing was odd for her—she was not usually so bold. Together they turned to look out on the yard below, where a few pieces of statuary cast shadows in the faint glow from the ballroom windows. The music from inside seemed quiet all of a sudden, though only moments before it had been too loud and jarringly unpleasant. It was late summer, the night balmy. She felt his warmth, though they were not touching. She also felt nervous—her father would not like her alone with a stranger, particularly such a handsome one, but it wasn’t just that. It was, she admitted, that this man seemed to affect her so strangely. She found herself wanting to touch him. She felt separate from herself suddenly, not quite in control, her desires at odds with her good breeding as they had never been before.
    “Such a young and pretty woman as yourself cannot possibly be here alone,” he said.
    “No. My father is inside, casting about for a proper marriage.” That she’d said it surprised her, as did the bitterness she heard in her voice.
    “Ah,” he said. “You don’t sound as if you wish for such a thing yourself.”
    “It’s not that I don’t wish it,” she said. “It’s just that . . .”
    He looked at her. “It’s just that what?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Nothing really. Only silly yearnings, I suppose. How pretty is the sky tonight—just that sliver of moon. One can really see the stars.”
    “Yes, a pretty night,” he agreed. “And a relief after the ballroom.”
    Such an admission caught her interest. “You don’t like to dance?”
    “I don’t like the quartet. The cellist has hit more wrong notes than right ones. And I think the violinist cannot read music.”
    She laughed at the criticism; it was true. “I see. So you came out to escape the musicians.”
    “No,” he said. “I came out to make love to a fair maiden.”
    She was taken aback; for a moment she thought he meant her, and she stepped away in alarm.
    He caught her movement and made a little grimace, putting up his hand as if he meant to reassure her. “A previous assignation. She’s gone already.”
    She understood then that his hair looked as if fingers had mussed it because some had. She felt suddenly breathless, and discomfited too, that he’d admitted such things, and to her, a perfect stranger. And then she found herself wondering who the woman might be that he’d come out here to meet, and what they’d done, and whether he wished she were still here. The image such questions conjured caught her for a moment: a woman in rustling silks against the railing, his lips on hers, her fingers tangling in his dark curls, breathless little moans and whimpers while the stars stared down . . . Or at least, that was how she imagined it, because she’d never experienced anything like that for herself. And how ridiculous that such a vision should raise a longing in her, a quiet little wanting.
    “Oh,” she breathed. “I’m sorry.”
    His mouth quirked. She saw a glint of amusement in his eyes and knew he took her for a simpleton. “Sorry for what?”
    “Why, that she’s no longer here. You sounded as if you regretted it.”
    “Did I?” He looked out toward the yard. He was silent for a moment and then he said, “Did you come out here to escape the musicians, or your father? Or perhaps you wished to escape Michael Bayley.”
    It startled her that he’d guessed so clearly. For a moment she wondered if he’d read her mind.
    “It’s not so hard to guess as you imagine,” he said drily, reading it again. “You said your father was looking for a proper marriage. Michael Bayley is looking for an heiress. It’s common knowledge.”
    “Oh.” She had no idea what else to say.
    “He’s a proper gentleman too,” he went on. “Perfect for a proper