The Elopement by Megan Chance Page B

marriage. He would not ask a stranger to stand on the balcony at night with him, no matter how pretty she was. Not without a chaperone. He would not be looking at you and thinking how much he would like to kiss you. Or . . . more likely, he would be thinking it, but he would never say such a thing.”
    His words took her aback. Her breath seemed suddenly too fast.
    “He’s a good man, albeit a dull one,” he continued. “Just another of humanity’s many dogs—faultlessly kind, slatheringly earnest. He would never trouble you, if you chose him.”
    His description of Michael Bayley was a bit too astute. She liked Mr. Bayley—she had no reason not to, and her father was considering him, and yet, while she had no objection, really, it occurred to her that her companion tonight had got the right of it, and it was the reason she could not quite warm to Mr. Bayley completely.
    She said, “There is no passion in him.”
    “Or perhaps there is,” he said. “But it’s deeply buried. Perhaps you might spark it.”
    The possibility startled her. She wondered if she had the capacity for such a thing. “He’s very kind, though.”
    “Yes indeed. Kind. ” He said it as if it were a curse. “Is that what you’re looking for? Kind?”
    “It seems to me there are worse things to be.”
    “Yes. Impetuous for one. Always saying what one thinks. Always doing what one feels. Those are flaws, don’t you think?”
    “I suppose it depends on how much trouble they get one into.”
    “A great deal of trouble.” He raised his hand as if he meant to touch her, and her pulse suddenly raced in anticipation. But his hand only hovered as if he thought better of it, and then lowered again, gripping the railing. His voice became soft, dark, and tempting; it held in it the music of desire as he said, “Is that what you’re looking for? Trouble?”
    Her mouth went dry. She heard herself say—was that her voice? Could she really be speaking this?—“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
    She felt him look at her and raised her eyes to meet his. The slivered moon shone just above, almost crowning him, and it was as if the whole of the night had led her to this moment. She could not remember ever feeling suffocated at a dance before. She had never fled for a balcony and air. She was not the kind of woman who would stand and talk alone with a stranger. This all felt curiously fated.
    But before he could move or she could say anything, there was a sound at the doorway, a rustle of fine silk, a woman’s voice, sharp and querulous. “What are you doing? Who is that ?”
    He turned, and she turned with him to see a woman, her breasts heaving with indignation above the very low-cut bodice of her gown.
    “You’ve come back,” he said.
    She frowned. Her gaze burned. “Yes, I’ve come back. I’ve decided to forgive you. Or at least, I had . Who is this? What is she doing with you?”
    He smiled. “I’m not certain. But I hope she wishes to be your replacement.”
    The woman gasped. “You can’t mean that.”
    “Oh, but I think I do,” he said. “Go find your Henri. I imagine he will be happy to give you a ride home this evening. He’s been sniffing about you all night.”
    The woman went white. “What did you say? I cannot believe you would say that.”
    “Oh come now, Constance. You know as well as I that you’ve used the poor man to make me jealous a hundred times. Why should you be so surprised when I release you to run after him?”
    He turned away from Constance. He looked at her where she stood on the balcony beside him, and when he smiled, she could not help but smile back at him, though it seemed somehow wrong to do so. This all was so awkward. She was not certain why she was smiling, except that his seemed to beg it. She was just being polite, really.
    But she was also aware of a terrible breach of etiquette. She could not fathom why she didn’t move, why she didn’t leave them to themselves on the balcony, why she