warnings? Didn’t she understand the danger? Yes, she was significantly older than most debutantes, but this was her first London Season. It would not be hard for her to put a foot wrong, especially as she seemed to think her age and size exempted her from society’s rules.
Kate knew all too well what could happen in the Duke of Alvord’s garden.
Dear heaven. Just the thought of the garden brought so many memories flooding back. Memories and…sensations.
She plied her fan vigorously. She should stop trying to delude herself. She hadn’t gone out looking for Grace because she hoped by staying in the ballroom Alex might approach her. She was being terribly irresponsible. And pitiful.
Her stays were much too tight. She would listen to Marie from now on and forget her silly notions of appearing youthful. She tried to draw a deeper breath.
She’d like to escape the crush herself—and the decidedly stuffy air, she thought, wrinkling her nose. She’d like to go into the garden with Alex—
No! Not with—most certainly not.
Dear God, would this evening never end? She was so hot and uncomfortable—and everyone was talking about her. Oh, Prudence had been very friendly, but there had been a touch of pity in her old friend’s eyes. And why not? Prudence had a house full of children and Kate had…nothing.
She glanced around the room—and saw Alex.
She whipped her eyes away and pretended to look out the window again. Would he ask her to dance or, worse, stroll in the garden?
She moved her fan faster.
He must have had innumerable conquests these twenty-three years while she’d been busy being a good wife—well, a wife—to her husband—her much older husband.
Oh God, he was coming her way.
She should join the other chaperones. There was safety in numbers. She glanced at the knot of older women. They were darting looks at her and Alex and whispering behind their fans.
No, she wouldn’t join the chaperones.
She watched Alex’s reflection. He was coming closer…
She moistened her lips. Her stomach shivered. Her heart, even her—She blushed and fanned more vigorously still. Tendrils of hair flew about her face.
Even the secret place between her legs, the place Oxbury had entered frequently in the early days of their marriage when there was still hope she could bear him an heir and not so frequently later—not at all in the last months when he’d been so sick—even that place shivered.
It was as if she’d been asleep all these years and now she was waking.
“Lady Oxbury?”
He was standing right behind her. She turned slowly to face him. She stared at his white waistcoat. Her mouth was as dry as dust. She couldn’t speak.
“Lady Oxbury, are you all right?”
She tried to breathe, but the damn stays were too confining. “I…” She managed to raise her eyes from his chest to his lips.
His mouth was firm, serious, his lips narrow…
Did she remember how they felt? She would swear that she did. Their light, brief touch, brushing over her mouth, had ignited a fire that had smoldered for twenty-three years.
She met his eyes—
Ahh. Heat flared in those blue depths. His gaze was so intent.
She moistened her lips again.
The embers of that old fire were bursting back into life. The conflagration would incinerate her if she were not careful.
Did she want to be careful?
Was she a moth, flying to her death, or a phoenix, reborn by flame?
“Come with me into the garden, Kate.” His voice, low, full of promise, melted any whisper of resistance her conscience might muster.
That wasn’t all it melted. Her lips, her breasts, ached for his touch; the secret place throbbed, wept for him.
Heat swept up her cheeks. She had been faithful to Oxbury all the years they were wed and the long year since his death. Was she a light skirt, then, to so easily consider going into the garden with this man?
No. This was not any man—this was Alex.
Moth or phoenix, suicide or rebirth, it didn’t much matter. She was going out into the garden with Alex, even if she had to drag him into the bushes herself.
Chapter 3
The terrace was markedly cooler, quieter—and darker. The ballroom candles cast only very small circles of light from the door and windows. There were lanterns, yes, but they seemed to create more shadows than they dispelled—if the murmurings Grace heard were any indication, a number of couples were delighted to take advantage of the dim light.
She should go back inside. Now that she considered the matter, she realized it would be rather awkward to try to initiate a discussion with the baron out here. They had never been introduced, after all. Lord Dawson probably had no idea who she was.
She flushed, remembering how he’d looked at her when she’d stood on the ballroom landing. His eyes had seared a path straight to her soul, if her soul was located—
Oh! The place low in her…well, that place throbbed again. It could not be her soul—it was far too physical.
“Pardon me, but are you going out, miss?”
“What? Oh, er…” She was blocking the door, wasn’t she? A short, balding man wished to get through—a short, balding man who was now drooling on her bodice.
She stepped back quickly and caught her heel in her hem.
“Ack!” She flung out her hands to recover her balance, but it was hopeless. She was going down. She would indeed end in an ignominious heap, but at least not in the middle of the ballroom—“Oh!”
A pair of strong arms caught her and hauled her up against a rock-hard chest.
“Are you all right?” The voice was warm, deep, concerned—but with a hint of laughter.
“Ah.” She blinked up at her rescuer—Lord Dawson, of course. “Er.”
She couldn’t form a coherent sentence—she couldn’t think. She’d never been so close to a man before. A host of sensations overwhelmed her: the hard strength of Lord Dawson’s arms holding her as if she weighed nothing; the rough texture of his coat against her cheek; the clean scent of his linen and…him.
She felt small. She had never felt small. Even as a child, she’d towered over the other girls and most of the boys. The feeling was completely disorienting.
She concentrated on Lord Dawson’s face, but that didn’t help. If anything, such a close inspection caused her heart to pound harder and her poor brain to drift further into its stupor.
He did have a slight cleft in his chin. And a dimple in his cheek. And long, dark lashes framing his eyes…
His teeth were white and even in the shadows. Was he laughing at her? It wouldn’t be odd if he were. She was gaping up at him like a complete ninny.
“Are you all right?” The laughter was more pronounced, but there was a different undertone now. The heat was back in his eyes.
“Has she swooned, Dawson? Should I send someone for help?”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary, Delton.”
Good God, what was she thinking? Lingering in Lord Dawson’s arms was bad enough, but lingering on the Duke of Alvord’s terrace with an interested group of spectators gathered round, one of whom must be the husband of Aunt Kate’s friend—She didn’t need her aunt to point out she was