Editor's Note: This excerpt takes place at the same
Christmas party depicted in the epilogue to The Forbidden Lord.
As soon as Felicity Taylor saw Lord St. Clair heading toward
her, she braced herself for trouble. Devil take her foolish
friend, Katherine! Felicity had risked discovery to prevent
Katherine from marrying the degenerate St. Clair, and the
woman had run off with her family’s steward instead!
That had not been her intention. Katherine was supposed to
turn St. Clair down flat, then marry a man at least
marginally suitable to her genteel class. The foolish girl.
Now, for all her trouble, Felicity had a hornet on her tail,
one who also just happened to know she was Lord X. No wonder
Lord St. Clair had spent luncheon baiting her—he must have
been furious over Katherine's elopement! Felicity watched
him approach with growing unease. It was hard to tell what
he felt. The man had an uncanny ability to keep his true
feelings buried ten feet under, and that made him more
difficult to manage than a man easy to read. If she had any
sense at all, she’d run.
A pity she had nowhere to go.
"Lord St. Clair is coming this way, my dear," Lady Brumley
said beside her, with a nod of her elaborately coiffured
head. "Shall I introduce you?"
"We’ve met." No doubt the marchioness would make much of
that. Felicity sometimes wondered if Lady Brumley had
guessed who wore Lord X’s pants.
God knows, Felicity wished it were anyone but herself just now.
Then the troublesome viscount was upon them, wearing a smile
so alarming she could barely manage one in answer. He nodded
briefly at the marchioness, then bowed to Felicity. "Miss
Taylor, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"
The scoundrel. He wanted to get her off alone on the dance
floor so he could rail at her, and he knew she dared not
refuse with Lady Brumley drinking in every word.
Well, she must face his wrath some time or another. "I’d be
happy to dance with you," she lied, extending her hand.
Though I’d be happier still if I’d never met you.
He led her to the floor with the practiced ease of a
gentleman, then settled one hand on the curve of her waist
as the other closed tightly around her gloved fingers.
She groaned. God preserve her, she’d agreed to a waltz, and
waltzes were not her forte. Her dancing in general left much
to be desired, but with some figures, like the quadrille,
she could follow her fellows and hide her missteps in the
crowd. That was impossible with a waltz.
"Lord St. Clair—" she began, meaning to warn him. But he’d
already whirled her onto the floor. One-two-three,
one-two-three, one-two-three, she chanted in her head,
futilely trying to keep from stumbling or making a misstep.
"Miss Taylor—" he began.
"Shh," she muttered, casting an envious glance at the others
who so deftly managed the dance’s intricacies. Her fingers
dug into his shoulder. "I’m counting."
"Counting?"
"The measure. I’m very bad at the waltz."
He eyed her with suspicion. "You must be joking."
She trod on his foot completely by accident. "I-I’m sorry,"
she stammered as she sought to find her footing again,
nearly bringing them to a halt.
He half-dragged her back into step, remaining silent until
she found the measure again. "How could you not have
mastered the waltz? You go to a different social affair
every night."
"Yes, but I don’t go to dance." She resumed her death grip
on his shoulder. Maybe he could simply carry her about the
room. He was certainly large enough, and she’d already
ruined any appearance of ladylike grace by clinging to him
like a drowning woman.
When he didn’t answer, she risked a glance up into his face.
It was shuttered, his eyes impersonal as gems. "I forgot—you
go to hear gossip."
"To gather material." His condescension and obvious ease at
the waltz irritated her. "You go to hunt up a brood mare. I
don’t see why that’s any more acceptable."
"A brood mare?" he choked out. "Is that what you gleaned
from your interrogation of Sara this afternoon?"
She stumbled and he caught her, whisking her back into the
step only moments before she collided with another dancer.
It took her a second to regain her composure. "I did not
interrogate Sara. She offered information."
"And you made your usual ‘speculations’ based on hints and
innuendo."
"So you’re not looking for a wife to bear your heir?"
A long silence ensued, during which she became aware of
something besides the waltz…like the broad masculine chest
at her eye level…the scent of bay rum and starched linen and
plain, unadulterated male…the muscled arms holding her a
trifle close for propriety. At some point he’d moved his
hand from her side to the small of her back. Although she
understood why he felt the need to manacle her waist with
his arm, given her abysmal waltzing ability, it was still
most improper.
She eased back from him, then nearly lost the measure,
prompting him to tighten his arm further. When she met his
gaze, she found him watching her with amusement.
"You really can’t waltz, can you?" he said.
"Did you think I’d invent something like that?"
"Why not? You invent everything else."
"Not your reasons for needing a wife, I suspect," she said,
determined to make him answer her question.
He let out an exasperated breath. "Of course I need a wife
to bear me an heir. That’s why most men of title and fortune
need a wife." He paused. "So, shall I expect to see that in
the next edition of the Gazette?"
She was starting to feel comfortable enough that his snide
remark didn’t make her lose step. "Really, Lord St. Clair,
you do have an exalted opinion of yourself. I have more
interesting things to write about than your courtships."
"Yes, like Katherine’s elopement."
So he’d finally brought it up, had he? Tilting her head down
to avoid his gaze, she focused on his expertly tied cravat.
"Why should I write about that? Everyone already knows of
it. Besides, despite what you think, I don’t go about trying
to ruin people’s lives. Katherine is my friend, after all."
"You’ve already humiliated her by writing about my supposed
mistress. Why balk at discussing her elopement?"
The unfair accusation stung. "I’ll concede that my article
might have given her some discomfort, but clearly it didn’t
last. The end result was her happiness."
"Are you so sure? This steward of hers met your impeccable
standards?"
Her interest in his cravat grew amazingly acute. "I didn’t
know him, but I’m sure he’s a very nice man and will make
her happy."
"I see. Which means you’re as dismayed about the elopement
as I."
He was so smug, drat him, and much too adept at reading her
mind. "Not at all. At least he claims to be in love with
her, which is more than I can say for you."
"You have an answer for everything, don’t you? But I know
you, Miss Taylor, and you don’t believe in love any more
than I do." He tugged her closer, plastering her to him from
thigh to chest in a most indelicate manner.
She tried to shove him back, but failed. "I may not waltz
very well," she hissed, "but must you hold me so close? It
isn’t proper, you know."
Lord: He's planning something devious. Lady: I think you're
right.
"No, it isn’t."
When he didn’t allow her so much as an extra inch in
response to her criticism, she said, "Would you kindly
release me?"
"I think not."
It dawned on her that this had nothing to do with her
dancing abilities. "Why?"
"Because holding you at arm’s length wouldn’t be nearly as
enjoyable." He coupled his comment with a smile so wicked it
made her heart stop.
“She trod purposely on his foot, but dancing slippers were
no match for a man’s leather shoes. "Lord St. Clair—" she began.
"Call me Ian." An edge entered his voice. "I see no reason
we should stand on ceremony after all that you know about me."
"Now see here, I know you’re angry with me about Katherine’s
elopement—"
"No, I’m not, but I have every right to be. You wrote
publicly of matters that weren’t your concern. You asked my
friends about my private affairs." She missed a step, but he
jerked her back into step unceremoniously and danced on.
"And you don’t even have the decency to feel remorse for
what you’ve done."
"Because I did nothing wrong!"
"Really?" They whirled into candlelight that highlighted his
taunting smile. "Then you won’t mind having the situation
reversed."
An uneasy foreboding made her stomach lurch. "What do you mean?"
He bent his head close enough for his lips to brush her ear.
"Have you ever been gossiped about, Felicity?"
She froze in his arms. Good Lord. That’s why he’d asked her
to dance. She’d been so engrossed in not stumbling all over
her feet that she hadn’t cared how closely he held her.
Until it was too late.
Glancing around, she noticed for the first time the whispers
and looks of interest from the dancers closest to them. No
one ever danced the waltz so closely unless they were
courting…or worse.
"Why, you heartless, contemptuous—"
"Careful, my dear," he whispered smugly, "someone might
overhear you. And what would they think?"
"That you’re rude and unconscionably bad-mannered!"
"Or that you’ve drunk too much wine, which is why you’re
allowing me such liberties. Or you’re eager to take the
place of my supposed mistress. Or any number of unsavory
assumptions based on nothing more than my holding you too
closely."
Drat him for being the most logical, devious creature in
breeches! "All right," she grumbled after they’d taken
another turn. "You’ve made your point. Now let me go!"
"Oh, I haven’t even begun to make my point," he murmured in
a voice as silky as it was menacing.
Her thundering heart drowned out the ebbing music. He held
her trapped in his arms more effectively than any truss. To
escape him, she’d have to make a scene that half the
ballroom would notice. Yes, he would enjoy watching her
embarrass herself before so many important people, wouldn’t he?
But what did he mean, I haven’t even begun to make my point?
With the next turn, they reached the edge of the crowd, and
suddenly she knew. Panic ripped through her as she realized
they danced toward the closed French doors leading onto the
balcony.
"No," she whispered, vainly trying to halt their forward
movement. But she might as well have been pushing against a
mill wheel. Like the mighty river that powered it, he moved
inexorably, taking her with him. Willing or no.
Two more deft turns and they were at the doors. He released
her hand only long enough to open one.
"I won’t go out there with you alone!" she hissed, but he
shoved her through the door and onto the balcony as if she
were no more than a rag doll.
Yanking her hand free, she whirled and headed back toward
the ballroom. With alarming speed, he stepped between her
and escape, shutting the glass door with a click.
Her breath came in puffs of frost, and she shivered. "You
can’t mean to keep me out here. It’s freezing, for God’s sake."
"Take my coat—" he began as he reached for the buttons.
"Don’t you dare!" That was the last thing she wanted, the
Viscount St. Clair disrobing in such a private setting.
His unrepentant grin reminded her of her brothers when they
were up to mischief. "I’m merely trying to be a gentleman."
"And failing miserably." She tried to peer over his shoulder
into the ballroom to see if anyone had noticed their
retreat, but his great height blocked her view. Then she
cast a furtive glance around the balcony. Thankfully they
were alone. "All right, you have me out here. What do you
want from me?"
"That’s simple: I want you to see what it’s like to have
your pristine reputation soiled by the unjust ‘speculations’
of gossiping females." His grin faded abruptly. "Turnabout
is fair play, Felicity."
Why, of all the shameless, obnoxious— "Fair? You don’t know
the meaning of the word! My pristine reputation was achieved
by pristine living, and I’m sure you can’t say the same for
yourself! If you don’t like your reputation, don’t blame me!
I was not the one who made it so, you…you philandering oaf!"
It was the wrong thing to say. He advanced on her, his jaw
tightening dangerously. "Yes, that’s me. A ne’er-do-well who
doesn’t deserve to marry any decent woman. A man whom no
woman in her right mind would trust." He caught her around
the waist, tugging her into a close embrace. Sarcasm heavily
laced his voice. "So why should I behave or treat you
differently than the thousands of women I’ve debauched!"
"Why, you cursed—"
He gave her no chance to finish the insult. His mouth came
down hard on hers.
It shocked her so utterly that for a moment she did nothing.
It had been ages since a man had forced a kiss on her, not
since the last time one of father’s patrons had done so.
That had been awful, however. This was not.
It commanded where the other had blustered, enticed where
the other had revolted. Although he took complete charge of
her person and showed no concern for propriety, she wasn’t
disgusted. On the contrary, his kiss stirred strange
feelings in her belly …and lower. The intimacy curled her
toes and dissolved her insides into a puddle, which had
certainly never happened with any other man. And to her
horror, when he released her and stepped back, she felt an
instant of disappointment.
A blush heated her cheeks, angering her. She never blushed,
for almost nothing embarrassed her. And to think that this
dratted viscount could make her do so…
"I see I’ve rendered you speechless." His eyes smoldered as
they passed over her face to fasten on her still-burning
lips. "I didn’t think that possible."
She ignored the insult. "Is this how you cow all your enemies?"
"Only the pretty ones." He arched an eyebrow. "And you don’t
look particularly cowed. I must be slipping."
Desperate to hide her intense and bewildering reaction to
his assault, she retorted, "It would take a great deal more
than a rude kiss to cow me."
"Would it really?" A devilish smile touched his lips as he
once more clasped her waist. When she arched away, he caught
her jaw between his thumb and forefinger to hold it still.
"Then I’m certainly willing to oblige."
© 2003-2026