This walked the line of real scandal and his mystery woman knew it. All else between them had been decent enough to pass critical censure. This would not. This was intent. One might wander down a dark hall by happenstance, but one did not dance in gardens by accident.
“Yes, here. There’s far more room than inside.” He turned her into position, his hand at her back as she tentatively raised her hand to his shoulder. Her hesitation was delightful. For all her boldness, his mystery woman was human, after all.
He moved them into the dance, aware of the warmth of her skin beneath her gown where his hand met her back. She was not unaffected either by this sudden chemistry that had sprung up between them. He leaned close to her ear, wanting any reason to drink in the scent of her one more time, “You should have said no.”
She cocked her head to look up at him, a smile on her lips. “I know.” Jocelyn’s arousal went rigid. He knew just how he’d kiss that mouth. Heaven help him, she danced divinely.
* * *
Oh, Lord, he danced divinely, and that was where any heavenly metaphor ended. Like recognized like and she knew a sinner when she saw one. Jocelyn Eisley was no saint. He hadn’t even asked her name and here he was waltzing her around the garden, holding her closer than propriety allowed and she was loving it! Even after all the promises she’d made to herself about avoiding scandal and avoiding the charms of men. Here she was literally embracing both. Her promises hadn’t lasted the night.
What did that mean about her? Was she really irrevocably unconventional as the Dorset gossips maintained, or was Eisley a master at easing a woman down the path of seduction? Perhaps both? Although she feared the former, after all, she’d been the one to go looking for him.
Eisley’s hand was firm at her back, a reminder of his strength and competence. She had no doubt he was competent at many things. Her body concurred, thrilling to the intimate touch of his hand, to the sweep of her skirts against his legs, the occasional brush of his hips against hers as they turned. He was the devil’s own git with those handsome looks and teasing wit. He could melt even the staunchest of hearts. She’d have to harden hers considerably. But not yet.
Cassandra could almost reason there was no harm in enjoying a dance before she got down to the business of planning her next move. Tonight, she’d made contact. It was essential she use this opening to secure a second meeting.
The beautiful music faded to a halt, the silence making Cass acutely aware of his hands lingering at her waist, his thumbs at her hips pressing lightly, intimately, through the fabric of her gown, of the sparkle in his green eyes, a somewhat predatory gleam. She imagined a tiger’s eyes looked just like that before moving in for the kill.
His eyes dropped briefly to her lips. Cass’s breath came sharp and rapid. She saw it all at once: This was to be a seduction. Eisley’s equivalent to the kill. That flick of his eyes was the only notice she had of his intentions. Then his mouth was on hers with a gentle insistence. She gave invitation, her lips parting for him, his tongue tangling with hers in a slow, languid dance of their own.
She raised her arms about his neck, her hands finding their way into the thick depths of his hair, her actions perhaps encouraged by the actions of his. His hands, so firmly anchored at her waist, drew her against the manly core of him, making clear to her his desire—a most impressive desire. The implication was transparent: he wanted her and he thought he could have her, in a garden, at a ball. Oh, Lord, how he’d brought out the wanton in her with so little effort.
Shock and shame rocketed through her in equal parts. Maybe all the Dorset gossips were right, that she couldn’t help it. Maybe some people were born to sin. Her own record in that regard would certainly affirm it. Her uncle would flay her alive for this if word of it reached him. With a shove, Cass pushed away from the hard-muscled planes of his chest, a hand flying to her mouth in horrified realization. London was meant to be her redemption. With that one thought in mind, she turned on her slippered heel and fled, all thoughts of a second meeting fleeing with her.
Chapter Three
“Wait!” Jocelyn barked, trying to keep his voice from attaining a full-scale yell. “I don’t even know...” your name. The words faded in his throat as his flame-haired mystery woman disappeared into the ballroom and the protection of the crowd.
Admittedly, his tone was not conducive to staying, but his ego was hard pressed to accept what had just happened. He had kissed a woman whose name he didn’t know and she had fled, horrified, as if his kisses had been some horrendous assault on her mouth, which he happened to know they weren’t. He was a very proficient kisser. Even if past experience didn’t confirm it, her body’s response had. She had been eager for that kiss, eager for more than the kiss. Shockingly enough, so had he.
He’d been eager for the newness of it all, the spontaneity. These days, that was a rare commodity. The kiss had been unplanned and she, whoever she was, had no idea just how significant that was. He always knew a woman’s name, always knew he was going to kiss her and everything else that would follow. That’s how the league worked. It had been years since a woman had surprised him in bed or out.
In the last year especially, he’d begun to believe he’d simply reached the limit of possibilities. Perhaps sex wasn’t an infinite playground of versatility as he once had thought. Perhaps he had indeed come to the very ends of those worlds, a conqueror of all things sensual. Tonight proved otherwise. There was at least one adventure that lay unclaimed. And that adventure had just escaped. If it was going to continue, he was going to have to go after it.
Jocelyn strode into the ballroom, secure in the knowledge that such a beauty would be easy to find. Her hair alone would stand out. If she was still there. Lucifer’s balls, had his kiss caused her to flee the entire venue? How would he ever find her again short of trawling every London entertainment—a prospect he did not relish. It would be a needle-in-a-haystack sort of hunt, if it came to that.
“She’s gone, whoever it is you’re looking for.” A low voice spoke at his shoulder and Jocelyn gave a little jump. His thoughts had been so occupied by his search he hadn’t been aware of the other men’s approach. Amery DeHart, another member of the league, stood on one side of him, Channing Deveril, on the other.
“What is it? What are the two of you doing here?” Jocelyn schooled his features into their usual neutrality, trying to give off no impression of impatience. He’d made an art of the ability to appear unbothered, as if everything rolled off him like water off the proverbial duck. Still, their timing was impeccably rotten. He needed to be searching for his redhead. But he couldn’t ignore the league. There was nothing facile about the presence of Channing and Amery at the same social event together. The league made it a practice to avoid being seen together whenever possible in order to make it less likely people would associate them as more than acquaintances.
“We have a problem. Lord Burroughs has upped the ante in his little vendetta against Nick and thus against us.” Amery took a swallow of his champagne, his eyes never leaving the ballroom floor, constantly scanning, constantly watching. Such dedication to detail, to noticing every nuance about everybody was what Amery did best. It’s what had made him a much-sought-after lover amongst the ton, almost on par with Jocelyn himself. Amery was young but given time, Amery would likely surpass them all.
Channing entered the conversation, his voice low and rapid. “I received word earlier this evening that Burroughs has invited his niece to town in the hopes of using her as bait to draw out the league.”
“Then let’s not be drawn out. Surely if she sends a request to the agency we will simply not be able to fulfill it.” It would be easy enough
