Page 14 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
Nothing he’d ever known.
As he took the stairs opposite the manor’s main entrance down to the ballroom two at a time, Tristan gave the ache in his chest a hard rub.What silliness was this? He’d never been sentimental, never longed for children. Or a wife.
Tea and crumpets overThe Times.
Pausing at the edge of the ballroom floor, couples engaged in a quadrille flitting in and out of his vision, he gathered his life was changing.
A rupture, a separation of the old from the new.
Because it was the way things were going, Camille stepped into view at the opposite end of the dancefloor, moving in and out of the rectangularly-patterned set with ease. Her hair breathing in candlelight from the many chandeliers and releasing it in a ginger burst. Perching against a marble column, Tristan appropriated a flute from the liveried footman and sipped champagne while he watched.
No patched gown this evening; no dirty-kneed termagant anywhere in sight.
She was magnificent. The loveliest woman in the room.
If Countess Milburn and Lady Fontaine were dangling Camille in front of him, which he’d considered might be happening, it was working.
His blood was pulsing with the longing to touch her again.
Sink his fingers in her auburn tresses and capture her lips beneath his. And be prepared for the implosion this time. Slide that exquisite gown—somewhere, depending upon one’s opinion, between green and blue—right off her slender body and show her what it was to worship.
Tristan reined in his fascination and gazed about the room as if he cared who else was in it. A crowd had gathered, not too close, mind you, his temperament was suspect, but close enough.
Because he was part of the entertainment.
Who better to liven up a ball than a reluctant, battle-weary duke?
The final notes of the song sounded, and couples dipped into neat curtsies at the quadrille’s close. When the musicians broke into the Sussex Waltz, Tristan made his decision. By God, he wasn’t watching her waltz with another man, the bawdiest activity one was allowed to perform in public, while he felt this combustive. Overher. “Hold this for me, will you?” he asked and shoved his flute at an unimaginative baron he’d met years ago at an unimaginative musicale.
He was across the floor before Camille had a chance to catch her breath and locate her next partner. “Mine, I believe,” he said, coming up behind her, a spot of treachery he could live with. “Lucky you, because I’m staggeringly good at the waltz, risqué though it may be.” Lowering his voice, he closed his fingers about hers. “No dance requires the level of touching this one does. Be prepared, Princess, for the spin of your life.”
“You arrogant oaf,” she muttered as he tucked her into place. “Your name isn’t on my card this round, and you know it.”
He counted off the rhythm, then led her into the dance, sweeping her through the first rotation effortlessly. For a tall woman, she was light as a proverbial feather, following his charge without objection, their bodies in picture-perfect alignment. It made downrightshockingimages flood his mind. He shook his head and found the wit to respond. “You dare to defy a duke?”
“Oh, my, no. I would never.” She dipped her chin and batted her lashes, demure as a tigress.
His laughter had her looking up and into his face with an expression of pure astonishment, honesty, andavarice.
His breath caught as the world fell away.
Candlelight shimmered off the unpredictable eyes fixed on him—dark as bluebells this evening—as he maneuvered their owner through a turn, swirling her around the parquet floor as if they’d been born to dance here, on this night, together. Hunger for her, and only her, burned a trail from his brain to his cock. “Your gown is the same color as your eyes. In reality, they’re a different shade every time I look at them. I admit to being spellbound in anticipation of what I may receive.”
Camille’s step didn’t waver as her lips pressed tight. In annoyance or amusement, he couldn’t tell. “Silliness, this talk. After you forced me into this, you should behave yourself.”
“My attraction to you is silly?” His eyebrow rose, just the one, a trick women usually liked. “And when have you known me to behave myself?”
“This discussion is silly,” she said, her tone severe. “And, good point.”
Definitely annoyed, he decided. “Are you surprised to see me, at least? I don’t usually attend these things, you know. Only Almack’s is worse.”
“Countess Milburn is dizzy with delight, I’m sure. The best winter ball since 1801.”
His fingers tightened around hers as visions of them tumbling across his bed raced through his mind. Her scent, peony and orange blossoms, rolled over him like a wave and took him under. “Are you dizzy with delight, Princess? And if not, how can I get you to be?”
He didn’t know why he asked this when he was running full-speed away from her.
Or trying to. And failing.