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“If I recall, she was over there”—Dunford pointed to the far side of the room—“by the lemonade table.”
Alex gave his friend a curt nod but tempered it with a smile. “It has, as always, been a joy, Dunford.” He turned on his heel and began to push through the crowd. As he made his way toward the area where he hoped Emma was, he was continually waylaid by men and women eager for an audience with the influential Duke of Ashbourne. Alex quelled a few of them with his famous icy stare, nodded to some, exchanged words with a couple, and merely growled at the unlucky ones who caught him as he was finally finishing his journey.
He was not in a good mood.
That, of course, was when he finally caught sight of Emma. Her flaming hair always made her fairly easy to spot. Sure enough, she and Belle were surrounded by a pack of young men whose only problem in life seemed to be deciding to which cousin they should profess their undying love.
The sight of Emma’s admirers did not improve his disposition.
He moved in a little closer. She looked ravishing, but then he’d expected that. She always looked ravishing to him. Her hair was piled atop her head, with wispy tendrils left to frame her delicate face. Her violet eyes sparkled animatedly in the candlelight. She threw back her head and laughed at some joke, giving Alex an unobstructed view of her long, pale throat, her creamy shoulders, and the barest hint of…Alex frowned. He could definitely see a little more than the barest hint of her breasts. Not that her dress was indecent, of course. Emma had far too much taste to appear vulgar. But if he could see the ample swell of her bosom, damn it, that meant every other man in the ballroom could see it, too.
Alex’s already bad mood deteriorated rapidly.
He pushed his way into the crowd surrounding Emma and Belle. “Hello, Emma,” he said sharply.
“Alex!” she exclaimed, her eyes glowing with unfeigned enthusiasm.
He strode to her without acknowledging her companions. “I believe you saved this dance for me,” he stated, taking her hand and leading her somewhat forcefully to the dance floor.
“Really, Alex, you’ve got to stop being so autocratic,” Emma scolded good-naturedly.
“Ah, a waltz,” Alex commented as the orchestra began to play. “How fortunate.” He swept her into his arms, and they began to twirl slowly around the room.
Emma briefly wondered why Alex was in such a strange mood but quickly dismissed such concerns, preferring to savor the delicious warmth she could find only in his arms. One of his hands rested lightly on her hip, but from the heat of it, Emma felt like she’d been branded. His other hand held her own, and Emma was convinced that a thousand tiny lightning bolts were shooting up her arm, straight to her heart. She closed her eyes and unwittingly made a soft, mewling sound from deep in her throat. She was completely and utterly content.
Alex heard the tiny sound and looked down at Emma. Her face was slightly turned up to his, her eyes were closed—she looked as if she’d just been thoroughly made love to. Alex’s body reacted instantaneously. Every muscle clenched, and he felt himself growing painfully hard. He groaned.
“Did you say something?” Emma’s eyes flew open.
“Nothing I can tell you about in the middle of a crowded ballroom,” Alex muttered, beginning to steer her toward the French doors that led to the Lindworthys’ garden.
“Ooooh, how intriguing.”
“I wish you knew exactly how intriguing,” Alex said under his breath.
“What did you say?” Amid the din of the crowded ballroom, Emma hadn’t been able to understand his words.
“Nothing,” Alex said in a louder voice, but the word came out more sharply than he’d intended.
“Whatever is wrong with you tonight? You’re positively surly.”
Before Alex could reply, the orchestra finished the waltz, and he and Emma bowed and curtsied to each other reflexively. When they were done with the social niceties, Emma repeated her question to him, this time in a more demanding tone. “Alex! What on earth is the matter?”
“Do you really want to know what’s the matter?” Alex said harshly. “Do you?”
Emma nodded weakly, not at all sure that she was taking the wisest course of action.
“For God’s sake, Emma, every man in this room is ogling you,” he ground out, pulling her toward the French doors.
“Really, Alex, you say that to me every night.”
“This time I mean it,” he hissed. “You’re practically falling out of that dress.”
“Alex, you’re making a scene,” Emma shot back. He stopped dragging her but nevertheless continued out into the garden at a more respectable pace. “I don’t see what has you so angry. At least half the women here under the age of thirty are wearing dresses which are far more revealing than mine.”
“I don’t care about those other women, damn it. I won’t have you flaunting your charms for the whole world to see.”
“Flaunting my charms? You make me sound like a loose woman. Don’t insult me,” Emma warned, her voice strained.
“Don’t push me, Emma. You’ve led me a merry chase for damn near two months now, and I’m at my wit’s end.” He pulled her behind a large hedge that shielded them from view of the ballroom.
“Don’t try to blame this on me. You’re the one who is overly sensitive to my dress style!”
Suddenly, Alex reached out and grabbed her upper arms, pulling her close. “Damn it, Emma, you are mine. It’s time you understood that.”