The crowd only got denser. Lady Hendricks called and waved-Alathea had to stop, smile, touch fingers. Then she was on her way again, breathlessly dodging, weaving, desperately seeking an easier path through the crush-
Hard fingers locked around her elbow.
She froze. In the instant her panicked wits reengaged, he bent his head and murmured, "Don't bother."
His lips brushed her ear. Suppressing a shiver, she stiffened. He stood at her right shoulder, her elbow in a viselike grip; even without his warning, she knew that grip would be unbreakable. And he was furious. Past furious. The anger pouring from him scorched her. What had given her away?
"This way."
He'd been looking over the sea of heads; now he steered her toward one side of the room. She forced her feet to move. She could not cause a scene, not here. In his present mood he was capable of anything, even picking her up, tossing her over his shoulder, and stalking off with her. His temper once aroused was a force to contend with; challenging it now would be foolhardy. As they moved toward one wall, she struggled to marshal her wits, her arguments, her denials, bracing herself for what was to come.
She didn't see the door until they stood before it; he opened it and marched her into an unlit and thankfully uninhabited gallery. He didn't stop until they were at the end where a long window, curtains wide, poured moonlight into the narrow room.
Placing her directly in the silver beam, he swung to face her.
His gaze raked her face, devoured her features as if he'd never seen them before. His face was chiseled, harder than stone, every edge sharp. Lips compressed, his jaw set, his heavy lids too low for her to see his eyes, he studied her. His gaze lingered on her jaw, then he lifted his lids and looked into her eyes. For a long moment, he held her gaze, hazel to hazel. Tense beyond bearing, her nerves stretched tight, she wondered what he could see.
"It was you."
Although laced with wonder, his tone brooked no argument. She raised her brows. "What on earth are you on about?"
His brows rose but his expression didn't waver. "Denial? Surely you can do better than that?"
"I dare say if I knew what misbegotten notion you've taken into your fevered brain I could more specifically address it, but as I don't, denial seems the safest option." She looked away, too afraid that if she continued to meet his eyes she would see his knowledge of her-his physical knowledge of her-blazoned in the hazel. Then she'd remember, too, and vulnerability would sweep her-and he'd pounce.
The touch of long fingers curving about her face nearly brought her to her knees. His grip firmed; deliberately, he turned her head until her eyes met his again.
"Oh, you know-there's no point denying it." His words were clipped; fury raged beneath them. He hesitated, then added, "Your perfume gave you away."
Her perfume? The tweeny. Tidying. Emptying her jewelry box onto the table. Then putting everything back in. Two identical flacons, one in, one out.
Her expression had blanked; her lips started to form an "Oh." Alathea caught herself and glared. "What about my perfume?"
He smiled, not with amusement. "Too late."
"Nonsense!" She lifted her chin from his fingers. "It's simply a particular blend-I dare say many ladies use it."
"Perhaps, but none so tall. So… accomplished."
When she merely raised a weary brow, he supplied, "So capable of picking locks."
Alathea frowned. "Am I to understand that you're searching for some woman-a tall woman-who wears the same perfume as I and can pick locks?"
"No-you're to understand that I've found her."
His ringing certainty had her looking up-he trapped her gaze. His eyes narrowed, then his gaze dropped to her lips. Insidious, mesmeric attraction flared between them…
He stepped closer. Alathea's breath caught in her throat. Eyes widening, her gaze fixed on his hard face, she quivered-
The door from the ballroom opened; other guests ambled in.
Gabriel glanced around.
Alathea sucked in a breath. "You're completely and absolutely mistaken."
His head snapped back, but she'd already stepped around him. She swept past the other guests with a regal nod. Head high, in a glide just short of a run, she escaped back into the ballroom.
Chapter 13
A waltz was just starting. Alathea's mad dash nearly sent her into the dancers. She teetered on the edge of the dance floor-
A hard arm collected her, sliding about her waist, swinging her forward, then expertly steadying her. She swallowed a shriek, then fought to catch her breath-and her balance, and her scattered wits, only to lose all three as Gabriel locked his arm around her, trapping her from breast to thigh against him. One hand held fast, he whirled her down the room.
Her body instantly came alive. Her breasts swelled. She fought to hold herself stiffly, but her body molded to his, thighs brushing evocatively at every turn. Their hips swayed together; memories churned.
Within seconds, she'd softened. She refused to meet his eyes, too busy struggling to master her whirling wits, to gather her resolution, to find some way forward. Her composure was all she had left; desperately, she clung to it.
He was holding her very close. As her head continued to whirl, as her body continued to heat with every revolution, she fixed her gaze over his shoulder, and hissed, "You're holding me too close."
Gabriel looked at her face, so achingly familiar yet… had he ever truly seen it before? His temper was up and running, his emotions rioting; he had no idea what he thought or felt. He could barely believe the truth in his arms. His hold on his impulses was tenuous as he let his gaze roam the long slender lines of her throat, the creamy expanse of skin above her neckline, over the rounded swells, now firm, hot and tight, pressed against his chest. "I've held you closer, if you recall."
The gravelly rasp of his words affected them both; she shot him a shocked, breathless, scandalized glance, then looked away.
She said nothing more; her feet followed his, her body flowing with his, fitting so neatly, so totally attuned they could both have waltzed for hours without thought. Gabriel grabbed the moments to bring some order to the chaos in his brain. He frowned as he noticed the difference in her height, then recalled the high heels he'd dropped to the carriage floor three nights before.
Glancing down as they whirled through the next turn, he confirmed his guess. "You never normally wear heels."
Her breasts swelled as she drew in a tight breath. "What are you talking about? You're making less sense than poor Skiffy Skeffington!"
His hold on his temper snapped. "Indeed? In that case, I suppose there's no point in asking how long you'd thought to carry on your charade, or in inquiring as to its purpose. You can understand, however, that that last exercises me greatly." He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice sharpened steel. He let his gaze rake her face; he saw only red. "Did you think to trap me into marriage? Is that what this is about? Surely not-" He tightened his hold as she tried to free her hand until he knew he was crushing her fingers. "You know I'd make your life a living hell, so why? Was it the challenge?" Already stiff, she went rigid. He glanced at her set face. "That sounds nearer the mark."
He looked up as they circled, then laughed mirthlessly.
"God, when I think of it!-Lincoln's Inn Fields, Bond Street, Bruton Street." He paused, then demanded, "Tell me, in Bruton Street, did you flee into the modiste's because you couldn't contain your laughter?"
She reacted-her hand, crushed in his, jerked, the fine tendons in her neck tensed-but she kept her gaze fixed over his shoulder and her lips pressed stubbornly tight.