Lucifer, scanning the crowd, humphed again. "Well, if you refuse to watch, then I may as well put my time to better use." One black brow arching, he glanced at Gabriel, then, with an elegant nod to Alathea, he shouldered his way into the crowd.
If anything, the crush had worsened. Alathea felt Gabriel's fingers close about hers, then her hand was on his sleeve as he steered her out of the ebb and flow before the doors. The tack he took was in the opposite direction to where they'd left her cavaliers.
"Can you see Mary and Alice?" Why she felt so breathless she couldn't understand.
"No." His lips were close to her ear, his breath a warm caress. "But, like the twins, they'll manage."
So would she, she vowed, as he found them a few square feet of space in which to stand comfortably. Although they were surrounded, they might as well have been alone for all the notice their neighbors took, too caught up in their own conversations.
"Now tell me, what did you mean about being twelve years old?" Gabriel trapped her gaze as she glanced up at him. "In case it's escaped your notice, neither you nor I are."
The meaning in his eyes was quite different from the subject of their discussion. Alathea reined in her skittering wits. "I wasn't referring to us."
"Good."
The subtle easing of his lips did quite peculiar things to her nerves. She dragged in a breath. "I meant-"
"My dear Lady Alathea."
Alathea turned to see the earl of Chillingworth emerging from the crowd. He swept her a necessarily abbreviated bow. "Such solace to discover a divine delight in this unholy crush." He sent a measuring glance Gabriel's way. "So nice to know one's evening won't be a complete waste of time."
Gabriel didn't respond.
Ignoring the burgeoning menace at her elbow, Alathea smiled and gave Chillingworth her hand. "I believe the musicians her ladyship has hired are quite exceptional."
"If only one could hear them," Chillingworth replied. "Are your sisters enjoying their Season?"
"Indeed. Our ball will be held next week-dare we hope you'll attend?"
"No other hostess," Chillingworth avowed, "will have any hope of enticing me elsewhere." His gray gaze roved Alathea's face, then settled on her eyes. "Tell me, have you seen the latest production at the Opera House?"
"Why, no. I had heard-" Alathea broke off as the sea of guests suddenly wavered, then parted. As the clamor of voices dimmed, the opening strains of a waltz filtered through.
"Ah." Chillingworth turned to her. "I wonder, my dear, if you would do me the honor-"
"I'm afraid, dear boy, that this waltz is mine."
Gabriel's languid drawl did nothing to conceal the steel beneath his words. Chillingworth looked up; over Alathea's head, gray eyes clashed with hazel. Turning, Alathea stared at Gabriel's face, noting the hard edge fell determination lent his features. Relinquishing Chillingworth's gaze, he met hers. "Shall we?"
He gestured to the rapidly clearing dance floor, then his arm shifted beneath her fingers and his hand closed about hers. His gaze flicked to Chillingworth. "His lordship will excuse us."
Giddy, slightly stunned by what she'd glimpsed in his hooded eyes, Alathea smiled apologetically at Chillingworth. The earl bowed easily. Without more ado, Gabriel led her forward. A second later she was in his arms, whirling down the floor.
It took a full circuit before she caught her breath. He was holding her too close again, but she wasn't going to waste what breath she had protesting that point. "I don't suppose there's any sense in pointing out that this waltz wasn't, in fact, yours to claim."
He met her gaze. "Not the slightest."
The look in his eyes stole her breath. She mustered her wilting temper for protection. "Indeed? So whenever you feel like waltzing, I'm to expect-"
"You misunderstand. Henceforth, all your waltzes are mine."
"All?"
"Every last one." He expertly twirled her around the end of the room; as they joined the long line going back up the ballroom, he continued, "You may dance any other dance with whomever you please, but you'll waltz only with me."
All inclination to argue, to protest, evaporated. Don't tempt me. He'd warned her once-the words were again in his eyes. They rang in her head. When she finally managed to draw in another breath, Alathea looked over his shoulder and tried to gather her wits and focus on his motives.
Only to fall victim to her senses, to the seductive shift and sway of their bodies, their long limbs twining, sliding, separating, then coming together again. He waltzed as he did all physical things-effortlessly, expertly, with an inherent grace that only emphasized the leashed power behind every move. He held her easily, his strength palpable, surrounding her, guiding her, protecting her.
She'd waltzed with others but none with his matchless authority, founded as it was in his knowledge, physical and sensual, of her. He knew she couldn't resist, that while in his arms she was helpless. That her heart beat unevenly, that her skin heated, that she would go wherever he led. He had her trapped in a web, one she had helped fashion, of passion, of yearning, of desire slaked by sensual reward. She was his and he knew it. What he meant to do with the knowledge, with her, remained an unsettling unknown.
The music ended and they slowed, then halted. She studied his face, the hard planes unyielding, uninformative, and inwardly sighed. "I should find Serena."
Releasing her, he placed her hand on his sleeve, and protectively steered her through the crowd.
The following evening, Alathea left her bedchamber once again in a tearing rush. Heading for her office, she flung the door wide and dashed for her desk. Sitting, she pulled a sheet of paper free, settling it on the blotter as she flicked open the inkwell.
"You wanted me, m'lady?"
"Yes, Folwell." Alathea didn't look up. Dipping a pen in the ink, she industriously scribbled. "I want you to deliver this note to Brook Street."
"To Mr. Cynster, m'lady?"
"Yes."
"Now, m'lady?"
"As soon as you get back from driving us to Almacks."
A minute passed, the only sound in the room the scritch-scratch of the pen. Then Alathea blotted her missive, folded it, and scrawled Gabriel's name on the front. She dropped the pen and stood. Waving the note, she crossed the room to Folwell. "There won't be an answer."
Folwell slipped the note into his coat pocket. "I'll drop it off on the way back from King Street."
Alathea nodded. Lips compressed, she strode for the front hall where Serena, Mary, and Alice were waiting.
A minute later, she was in the carriage, rolling across the cobbles to the holy portals of the patronesses' dreary rooms. Almacks! She hadn't liked the place the first time she'd seen it, when she'd been a gawky eighteen. She sincerely doubted she'd enjoy her evening, but… her sweetly loving stepmother had turned stubborn.
She'd expected to remain home that evening and arrange some discreet rendezvous to discuss her urgent news with Gabriel. Instead, over dinner, Serena had announced that Emily Cowper had made special mention of hoping to see her that evening, having missed her in the park that afternoon. That afternoon, when she'd been off on an excursion to see just how much a twelve-year-old could pry from the otherwise impregnable Port Authority.
Jeremy's success had left her giddy. She desperately wanted to see Gabriel. She'd marshaled all her arguments against Almacks and spent the half hour after dinner laying them out, but Serena had stood firm. That happened so rarely, she'd been forced to acquiesce, which had left her little time to dress. Thankfully, Nellie was fully recovered; despite the rush, her hair was elegantly coiffed, her gloves, reticule, and shawl the correct accessories for her gown of pale green silk.