"No need to apologize. Pirates are more renowned for their sea legs than their dance legs."
In truth, she'd been relieved to skip the dance. Despite her determination to move on with her life, she hadn't yet ventured onto a dance floor since Edward's death, and she feared the first time she did so might prove emotionally draining. But she was enjoying Mr. Jennsen's company, as she had at Matthew's house party where she first met him. He was unpretentious, outspoken, and sprang from humble beginnings, as did she.
The first strains of a waltz lifted over the crowd, and Carolyn craned her neck, despairing of ever locating her sister, Emily, or Julianne in the crush.
"You mentioned seeing my sister," she said. "Where was she?"
"I saw her outside, before I entered the house. A carriage bearing the Langston crest arrived just ahead of mine. If not for that, I wouldn't have recognized her, either." He smiled. "Although, the fact that Juliet wore spectacles over her mask was a rather broad clue."
Carolyn laughed. "I suppose so." Given his imposing height, she was about to ask Mr. Jennsen if he might be able to see a costumed Juliet, Ophelia, or an angel when a deep, masculine voice behind her said, "Good evening, my lady."
Although only four words had been spoken, the way her heart tripped over itself and a warm tingle skittered down her spine made her suspect they'd been said by Lord Surbrooke. She'd wondered if they would encounter each other this evening. Indeed, while searching the crowd for her sister and friends, she found herself examining the gentlemen as well, wondering which mask he might be hiding behind.
She turned, and realized that even if she hadn't known his voice, she would have known his eyes. Through a black mask that covered the entire upper half of his face, they gazed at her with the same heated intensity that stole the air from her lungs every time he looked at her. She'd have known his mouth as well. Not only because it was perfectly formed, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the upper, but because of how one corner tilted upward, skewing all that perfection with a hint of lopsidedness that shouldn't have been attractive but was. Annoyingly so.
Her gaze skimmed over his all black highwayman costume. He looked tall and dark and dangerous-as if prepared to abscond with whatever might take his fancy and the consequences be damned. A thrill she couldn't name raced through her.
"Rather than good evening, shouldn't you say, 'Stand and deliver'?" she retorted, proud that she sounded so calm when she suddenly felt anything but.
He made her a formal bow. "Of course. Although by 'Stand and deliver' I actually mean 'May I have this dance?'"
Carolyn hesitated, surprised at how much she wanted to accept his invitation. If this had been any occasion other than a masquerade, she most likely would have refused. She was well aware of Lord Surbrooke's reputation, and had no desire to say or do anything that might lead him to believe she would consider being his next conquest.
Of course, it was quite possible he didn't know who she was. Hadn't Mr. Jennsen stated he never would have recognized her? She gazed into Lord Surbrooke's eyes and detected only heat-not recognition. Surely a man with as many past mistresses as he was purported to have had looked at most women in such a manner. Most likely he was just attracted to her costume. Even more likely, she was the tenth woman he'd gazed upon so warmly and asked to dance this evening.
Still, the idea that they were completely anonymous ignited a strange thrill inside her. If she accepted his invitation for her first dance in the arms of a man who wasn't Edward, she could hide behind her mask.
Before she could reply, a large, warm hand cupped her elbow. "Do you wish to dance with him, or would you prefer he go away?" Mr. Jennsen asked in a low voice close to her ear.
"I appreciate your concern, but I am well acquainted with him and believe I'll accept his invitation," she replied in an undertone. Then her lips twitched as she saw someone approaching. "Prepare yourself, Mr. Pirate. A damsel in distress is sailing toward your port side with a very interested gleam in her eye."
"Indeed? My favorite sort of wench. Do you know who she is?"
As the woman wore the slimmest of masks, Carolyn found her identity easy to discern. "Lady Crawford," she replied to Mr. Jennsen. "She is a widow and very beautiful."
"I'll leave you to your evening then, my lady." He made her a formal bow, nodded to the highwayman, then turned toward the costumed damsel.
Carolyn faced Lord Surbrooke. He was frowning at Mr. Jennsen's back, but quickly shifted his attention to her. Then he extended his elbow. "Shall we?"
She paused, assailed by doubt now that the moment was upon her. Torn between a sudden, nearly overwhelming need to run from the room, to return to the safety and security of her quiet existence, ensconced in her memories, and the equally strong desire to step from the shadows. It's time to move on with your life, her inner voice whispered. You need to move on.
"I don't bite," came the highwayman's amused voice. "At least not very often."
Her gaze settled on his lopsided grin, and for several seconds her lungs ceased to function. She shook herself from her brown study and smiled in return. "You merely pilfer and purloin."
"Only when the occasion calls for it. Tonight the occasion calls for waltzing… I hope." He lifted her hand and brushed his lips against the backs of her gloved fingers. "With the most beautiful woman in the room."
A heated tingle raced up Carolyn's arm, a reaction that simultaneously alarmed, annoyed, and intrigued her. It was ridiculous to feel flattered by the words of such a practiced rogue, yet a tiny, feminine part of her couldn't help but bask in the compliment. Drawing courage from both his open admiration and her anonymity, she inclined her head toward the swirling couples. "The waltz awaits us."
Once her feet touched the dance floor, she barely had time to draw a breath before she found herself drawn into strong arms and swept into the circling tide of dancers. She stumbled slightly, whether from the dance steps she hadn't attempted in so long or the shockingly unfamiliar sensation of being held in a man's arms again, she wasn't certain. But the highwayman held her securely and she regained her footing.
"Don't worry," he said softly, his warm breath brushing by her ear, shooting a pleasurable shiver down her spine. "I won't let you fall."
And with those words he swept her along, turning and spinning. The other dancers, the rest of the room, dissolved into a swirling blur of color that rotated around them. The only thing that remained clear was his masked face. His eyes, intent on hers. She felt utterly surrounded by him. And utterly exhilarated.
His long, strong fingers wrapped around hers, their warmth heating her even through the layers of both their gloves. His other hand, while resting in the exact correct position in the precise proper spot on her lower back, seemed to brand her skin. A breathless sensation seized her, and helpless to do otherwise, she simply allowed herself to be carried away. How could she have forgotten how much she loved dancing?
He led her expertly, effortlessly, and it seemed as if she were floating in the circle of his strong arms, her feet hovering several inches above the floor. A soaring, weightless, almost magical feeling raced through her and a breathless laugh escaped her. Conversation, laughter, and the music buzzed around them, but all of that faded into nothingness. All except him. The way his gaze never left hers. The movement of his muscled shoulder beneath her palm. The brush of his leg against her gown. How his slightly splayed fingers slowly stroked her spine as his palm pressed her just a tiny bit closer with every turn.