The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell(24)
“I thought speculation incapable of affecting you.”
She arched her brow sharply. “Why would you think that, my lord?”
“You rode astride.”
She did not miss the dip in his voice. “You have formed conclusions about me from the way I ride?” she asked, nonplussed.
“Was I wrong? I thought you were not one to bend to conventions.” His voice lowered further still. “Had dared to hope the freedom you seek to indulge in…lay in more than riding without a sidesaddle.”
Her breath strangled. Perhaps she was mistaken, but the wild beat of her heart told her she wasn’t. His eyes had stripped her to the skin, and she couldn’t understand how, from a fleeting encounter, he could have gleaned something so profound about her. It was as if he sensed her weakness, like a wolf saw a lamb.
A glitter shone in his eyes, and she fought the leaden heat surging through her limbs, recognizing it as desire.
He wanted her. Possibly enough to pursue her. But to what end? Suddenly, she was petrified. “My lord, I—”
“Anthony.” His gaze never once wavered from her face.
She swallowed, and persisted. “Really, I—”
“Come now, Phillipa,” he chided, “I want to hear my name on your lips. Are we not friends? Intimates, even?”
She stared at him mutinously, but the teasing that danced in his eyes pulled a reluctant smile from her lips. It wasn’t as if she could deny the shocking extent of his knowledge of her person.
And the miraculous thing was, he didn’t condemn her for it. Didn’t consider it an open invitation to disrespect her, as did Orwell. Lord Anthony seemed to…enjoy…her adventurous nature.
“Very well. Anthony.”
His obvious pleasure at her capitulation warmed her, and she was afraid her protective shields were lowering much too rapidly. Not that they’d stopped him before…
“Now, if we are unable to twirl the garden, what other pleasures may we partake in?” he mused.
“If we are to be friends, my…Anthony, there must never be a repeat of what occurred in the garden the other night.” She hated to speak of her indiscretion but she must be firm.
His brows lifted and a rueful smile edged his lips. “Forthright little thing, aren’t you?”
“I assume honesty is frowned upon amongst your other acquaintances?” She slid him a sidelong glance from under her lashes. She did not wish to be coy, but she thought if she gazed at him openly, her desire for him would be far too evident.
“On the contrary. Honesty is welcomed.” He held out his arm. “A dance, then?”
She did not trust his slow sensual perusal of her. Not knowing how to deal with him, she could only nod. She followed mutely, her heart thumping as he escorted her into the ballroom, her dance card dangling from her glove.
Why had he singled me out? Not tonight, for that was fairly clear. But the very first time, at the Calverts’ ball, where she’d kept herself so carefully cold and closed off, doing her best to stay aloof and unapproachable. She burned to ask, but truthfully, she feared his answer. She had already blundered erroneously with Orwell, and it was a miracle that she was not already bleeding from the vicious claws of Society. Another slip, and she would be finished for certain. And she couldn’t do that to her family. To her father, and her sister, who both needed her to succeed.
Anthony swept her into a waltz, the strong grip of his arms easing her into the beautiful dance. She twirled gracefully, the arousing strains of the violins igniting delight in her. The smile that burst from her lips could not be contained as she hummed to the captivating music.
“You like to dance?”
“I love dancing and music. It is one of those rare times when I feel alive.”
He focused on her face and she lowered her gaze, fighting the urge to converse freely.
“Please do not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You seek to hide behind that high wall you have erected around yourself. Please, for tonight, if only for this dance, I beg that there be honest discourse between us.”
Her hand tightened on his reflexively. It unnerved her that he knew she had erected a barrier. Lord Hoyt had surprised her with his assessment of her at Lady Graham’s ball, but Anthony’s keen perception terrified her. She had only encountered him a few times. He should not be able to see into her so deeply.
Of course…his fingers had already been deep inside her. She shouldn’t really be surprised his understanding could follow.
She hesitated, loath to expose any more of herself. However, if she could trust Elisabeth’s judgment—and she felt she could—he was an honorable man. Her friend had warned her Orwell was untrustworthy even before he had so blatantly revealed his nature to her.