Mischief by Moonlight by Emily Greenwood Page B

her.
    She downed the rest of the ratafia in her glass. It was an especially potent batch, he’d noticed when he’d taken some earlier, and he was surprised she was drinking it.
    One of the little curls that framed her face had gotten caught in the edge of her thick lashes and he longed to brush it away. She was so beautiful tonight that every time he’d looked at her his heart had skipped a beat, and standing there with her was making him feel as though he’d just run a race. Never mind that her pretty white gown exposed more of the gently curved rise of her petite, perfect breasts than he’d ever seen before. All night, he’d forced himself not to look, though it hardly helped.
    Ever since he’d come near her in Maria’s foyer, he’d been in a constant state of arousal. The proximity of the carriage ride had been hell, and as he’d sat with his knees only a few inches from hers in their insubstantial white fabric, he’d forced himself to list every king of England in order in a futile attempt to take the edge off his lust.
    In the ballroom only a few courting couples lingered across the parquet floor, along with the musicians, who’d put their instruments aside while they mopped their brows and drank lemonade. He and Josie were as good as alone behind the wide column with the draping plant fronds to either side of them, which suddenly seemed like a good thing when he saw, to his astonishment, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes.
    â€œJosie?” he said, unable now to maintain the coolness. “What is it? You don’t truly wish to dance, surely?”
    She drew in a heavy breath and pressed the backs of her hands to the edges of her eyes. “I hate tears,” she said angrily and turned away from him and moved out to the balcony.
    He followed her. “Josie?” he said again. She’d stopped in a circle of light from one of the pair of torches lighting the balcony. Her hands were resting on the stone balustrade, and she seemed to be staring at the tops of the trees, whose lower portions glowed in the light of the torches on the ground.
    â€œIt’s not the dancing with you,” she said, her voice still husky. “It’s the dancing with all the gentlemen. I am a terrible person.”
    â€œYou are a terrible person because you’ve been dancing?” He laughed, relieved. “Josie, it’s London. Everyone—married or engaged or single, ancient or young—dances and flirts. It’s the done thing. You must know that.”
    She finally turned around, and he was cravenly relieved to see that the tears were gone. “I do know that,” she said. “But I didn’t expect to like it so much.”
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with having a good time. It’s why you came.”
    â€œNo, I came to be a support to Edwina. I’m engaged to Nicholas—I don’t need to be dancing with other men. I don’t need to be—I don’t need to be—admiring them!”
    He wished his first gut response weren’t jealousy. But he knew it was only a reflex, and he forced himself to assume the measured air of the friend she so clearly needed. Though what she actually seemed to want was a confessor, he thought with a repressed groan. Of course it would have to be him.
    â€œSo you find yourself admiring the London gentlemen.”
    â€œYes,” she said miserably, her gaze dropping to the stone floor. “I am ashamed. An engaged woman. I don’t deserve Nicholas.”
    In the garden below them, an unseen woman’s voice rang out in a flirtatious trill, followed by the sound of masculine laughter.
    Colin suddenly wished he hadn’t made it possible for Josie to come to London, with its shallowness and fast living, as if the city and its people would crush all that was fine in her. But it was wrong of him; Josie didn’t need sheltering from life, and London had charms she