Most Eagerly Yours by Allison Chase

sensual.
    More forbidden.
    As abruptly as they had begun, they came to a halt. Or rather he did, catching her in his arms when she stumbled from lost momentum. His hands slid to her shoulders and he held her at arm’s length.
    “I do see what the problem is. You, Mrs. Sanderson, do not dance as other women do.”
    “Yes, I told you. . . .” Her heart sank at the prospect of having proved his earlier conclusion sadly wrong.
    Laughing, he shook his head. “You are no clod, Mrs. Sanderson. But most men will have a devil of a time keeping up with you because they fail to understand the obvious. Am I mistaken, or do you prefer to lead ?”
    Laurel’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what I am doing? I never realized. . . .”
    His observation made perfect sense. All her life, whenever she had practiced dance steps with her sisters, she had always assumed the lead. She was the eldest.
    “Mystery solved, I suppose.” She laughed ruefully. “I must learn to curb my assertiveness.”
    “Oh, no, Mrs. Sanderson. I fervently beg you not to do that.”
    His hands were on her still, the caress of his fingertips on her upper arms generating wicked little waves of heat. A ghost of a smile played about his sensuous mouth.
    A sudden notion warmed her nearly as much as his fingertips. “ You had no trouble dancing with me. None at all.”
    “We do seem . . . well synchronized.” His hands drifted away, falling to his sides. Yet the continued force of his scrutiny all but made her squirm.
    “What?” she finally asked, bewildered.
    His features smoothed. “You seem rather familiar to me, Mrs. Sanderson. Have we met previously?”
    She drew a breath. Here it was then, the moment that would determine the success or failure of her mission.
    His choice of words struck her. She seemed rather familiar, did she? Just as scores of people might seem rather familiar to a man whose sphere encompassed the most fashionable society in England. To him, hers was one more face in a sea of thousands.
    She should have been thankful, reassured. But it was neither relief nor gratitude that poured its bitter taste down her throat, but rather disappointment and a quelling sense of foolishness.
    All these months of enamored dreams . . . and she had meant nothing to him— nothing . Merely an incident on a crowded street. Their kiss had made no more lasting impression on him than if he’d kissed a . . .
    Refusing to finish the demeaning thought, she arched a brow in her best imitation of Viscountess Devonlea. “No, Lord Barensforth, I cannot think where we might have become acquainted.”
    “And yet you know my name.”
    Her heart gave a thump. “Oh . . . I . . . Yes, of course. Lord Wentworth pointed you out to me earlier. As he pointed out several others of note,” she hastily added.
    “Is that so?” When she nodded, his lips turned up in a pensive smile. “Then this is a circumstance we surely must remedy, Mrs. Sanderson, for I believe I should very much enjoy becoming better acquainted with you.”
    As when they had danced, he seemed to be implying far more than his words suggested. Something sensual and shocking and perhaps a tiny bit dangerous.
    The very sort of thing about which Victoria had warned her.
    The sort of thing about which she had fantasized ever since that summer’s day in Knightsbridge.
     
    Aidan watched the widow’s eyes fill with moonlight and a world of uncertainty. He had shocked himself with his less-than-decent innuendo. Christ, what had he been thinking to blurt his desires like a fledgling fresh out of the schoolroom? He liked to believe he possessed more flair than that when it came to the art of seduction.
    Typically, he did. But just as this woman sent otherwise-competent dance partners stumbling, she somehow had him tripping over his own intentions. And for the life of him he couldn’t fathom why.
    For several moments punctuated by her rapid breathing, he could not decide if she might smile or slap him. He found