Shana Galen by When Dashing Met Danger

gowns other ladies of the ton flaunted. This was Lucia, not some other woman.
    He liked that the dress, Grecian in style, was simple and unadorned. But it also bared the swell of her lovely white breasts to every male eye present, and the thin, shimmery white silk pooled around her in an erotic swirl as she executed the movements of the dance.
    He didn’t know what the other men in the room were thinking, but he had the urge to strip the silk off her, to see for himself if that waist really was as small as he imagined, if those hips flared as he thought they would.
    He reached up and loosened his cravat. Bloody hell. The room was stifling him.
    “Damn,” he swore again, and Miss Seaton’s color went from wan to ashen. “Don’t faint,” he ordered the chit. She nodded, wobbling for a moment before seeming to regain her balance.
    Alex let out an impatient sigh and turned his attention back to Lucia.
    He had to conquer this attraction. He had no hope of ever touching her. He knew this with unequivocal certainty. So why was that insistent thorn in the back of his mind prodding him to question it? Why was that same thorn pricking him to acknowledge that nothing was impossible, that her reaction to him was sensual, that she wanted him, too?
    He finished the last figure of the dance, bowed to Miss Seaton, and promenaded her—rather, held her upright—the appropriate distance around the room. All around him swarmed ladies and gentlemen of the ton ’s lower rungs. He scowled at several of the less savory gentlemen. Lucia shouldn’t even be here. She belonged among the refinement of the duke’s ball.
    Finally free of the skittish miss, he grabbed a glass of claret—couldn’t expect any gin in a place like this—downed it, and stepped onto the freedom of the terrace. The air was fresh and invigorating compared to the strangling heat of the milling crowds in the ballroom. Gripping the cold stone banister, he peered over the dark gardens. It was a starless night, as most in the city were, and the light from the brassy ballroom spilled onto the terrace, blending with the weak glow from several cheap, colorful Chinese lanterns. Taking a deep breath of the brisk air, Alex ran his hands roughly through his hair. He was just managing to sort his thoughts when he felt a warm hand caress his back.
    Lucia.
    He spun around, only to be faced with another lady altogether.
    “Well, I can see I’m not who you’d hoped for,” she said, her voice low and breathy. “But I trust I’m an acceptable substitute.”
    Alex scoured his brain for her name. Behind her, the open French doors of the ballroom cast her in stark light. She was plump, curvaceous, her hair an unnatural shade of blond. Her lips were full and pouty, and she wore rouge to enhance her features. Cheap. Easy. She was exactly what he needed right now.
    Then why was his lip threatening to curl with distaste?
    “I certainly hope you haven’t forgotten me because I haven’t forgotten you, Alex.” She purred his name, hands crawling to rest on his chest.
    “Amelia.” Like a bad habit, the name tumbled effortlessly from his lips.
    She huffed. “I must say, your manner used to be somewhat warmer .” She licked her lips.
    “My mind was on something else.”
    “Or someone else.” She pouted. “I saw the way you were looking at the Dashing chit tonight. You used to look at me that way, and I can assure you, you’ll get better results from me.” Her gloved hand snaked across his chest, inching downward toward the flat of his stomach. Her other hand toyed with the hair touching his collar, twirling it about her plump fingers.
    Thoughts flooded his brain. She’d been his lover several years before. They got on well, but he’d broken it off after only a few encounters because—well—because that was what he did with women like Amelia. He’d had his share of mistresses, but he tired of them quickly and ended the affairs before the women came to expect too much.
    Amelia