Slightly Dangerous (Bedwyn Saga, #6)

by Mary Balogh

And yet, while all the other young ladies quickly became almost indistinguishable from one another in his mind, it was of Mrs. Derrick that he found himself thinking altogether too much.

that could turn to dazzling beauty when she laughed or was engaged in some strenuous activity.

But there was that sparkle about her, that sense of fun, that bright vitality, that . . . She was sexually appealing.

It did not amuse Wulfric to discover himself drawn to a woman who had none of the attributes he found admirable in women. It positively disturbed him to find himself wondering what it would be like to bed her. He was not in the habit of looking upon ladies—or any woman, for that matter—with lascivious intent.

But he was drawn to Mrs. Derrick. And he did wonder.

But, goodness, she thought—oh, gracious goodness, when he had stood against her and gazed grimly into her eyes while shielding her half-naked form from the goggling eyes of their fellow guests, she had fairly sizzled with awareness

She had been able to smell him. He wore some musky and doubtless expensive cologne. And she had felt his body heat like a raging furnace.

was not rational—it certainly was not admirable—to pant with awareness over a man whom one disliked really quite intensely.

Why was it that other ladies could talk with gentlemen, laugh with them, and dance with them, and be admired for having the correct social accomplishments, while she must always be believed to be flirting?

number of the other gentlemen are clearly smitten with you, as gentlemen always are,

Whenever she looked at him—and annoyingly she could not keep her eyes off him for more than five minutes at a time when they were in the same room—he looked haughty and coldly dignified.

If ever she caught his eye—and it happened altogether too frequently—he lofted one eyebrow or both and grasped the handle of his quizzing glass as if he were about to verify the amazing fact that such a lowly mortal really had dared lift her eyes to his.

She really was terribly attracted to him, she was forced to admit to herself on occasion. She felt a dreadful curiosity to know what it would be like to go to bed with him. The very thought filled her with horror. But in parts of her person over which thought held no sway—the lower portion of her insides, for example—there were unmistakable stirrings of unbridled lust.

He was not amused. He resisted by adopting a frostier than usual manner

For a few foolish days at the end of the session and the Season he had allowed himself to feel a touch of loneliness and self-pity, and this was the consequence. He would not let it happen again.

She might have an unfortunate tendency not to know how to behave on occasion, but at least she was not silly, and she did not simper or flirt.

It was inexplicably fetching.

Now she regarded him with that look that always intrigued him as much as it occasionally annoyed him.

Christine Derrick undoubtedly—and quite inexplicably—stirred his blood.

and won for himself a glimpse of her face when she turned her head to smile rather impishly at him.

She was laughing at him again. Nobody ever laughed at him. He found himself curiously intrigued that she would dare.

She chuckled, a low, attractive sound.

But there was that energy about her he had noticed from the start, that vitality. There was a sense of light and joy about her. Certainly she appeared to light up from the inside when she was animated—and she frequently was. It appeared that she loved people—and most people returned the compliment.

He could not imagine finding a maze amusing, but he did not want to turn back yet. He wanted to spend a little more time in the aura of her light and vitality and laughter. He wanted to spend more time with her.

He stared blankly at the hedge for a moment. He was expected to frolic through a maze? And he was going to do it? But he did not have much choice, did he, short of leaving her stranded in the center, counting slowly to three thousand or so.

He never played games like this. Eight . . . nine . . . He never played any sort of game.

Around another corner he did see her, but with a light laugh she whisked herself out of sight, and by the time he reached the gap through which she had disappeared, it was impossible to know which way she had gone.

as if the world had been left behind and nothing existed but trees and grass and butterflies and sky—and the woman he pursued.

He possessed himself of one of her hands and held it between them with both his own. It was warm and smooth-skinned. “I will simply concede defeat, then,” he said, and raised it to his lips.

His heart for some reason was pounding hard enough in his chest to make him feel slightly dizzy.

He held it to his lips far longer than was necessary. But would even a single second hav...

She smelled of sunshine and woman again.

He held her hand between them and felt as if some core of ice that had always held his emotions safely imprisoned was dripping warm melted water into his veins.

Her eyes, huge and blue as the summer sky, gazed into his, so open and so deep that he might well lose himself in them, he thought.

If ever he had thought that she was not the most incredibly beautiful woman he had ever set eyes upon, then he must surely be blind in both eyes.

There had been quite open sexual awareness—and hunger—in her embrace.

She must know that he was not a man to dally lightly with any woman, no matter what her station in life.

Yet each one sells her body for money. I will not sell mine, your grace, though I thank you for your kind offer. I am honored.”

She had stirred his blood, and he had felt as if a vast, long winter were approaching the thaw of spring.

It was quite unlike him to speak so impulsively without first thinking through all the implications of any new idea.

Besides, she was someone of whom he disapproved, was she not?

Wulfric sat very still, staring ahead at the hedge and concentrating upon tucking his emotions neatly back inside that safe ice core.

What did she expect? That he would chase her down and beat her into submission with his quizzing glass?

She was only sorry that in many ways it was a one-sided friendship. He rarely if ever confided in her or shared a great deal of himself with her.

For a few seconds—or minutes or hours—she had felt a surging of passion more powerful than anything she had ever felt before.

Some people might think her a flirt. It was very obvious to Wulfric, however, that she was not. She had a genuinely magnetic appeal. And she genuinely liked people.

However, if her guess was correct, it would be harder to draw him into any uncontrolled, unseemly display of emotion than it would to lure him into matrimony. And that was because there was no emotion, no passion in the man.

She quelled the memory of a certain embrace in the maze two days previous. That had not been passion—that had been lust.

Because he was not a knight in shining armor. He was a cold, disagreeable, haughty aristocrat.

She thought for one startled moment that he was going to kiss her again. Perhaps he thought so too. Certainly his eyes dipped to her mouth and his nostrils flared.