Seven Wicked Nights Read Free Page A

were gray and luminous. She was smiling at him, but there was a knife-edge to her expression. “Indeed,” she said, her tone solemn. “I can’t recall the last time I saw a gentleman wearing
brown
gloves.”
    A little bit of an insult in return. Good for her; he deserved it.
    “All my gloves are brown,” he confessed. “It’s a habit remaining from my mountaineering days. If your clothing is too dark, it absorbs too much sun and you become overheated. If it’s too light, the dirt shows. I long ago abandoned fashion in favor of function.”
    She raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
    “It’s the truth,” he said. “Would you believe I still have my waistcoat pockets lined with mackintosh?”
    “I hardly know what to think,” she said. “I cannot envision you as anything except an outright
leader
of fashion. You were always quite the dandy.” She spoke lightly, but he could almost hear the accusation underlying her words. He
had
been a useless fribble.
    His hand tightened about her waist. “People change.”
He
had changed. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”
    Her hands tensed against him, and her face went as still as a deer sighted in the forest. But she didn’t flee. Instead, that smile of hers broadened.
    “How ungallant,” she replied. “You
did
ask me to dance. And here you represent yourself as a gentleman.”
    “You misunderstand,” he said. “I do not wish you out of my presence. I wish I had not made it necessary to say what I must. I am sorry.”
    She had never flinched at any of his insults. But at his apology, she jumped.
    “I am sorry,” he repeated. “You cannot know how dreadfully sorry I am.”
    “Whatever for?” Her face was so guileless that for one instant he believed she might forgive him. But then her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about
that
,” she said. “It’s quite easy to misstep in the waltz. You must keep time carefully—
one
two three,
one
two three—”
    She was addressing his button once again. He hadn’t misstepped, the little baggage. Somehow, over the years, she’d developed the talent of delivering the most splendid snubs in that breathy tone of voice. She hid her claws behind that innocent demeanor. But, by God, she was insulting him.
    And, by God, he
liked
it. He liked that the fire and zest he’d seen in her that first Season had not completely faded. He glanced down and his gaze fixed on the creamy skin of her throat. For just one second, he contemplated leaning down and setting his lips right
there
, on her shoulder. He wondered, not so idly, what she would taste like.
    She was probably counting the minutes until the waltz ended.
    He shook his head. “You know what I’m referring to. My conduct all those years ago was inexcusable. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, because I don’t see how I could merit it. But I must let you know I regret it.”
    She fixed her eyes on him. “You know, Westfeld,” she said, in that same breezy tone that she always employed, “I have no notion what you could
possibly
be apologizing for.” Her eyes cut away. “In point of fact, I scarcely recall you at all.”
    Ouch.
    A hint of color touched her cheeks. “If you are perhaps referring to the last time we danced—”
    Oh, hell
. He didn’t want to think of that.
    “—I assure you, I thought nothing of your inebriation. My father, Lord Stockhurst, says only a very weak fellow drinks to excess, and I am not so unkind as to hold your incapacity against you.”
    He hadn’t been
drunk
, damn it. He’d been rude and boorish. And the venom in her words—coupled with that sweet, placid smile—answered his question. No, she wouldn’t forgive him. He could have guessed that from the start. As languorous as the waltz could be, she did not relax against him. The muscles of her back were tense and stiff against his hand. She was wary, as if she expected that at any moment he might savage her.
    She had every reason to think ill of him. Yet,