Yet he felt so awkward with her now, so damnably like a callow youth instead of her husband. Her lover. The man who had introduced her to the passionate side of her nature—and who had watched her blossom into an alluring woman he had not been able to forget even when he had tried.
Guiding her in a sweep of satin skirts across the ballroom floor, his hand shifted lower, palm testing the contours of the stiff corset binding her beneath the silk. He preferred the softness of her bare flesh beneath his hand, her smooth, flawless skin a welcoming cushion instead of layers of cloth and bone. Why must fashion dictate women hide their bodies behind rigid whalebone and yards of satin?
“What are you thinking about, Steve?” Her elegant head was tilted, her eyes curious as she gazed up at him, and he gave a careless shrug, his tone light.
“I noticed that the Prince of Wales could not take his eyes off you earlier. Is he another of your conquests?”
“Could he be? Oh, don’t look so black at me, Steve. I’m only teasing you. The prince is a terrible flirt, but he talked mostly about his tour to America and Canada. It is so difficult to understand his thick German accent at times.”
Not replying, he swung her about and through the open French doors onto a narrow veranda. Strains of the waltz were softer here, and his hand shifted on her back to slide down to the shelf of bunched skirts caught up with bows and lace in the ridiculous fashion called a bustle.
“Steve…?” There was a question in her eyes and tone, the pressure of her hand light on his arm as she looked up at him through her lashes.
“It’s more quiet out here.” A poor excuse. He just couldn’t stand the crowds anymore, the smell of too much perfume, the ennui and desperation that was so evident in the high voices and nervous laughter. It always made him impatient, made him want to ride out where the air was fresh and there were no staring, avid gazes. The impulse to leave the ball was nearly overpowering.
Moonlight filtered through lacy tree branches, pouring molten silver onto the veranda just off the ballroom, and the soft air was spiced with the fragrance of night-blooming flowers. A huge urn at one side dripped soft white blossoms that reminded him of moonflowers, a tropical vine in Mexico that exuded sweet scent and exotic blooms, round and lucent—pale as the moon, as beautifully intense as Mexico.
“You’re ready to leave here now, aren’t you, Steve?”
He looked down at Ginny, saw the frown gather in her eyes and on her brow. She was far too perceptive at times. He put out a hand, his finger brushing over the gleaming jewels around her neck, vivid against the creamy expanse of her skin. Once her pale skin had been a lovely peachy color, a vibrant tan acquired from days of riding in the hot Mexican sun. His hand fell away and his tone was abrupt.
“You should know something, Ginny.”
She tensed beneath his hand, eyes suddenly dark and wide.
“Oh God! You’re not going to tell me bad news tonight, Steve, when the music is so gay and the champagne chilled. I am having too good a time and I refuse to allow it.”
Despite her flippant words, there was a note of genuine distress in her tone. For all her bravado, Ginny was far too fragile lately. The resilient woman he’d known—had battled across half of Mexico at times—had changed since she’d come back to England for her children. Since they had agreed to reconcile. But hadn’t he changed, too?
He forced a smile, dragged his fingertip across the lushly glowing necklace around her throat, up to the heavy earrings dangling from her lobes.
“Ah, hell, sweetheart, you know I just want to tell you how the moonlight makes your eyes glow like stars….”
“Liar.” A soft laugh vibrated in the air between them, and she wore a resigned expression on her lovely face. “I know you better than that. You once told me not to expect pretty words in the moonlight from you.”
“And I haven’t disappointed you.”
“No, there have been few pretty words from you, that’s true.” She moved to lean against the stone wall, a graceful drape of her body that reminded him of the Alma-Tadema painting. In the pale light, her eyes looked huge, darkly mysterious, bewitching. “You hate it here, don’t you, Steve? Don’t bother denying it. I can see how restless you are, can feel it in the way you hold me. Is it here or is it us?”
“London can be stifling at times.”
It was the truth—and a lie. The city bound him, tied him down, but the restlessness came from being forced into a role he didn’t relish playing.
“I see.” Ginny faced him quietly. “I think there’s more to it than that. Is there something you don’t want to tell me, something to do with us?”
“Not tonight.” He bent, took her chin in his palm and kissed her swiftly, more to silence the questions than to serve a need, but that swiftly altered when she caught his lower lip in her teeth, a gentle, warning nip.
“Don’t lie to me, Steve Morgan,” she whispered when she relinquished his bottom lip, “Honesty, remember?”
He touched his lip with one finger, faintly amused by her vehemence. “Vicious little hellcat.”
“I would think you’d remember that.”
“And I was beginning to think you’d grown timid lately. I see how mistaken I’ve been in thinking you have tempered with time.”
She smiled. “Let’s just say I’ve grown wiser and less patient. Shall we go back inside? After all, we came to be seen, I believe. We’re quite the
