Marissa’s body swayed of its own accord in Haddon’s direction, like a plant desperately seeking the sunlight, drawn to him regardless of her feelings on the subject.
He took in Enderly, a spark of dislike shining in his eyes. Raw possessiveness flashed across his features, starkly apparent against the bold slash of cheekbones, before his chin jerked back to Miss Archer.
Marissa put a hand to her throat. Perhaps Haddon did have Viking ancestors. For just a moment he had looked quite . . . savage. A tiny thrill shot through her.
I should never have called him a dalliance.
It changed nothing, however. The pull between her and Haddon only reinforced Marissa’s decision not to involve herself with him again. Such passion would certainly destroy her, especially when Haddon’s interest dimmed as it was bound to do.
“My lady?”
She refocused her attention on Enderly, hoping the heat she felt creeping up her chest hadn’t resulted in a flush across her skin. “I’m so sorry. I fear I’ve a terrible headache, Mr. Enderly, and must take my leave.”
“My dear, I’ll escort you home.” His brows drew together in polite concern.
“There’s no need,” Marissa assured him, stopping his gallantry with the slight press of her fingers on his sleeve. “Stay and enjoy yourself.”
“If you’re certain?”
Adelia rolled her eyes at Enderly’s false protestations.
“I am.” She winced as if the pain in her head was unbearable.
“I’ve a mind to gamble a bit tonight at any rate. But only if you’re sure?” At her slight nod, he continued. “I’ll call upon you soon, my lady. And look forward to our evening at Lord Duckworth’s.” Bowing to both her and Adelia, Enderly wandered off in the direction of the room set aside for cards, snaring a glass of wine from a passing servant as he moved through the crowd.
“Decrepit,” Adelia said, tapping Marissa with her fan. “I find nothing to recommend Enderly. He looks like a wizened gull with all that hair. Though I suppose for a man of his years, possessing any hair is a point in his favor. Do you really mean to,” Adelia lowered her voice, “take him to bed? When you’ve obviously—”
“Adelia,” Marissa cut her off. “While I appreciate your assessment of Enderly as a lover, I am not yet at such a point that he is under consideration.”
Her friend blew a puff of frustration between her painted lips. “Fine. Wallow in his feeble form and take pleasure in his ancient arms.”
“Stop.” She tried not to laugh at Adelia’s antics. Adelia was unashamed and forthright about her tendency to take younger lovers with no fear of risking her heart, nor did she give a fig for any gossip directed at her.
Turning, she dared another look in Haddon’s direction, but there was no sign of those striking cheekbones and broad shoulders anywhere in the ballroom.
“I saw the look Haddon gave you, Marissa,” Adelia said in an urgent whisper. “Do not be a fool. He nearly set you aflame with merely a glance.”
“Good night, Adelia.” Marissa pressed a kiss to her friend’s cheek. “Try to keep yourself out of trouble tonight.”
“Trouble will find me.” Adelia winked. “In the form of a ravishing young soldier with golden hair. I plan to inspect him for battle scars. He’s no Viking though,” Adelia whispered before moving off in search of adventure.
Marissa took her leave of the ballroom, wondering at Adelia’s ability to move from lover to lover with little damage to herself. It was unfortunate Marissa couldn’t behave in the same way. Or rather she could, only not with Haddon, for some reason.
Sighing with relief at the cooler outside air, Marissa caught sight of her driver and strode to her waiting carriage, the stale smell of powder and talc which often pervaded events such as these no longer invading her nostrils.
Settling herself against the leather squabs, Marissa’s skirts ruffled, and a whiff of Haddon’s spicy scent filled the inside of her carriage along with the memory of their dance tonight. He was a graceful dancer, the sinuous movement of his hips subtly commanding Marissa to follow his lead.
Haddon made love in much the same way.
Her heart raced as if she was still a schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush. Hopeful. Giddy. A heady feeling of intoxication, one she hadn’t experienced since Reggie.
Marissa looked out at the dark streets of London as her carriage rolled toward home, thinking of Haddon and Reggie. Wanting Haddon felt like a betrayal. Silly, she knew, especially since her late husband had been gone for more than two decades. Reggie had been taken from her when Marissa was so young, she often considered his death to be the end of her innocence.
I was never truly innocent.
She sighed and leaned her head back. As the beloved daughter of the Duke of Dunbar, a man known for his brutality in dealing with those who opposed him, Marissa had learned early on the nature of deviousness. Of revenge. How to exact punishment on those who harmed the duke or his family. Henry, her father, had doted on Marissa, blatantly favoring her over her older brother, Phillip, the heir. Her brother had never understood Henry or what he was capable of.
Kelso, Marissa’s first husband, had incurred Henry’s wrath by ruining Marissa during a ball when she was barely seventeen. A notorious libertine, Kelso had kept a multitude of mistresses and had spent nearly every night in his cups with a whore on each knee. Marissa’s marriage to him and his flagrant affairs had been the talk of London, humiliating her to the point she’d made the mistake of complaining to her father, though he likely already knew.
Henry knew everything.
Kelso died in a brawl soon after, in an alley just a block down from his club. He’d left her a widow with a small son at the age of eighteen.
Cupps-Foster, her third husband, was a hothead. She should never have agreed to wed him. He’d made the mistake of treating her poorly
