“Stop doing that,” she hissed beneath her breath. A slow, honeyed ache followed the movement, driving her mad. “Do you intend to cause a scene?”
“What? This?” He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer and moved his thigh into her skirts again, sliding his leg in a sinuous motion. “I’m merely dancing.”
A flutter of arousal slid down the length of her body at Haddon’s very calculated teasing though Marissa was doing her best to ignore the sensation. Desperate to provide a distraction, she said, “I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Lady Christina Sykes.”
“An incomparable beauty with an impeccable lineage,” Haddon acknowledged. “A gentleman could do worse than to wed her. She’s a lovely girl.”
“She’s very young,” Marissa said, hating the prick of jealousy at the thought of Haddon dancing with Lady Christina the way he danced with her.
“You don’t sound as if you approve. Shouldn’t I seek someone closer to my own age? I’m barely out of the schoolroom, after all.” The mischievous grin, the one she found so endlessly endearing, floated across his mouth.
Marissa forced herself to smile up at him. “I’m sure my approval is of no consequence. I’m only concerned.”
“How very maternal of you, Marissa.”
She deliberately stepped on his toe.
Haddon grunted in pain.
“Lady Christina is barely older than Jordana,” she said. “But it is none of my affair who you deem a suitable bride. If your aim is to find a wife, Christina Sykes would serve as well as any.” She forced the words up her throat though they left a bitter taste.
Spinning her about, he gave her a wolfish grin before murmuring, “The lady doth protest too much.”
Her heel ground into the top of his foot. “Pardon me. I seem to have two left feet this evening. Goodness.”
Haddon’s fingertips dug into the silk at her hip. “I’m only acknowledging the vast difference in our ages. One you’ve brought to my attention repeatedly during our previous dalliance. Are you old enough to be my mother?” He pretended to consider the question. “Good lord, how depraved I am.”
Marissa was going to slap him, right here in the middle of a dance with most of the ton watching. “While there is an age difference, my lord, I assure you—”
“And in regard to Christina,” he interrupted her tirade, “you also suggested during our dalliance that I need to remarry. Truthfully, I hadn’t considered wedding again until you brought it to my attention. Again, I’m thankful for your guidance.”
She bit her lip, knowing she couldn’t refute his claim. Haddon was correct on all counts. She had been the one to bring up his need to remarry and produce a male heir. At that moment, Marissa could have cheerfully kicked herself for reminding him of his duty.
In addition to his age and his need for an heir, there was also the added complication of Simon and his murderous mother Lydia. Haddon and Pendleton were friends.
Haddon was wrong for her in every way she could imagine.
“I’ve something I wish to discuss with you, my lady.”
“Oh?” There was a slight, hopeful leap of her traitorous heart before remembering it would be best if she didn’t allow him to seduce her again. Haddon was far too dangerous. They could remain acquaintances and nothing more.
“May I call upon you? I would prefer not to have a private discussion here.”
“Yes, of course,” she agreed, ignoring the slight racing of her pulse.
The dance ended, and Haddon led her off the dance floor, a wisp of a smile hovering on his lips. But instead of leaving her where she’d stood with Adelia, Haddon purposefully took her to the opposite side of the ballroom; an area populated with elderly matrons, wallflowers and spinsters.
A strangled sound bubbled from her lips.
“Something wrong, my lady? Didn’t you enjoy our dance?”
“I did. Immensely.” If she wasn’t sure it would cause a scene, Marissa would wrench her fingers from his.
Once he seemed satisfied Marissa stood with the most undesirable women in the room, Haddon bowed again over her hand, hiding his enjoyment at her discomfort behind a polite, bland smile.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Cupps-Foster.” Haddon turned and, without another glance at Marissa, sauntered back across the ballroom.
Damned difficult desirable woman.
Trent Ives, Baron Haddon, flexed his fingers against his thighs and strode away from the only woman at this bloody ball who held his interest. He’d come tonight specifically hoping to see her, and he hadn’t been disappointed. Dancing with Marissa, holding her in his arms until the warm vanilla scent she favored filled his nostrils, was worth having to listen to the people around him prattle on about their own self-importance.
Trent looked down at Lady Christina Sykes, the daughter of a marquess who was trying to amuse him with a story about a stray dog she’d found wandering about her gardens. He kept a polite smile pasted on his face as she chattered away, all the while watching Marissa from across the room.
He loved her in blue; the color enhanced her eyes, making them sparkle like sapphires. She’d been wearing a gown of nearly the same hue when they’d danced together at the Pendleton house party.
I had no idea how one dance would change everything.
He’d known who Marissa was, of course, when he met her at Brushbriar. Everyone in the Peak District knew the tragic story of the late Earl of Morwick’s disappearance. And of his widow’s grief.
When he’d come to her rooms later that night with a bottle of wine and one glass, intent on seduction, Marissa hadn’t turned him away.
Instead I was ruined. His heart gave a thump.
An older gentleman was fawning all over Marissa, ogling her bosom, which Trent admitted was justified, especially in that gown. Trent rarely lost his composure, remaining calm even in the maelstrom of four rather high-spirited daughters. But unexpected possessiveness flared up as Trent
