Elizabeth turned toward Lord Avery with a coy tilt of her head, lowering her lashes as she spoke to him softly. She touched her dance card with deliberate grace. Not too much. Just enough.
Subtlety, after all, was the art of making one man think he had your full attention while another burned with the knowledge that he didn’t.
Back where Alasdair stood, he was still mired in the same storm of frustration and longing that had plagued him for weeks. His thoughts chased themselves in circles.
Elizabeth, the kiss, the damnable dresses she wore, the way she didn’t evenlookat him when she entered the room.
It was unbearable.
Seth quietly reached for the glass in Alasdair’s hand.
“Pardon me, Sandy boy,” Seth said gently, “but I think I’d better take this before you shatter it and cause a scene.”
Alasdair released the glass with reluctance. “He’s nothin’ but a fop,” he muttered darkly, his eyes still fixed on Lord Avery’s slim figure as he danced with Elizabeth.
“You know that he’s not the problem,” Seth replied. “You are. Admit it. None of those men could ever be enough for your dear Lady Elizabeth. Not toyou.”
Alasdair growled low in his throat. “Oh, sod off.”
“I’d like to,” Seth said dryly. “But I can’t leave you alone like this. You’re liable to challenge someone to a duel over the last dance card slot.”
The music changed, and Elizabeth’s dance with Lord Avery came to a graceful end.
Alasdair saw his moment.
Without another word, he stepped away from Seth and strode toward her, each footstep pounding with determination.
When he reached her, he didn’t bow. He didn’t smile.
“Lady Elizabeth dances with me next,” he said, the declaration leaving no room for negotiation.
Elizabeth turned to him with arched brows, her breath caught between surprise and dismay. “You’re not on my dance card, Your Grace.”
He plucked the card from her hand before she could stop him and scribbled his name beside the next set. Then he extended his hand in imperious silence.
She hesitated, cheeks flushing in that way he remembered too well.
Was she remembering their last dance?
The one that ended not with applause, but with gasps in the dark of his private parlor?
She placed her hand in his.
“This better be worth it, Your Grace,” she murmured, not quite looking at him.
“Ye’ll tell me if it is, me lady,” he replied, voice rough with something unspoken.
They joined the dancers, stepping into the rhythm of the waltz. She yielded to him instinctively, their bodies falling into a familiar pattern.
It was not just skill—it was memory. Chemistry. A storm ready to rise again.
“Is that the kind of man ye want?” he asked quietly. “Men like Avery? Pomfrey? Is that who ye’re trying to make me become?”
Her lashes flicked upward, sharp. “I would never turn you into them. That would be a waste of potential.”
His chest tightened at the honesty in her voice. “Is that kindness, lass… or insult?” he asked, his voice dipping low. “Hard to tell sometimes with the way ye all ton people talk in riddles.”
“We’re not justyou all, Alasdair. That’s not fair.” Her eyes sparkled with restrained anger. “Don’t lump us into the same box. That’s the very thing you hate. People calling you a brute just because you’re Scottish.”