Page 62 of As the Devil Dares

And Whitby.

His eyes narrowed on the dandy as he stood beside Evelyn Winslow in the corner of the ballroom. Mariah had made a complete spectacle of herself with him, whirling around the room so recklessly in his arms, laughing easily and glowing with delight. He was certain everyone in the room had seen the way she’d flirted…every casual touch to Whitby’s shoulders as they’d crossed the floor, each laugh and smile she gave him, dancing so close that her skirt brushed his legs with every turn. And the way she’d touched his cheek, staring up at him as if the rest of the world didn’t exist—shameless.

So was the way that Whitby and the gentlemen threw their attentions on her. Even now half a dozen men were descending upon her to offer glasses of punch as soon as the dance ended and Wembley escorted her off. The clodpoles hadn’t even bothered to get to know her well enough to learn that she preferred champagne.

“Sheep,” he muttered as she turned heads when she glided past.

So far, though, he had to admit that Mariah’s plan for the season was working—the gentlemen who called on her at home had abandoned all thoughts of courting her the moment they discovered she provided no inroads to the Winslow fortune. But it wouldn’t always be that way. There must have been one or two men present tonight who cared nothing about money who were casting their attentions on her. One or two who would be bold enough to call on her. Most likely as soon as tomorrow. And then it would be only a few weeks until the first marriage offers were made.

Exactly what he’d hoped when Henry Winslow challenged him with this task—Mariah wedded, his partnership secured, and indisputable proof held in his hands that he was worthy of being Richard Carlisle’s son.

So why was he so damnably annoyed about it?

He watched Mariah as she made her way off the floor with Wembley, then moved away from the crowd to catch a moment’s solitude by the open French doors. She wasn’t beautiful—tonight she was simply incomparable. And that dress…God’s mercy that dress.

Elegantly cut from copper satin, the gown draped dramatically from its high waist to the tips of her slippers and shimmered like molten gold. Daringly sleeveless yet with a modest neckline that only hinted at her breasts beneath, the tantalizing contradiction of satin and bare flesh was arresting. But it was the utter lack of embellishment that captured his attention most. The simple beauty of it was breathtaking.

Damnation, she was breathtaking in it. And he longed to strip it off her. With his teeth.

But remembering how she’d so furiously poured water over his head for daring to kiss her breast, he feared he’d most likely die in an attempt to undress her.

He was sorely tempted to try anyway. Because even now he could taste the spicy-sweet flavor of her, that exotic mix of cinnamon and oranges that drove him mad. Because even now he craved to unleash that sharp wit of hers and engage in the kind of sparring that sent excitement pulsating through him.

She turned gracefully with a smile as the orchestra played a fanfare, and yearning twisted through him so intensely that it took his breath away.

Sweet Lucifer. Some victories were worth the sacrifice of a man’s life.

Tossing back the last of his wine, he placed his empty glass onto the tray of a passing footman, snatched up a flute of champagne, and headed directly toward her.

Her back was to him, her body turned toward the open French doors so that she could catch some of the cool air and seize a moment’s reprieve from the party. She didn’t see him approach.

Hooking his arm past her shoulder, Robert silently held the glass in front of her.

Laughter lilted from her like music. “Whitby,” she chided playfully as she turned around, “liking French champagne does not make me a traitor—”

When she saw him, her laughter choked. The friendly smile turned into a look of surprise. Then into a scowl of irritation.

“Champagne. Your favorite,” he commented, dismissing the men with their punch.

“Yes, it is. Thank you.” As she icily took the glass, she asked tightly, “Is this bribery for my continued good behavior this evening?”

He nodded at the flute. “If that’s all it takes to keep you in line, Mariah, I’d purchase an entire vineyard.”

At his quip, a dark smile of amusement danced at her lips. She murmured dryly, “And here I thought my good behavior justified only a case.”

“Or ten,” he corrected, unable to keep from returning her smile.

Her eyes swept over him. For once beneath her gaze, he didn’t feel as if he were an opponent being sized up before a fight. But anger at him still lingered visibly within her. And still aggravated the hell out of him, that she could keep punishing him for what had been little more than a kiss. An encounter she’d seemed to enjoy, too, until the minx dumped mop water over his head.

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” she asked, ending their banter.

But he enjoyed sparring with her and glimpsing her fire. One lacking in every other miss in attendance tonight. He couldn’t help himself and drawled with amusement, “I hear you think I’m an Adonis.”

Her eyes widened in a beat of unguarded embarrassment. Then she effortlessly recovered and coolly took a sip of champagne, with only a faint pinking of her cheeks showing any trace of her self-consciousness. “Once again the gossips have the story completely wrong.”

He arched an amused brow. “So you think I’m Venus?”

That sent her into a seething pique. She exhaled a hard breath. “I think you’re the most arrogant, frustrating man who—”