Page 2 of Wicked By Design

He wasn’t safe, that much she knew.

“Then I should be honoured to oblige you.”

They waited until the dance ended and the band struck up again.

“A waltz.” He glanced down at her enquiringly. “Do you waltz, my lady? It is still considered rather shocking, I understand. I would not wish to cause you any… discomfort.”

Cilly almost snorted. The provoking devil delighted in making her uncomfortable and did so whenever possible. “I believe I am up to the challenge, my lord. My brother Hart taught both Hetty and me, so I shall not step on your toes.”

Rivington inclined his head and held out his arm. Cilly took it and allowed him to lead her out onto the floor. So far, everything was going just as she had planned.

The music swelled, and Rivington swept her into the dance. Cilly’s breath caught. She had believed she knew what to expect, for she had danced the waltz on several occasions, not only with Hart, but with many handsome young men, all of whom had fallen madly in love with her dowry and her father’s title.

It had not felt like this.

Rivington did not dance like those polite young men. For one thing, he held her too close, far closer than he ought, and the way he moved, the way he made her move…. Cilly gasped as he spun her around and around until she was light-headed with the mad joy of it. Her skirts and petticoats whipped around both their legs, the cool silk sliding against her thighs in a manner that seemed somehow decadent and naughty. She was flying, a strange sense of freedom sweeping over her, as if the shackles of propriety were being loosened. It was as if she was suddenly untethered, so free she might float up into the dark night sky and be lost forever. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she never wanted it to end.

Inevitably it did, and the swoon Cilly had planned to fake was not required, for her knees trembled and she clung to Rivington, whose hold on her tightened.

“Lady Cecilia? Are you well?”

“I-I feel a little faint,” she admitted, not having to try very hard to sound weak and fragile. “Might… Might you take me for a breath of fresh air?”

“I’ll fetch your sister,” he said at once, but Cilly clutched at his sleeve, refusing to release him.

“Oh. Oh, no. Please… don’t spoil her evening. I only need a breath of air. The doors over there are open onto the terrace. Just take me to them. We can stay in sight of the room.”

He stared at her, and Cilly stopped breathing. Everything depended on his agreeing to this.

“Very well.”

Cilly flashed him a grateful smile, leaning on his arm heavily as he guided her to the doors. She was aware of his gaze flicking left and right, watching to see if they were observed. Cilly very much hoped Lucy was observing them and would act at the appropriate moment.

Rivington led her onto the terrace but stopped just outside the doors.

“Better?” he asked curtly.

Cilly nodded, and then gasped, sucking in great gulps of air. She let go of his arm, rushing across the terrace to the balustrade as if she intended to cast up her accounts. Keeping her back to him, she moved quickly, tugging at the bodice of her dress, ripping the seams she had resewn with loose stitches so they would part with ease.

Putting her hand to her head, she said faintly, “Oh… Oh, I believe I shall—”

She allowed herself to crumple, putting her entire faith in the fact Lord Rivington was a gentleman at heart, and not the black-hearted scoundrel he was purported to be.

Strong arms swept her up, and Cilly locked her own about his neck, gazing up at him. Good God, but he was handsome. Up close, his eyes were thickly lashed, his cheeks sculpted, and that wicked mouth she had spent far too long considering was right there.

“I’m so very sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes widened, and guilt and regret bloomed in her heart. If only things were different, if only this was not a scene she had created to force his hand but a romantic moment they shared. But that was never going to happen.

She pressed her mouth to his.

Rivington jolted in shock, and she almost laughed, wondering if he had ever been accosted by a spinster before. As she pressed herself close, she slid one hand into his hair, mussing the perfect, thick waves. With her free hand she reached up to pull the pins from her coiffure, praying Lucy was doing her part and wondering aloud just who Viscount Rivington was seducing out on the terrace.

Right on cue, she heard a gasp, shuffling feet as people surged outside, and exclamations of shock.

Cilly pushed out of Rivington’s arms, her hand to her mouth, staring up at him in shock, and then turned, allowing the crowd to see her gown all in disorder as if she’d been ravished, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and let them draw their own inevitable conclusions.

She did not look at Rivington, coward that she was. For one terrible heartbeat, she understood what she had done to him as well as to herself.