She gasped, her eyes heated with passion before she hid her gaze behind the down sweep of her lashes, her dimples flashing despite her attempt at modesty, her color still high. What a lovely contradiction she was—trying so hard to present an appearance of propriety, but her innate boldness and passion for life guaranteed she would never be like the other pattern-card women so cherished by Society. He held her closer than he should, the scent of her stirring him, the memory of her soft, warm, inviting flesh calling to something deep inside him, forcing him to fight to keep from answering it. He had to give her time; he owed her that much. When she came to him, he wanted all of her, her heart and soul as well as that deliciously lush body.

He was contemplating just what he’d like to do to that very same body once she saw reason and fell in love with him when his thoughts—and their waltz—were interrupted.

“Matthew!” Charlotte gasped, the color fading from her face as she looked at the man who had tapped on Dare’s shoulder.

A short, fleshy man with a washed-out version of Charlotte’s glorious eyes bowed to him. “Carlisle, if you would allow me the pleasure of finishing this dance with my sister?”

Dare was surprised by the ferocity of his wife’s grip on his arm, but he had no real grounds to refuse Lord Collins’s request other than a general dislike of the man. Despite his lack of concern for what the members of the ton thought of him, it obviously mattered to Charlotte. It behooved him to bite back the refusal on the edge of his tongue and accede gracefully.

“Lord Collins,” he acknowledged as he pried Charlotte’s hand from his arm and presented it to her brother with a little bow. “I shall entrust my lady to your care for the rest of the dance.”

His words were a warning, which Collins’s narrowed eyes showed he understood. Dare smiled at the glare his wife was bestowing upon him and stepped out of the circle of dancers. Given the visions of mayhem that were all too evident in her eyes, he felt it best to make sure there were no more punch bowls at hand.

Nine

“I see you haven’t wasted the four years of my absence,” Charlotte said as her brother took her hand and, after counting under his breath, managed to move them into the waltz. “You look more than ever like Father.”

She meant, of course, his portly figure, jowls, and huge muttonchop whiskers—a fashion she found ridiculous to the extreme—but Matthew, as usual, missed the finer nuances of conversation.

“No, certainly not. I never waste time, unlike some I could mention,” the earl sneered, his eyes darting around at the other dancers.

Charlotte disliked dancing with her brother. He was neither light on his feet nor graceful (as Dare was), and he had no sense of rhythm, which meant they were often moving against the flow of music.