Regency Desire. Margaret McPhee
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nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
He moved slowly to stand in front of her, his eyes raking hers. ‘He did not hurt you?’
‘No.’ She shook her head.
And all of the tension that was roaring between them had nothing to do with Quigley.
Their gazes were locked, unable to look away. Inside she was trembling so much she feared it would show.
‘I am glad of that.’ He reached his hand to hers and took hold of it, his fingers surrounding hers with warmth and strength and gentleness. ‘You are shaking.’
‘It’s cold in here,’ she lied.
He slipped off his tailcoat and wrapped it around her shoulders.
The scent of him enveloped her, bringing with it too many memories, too many conflicting emotions that warred and struggled within her chest.
‘No!’ She pulled his coat from her shoulders and thrust it back into his hands.
The silence hissed between them, the tension winding tighter.
And still she could not look away. And neither could he.
Their eyes held, conveying so many words, none of which could be spoken.
Her heart was thudding so hard she could feel each beat reverberate through her body. A shiver rippled down her spine and tingled across her skin. She was breathing faster now, more shallow, not knowing how much longer she could keep herself together.
He looked at her for a moment longer. Then he drew her a small incline of his head and walked away.
Through the open door she watched him pass the two young ladies who were poised on the brink of entering the withdrawing room.
‘Ladies,’ she heard him say politely as he calmly walked past them.
The two girls were giggling and gaping as they entered the withdrawing room. But they fell silent when they saw her standing there, their eyes growing wide with shock and speculation.
Alice held her head up, flicked some imaginary dust from her skirt, then sauntered out with all the dignity of a duchess, as if she did not give a damn that she had just been caught with Razeby in the ladies’ withdrawing room.
When Razeby came back into the drawing room Quigley’s chair was empty. Razeby returned to take his seat by Miss Althrope’s side, who was far too well bred to comment upon a gentleman’s absence. Whether she had noticed Alice leave he neither knew nor cared.
His blood was still pounding from the sight of her, his mind still focused and intent—with lethality towards Quigley and something else altogether for Alice. He could feel her in every beat of his heart.
It was not supposed to be like this. He was not supposed to feel like this. He knew that, but sitting there with Miss Althrope by his side, his eyes half on Madame Catalani, half on the door waiting for Alice to return, he did, and there was not a damn thing he could do to change it.
At last Alice slipped into the room, resuming her place beside Kemble once more. She did not so much as glance his way. Just sat there seemingly quietly intent upon Madame Catalani’s performance. But she did not need to look at him. He was so damned aware of her that Madame Catalani could have missed every single note and he would not have noticed. He could feel the sense of Alice thudding through his chest, feel the knowledge of what was between them in his blood and in his bones. He stared straight ahead, as if watching the soprano, but he was watching Alice for every minute of that concert. And he could not look away.
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