The Hunger by Susan Squires Read Free Book Online Page A

he would be. What was it she liked about waltzing? Was it that the steps were not predetermined as they were in country dances? One had to feel them. If one was a woman, one had to follow. Perhaps that was what fascinated her. What other time did she give herself over to the direction of another?
    But here, whirling in the dance, she followed him, floating on the music. He was a skilled dancer as she knew he would be. He held her rather closer than was usual, but that was not unpleasant. She felt the music lifting them, his hands on her body, more intimate than was ever allowed in public otherwise. She could smell him, that clean, human male smell. He wore no scent other than the soap he had used to wash and shave. His wound was healing again. There was no smell of blood, thank God. Blood would have been too much for her, close as she was. She closed her eyes and felt his body guiding her. He glided between the other couples, and she ceded all her cares to him. The room whirled. The other couples drifted away until it seemed as though the room and the music belonged to them alone.
    “Can we not even speak of weather, then?” he whispered, bringing her back to herself.
    “There is no weather here.” Beatrix was trying just to breathe.
    “No,” he agreed and held her infinitesimally tighter still. “Perhaps I should engage in gallantry. I admire your scent. Spicy. It is exotic.”
    “Cinnamon,” she said. “And ambergris.” There, she had told him a secret. Why? A constriction rippled through her. What was she thinking? They were practically fromdifferent species. The Companion changed everything. She pressed down some half-formed longing and gazed up at him. His purpose was to keep the darkness at bay. That was enough.
    “I like it,” he murmured. The music whirled to a halt. He held her for a moment longer, though he lowered his left arm to ease his shoulder.
    His lingering touch said she had hooked him. Good. By the time he dropped the arm clasping her waist and turned into her, taking her other hand and laying it along his arm, she knew he was fascinated. His refusal two nights ago was only because of his health.
    They walked toward the great windows, cracked open to let air into the room. She felt flushed. Ponsonby was nowhere to be seen. Beatrix dismissed him without another thought.
    “No hazards on the way here tonight?” she asked.
    “Ponsonby would have it that they were dragons. Believe me, they were not.”
    “Ah, the young are overawed by someone of your reputation.” She waved a hand.
    He reached for glasses from the silver tray of a passing footman. “Champagne is your drink, I believe,” he said, handing her a glass. “And what is my reputation?”
    “A sportsman. What does one call it here in England? A buck, an out-and-outer. And of course, they say you are the most decadent man in England.”
    He nodded. “Yes. That.”
    “What could you possibly have done that someone such as I would consider depraved?”
    His countenance darkened. He frowned briefly before he consciously smoothed his brow. He said in a light tone, “I expect it has to do with the affair I had when I was eighteen.”
    “Affairs,” she said with a small snort. “What boy of eighteen does not have affairs? I suppose it was with anolder woman. What will these country squires not think decadent?”
    “She was older by a few years. But I expect the scandal was that she was my half-sister.” He laid it out cold in order to shock. His mouth was hard.
    She paused. “Well, country squires would consider that decadent.” She shrugged.
    “I suppose one who bathes in milk, and ‘entertains’ the cream of London society would not think that out of the ordinary.” His voice was bitter.
    She examined his eyes. They were hard, but not with cruelty. He had been hurt. He had done things he wasn’t proud of. He had been buffeted by his short life. But he had trueness, a center. It was in his eyes. He glanced away. How