The Importance Of Being Wicked by Miranda Neville Read Free Book Online Page B

attention.”
    Bringing her to a sense of propriety was a doomed endeavor. “Why do you call her that?” he asked instead.
    “I renamed her when we were children. Anne ’s a plain name, and she’s my beautiful cousin.” She spoke without irony, and Thomas liked her better for her uncritical affection.
    He peered over her shoulder. “Do you have any idea where she and Bream are?”
    “We’ll have to find them among the dancers. You’d better dance with me. We’ll look foolish otherwise.”
    Despite the fact that he’d never been asked to dance by a lady, Thomas wasn’t unwilling. They would indeed look awkward fighting through the throng, which wasn’t arranged in neat lines as at a proper ball. Couples whirled around together like fledgling pheasants summoned for feeding time, bumping and jostling with the object, he guessed, of achieving as much physical contact between men and women as possible. He offered her his arm and almost became entangled with the small cloth bag that hung on strings from her wrist.
    “What is this?” he asked.
    “My reticule,” she said. “There’s no room for pockets in the new fashions.”
    That he could well believe. There was hardly room for a small woman in the skimpy gown.
    He led Mrs. Townsend through the doors into the melee, her hand on his arm as though they were entering a more exclusive ballroom. Maintaining a proper distance was not easy, as other arrivals competed for space. Still, he flattered himself that he made an example of dignified behavior to the revelers—if they cared—until someone crashed into his back. The jolt made it necessary to embrace her to keep them both upright.
    She was warm and soft and fit perfectly against his body, odd since he was a giant in comparison. He looked down at the jaunty curls hugging her skull and spilling over onto her brow, then the tender curves of her bosom, almost as pale as her gown against the burgundy and silver of his coat and embroidered waistcoat. He stared with fascination at a single freckle, like a birthmark, centered with exquisite precision between her breasts. He wanted, quite desperately, to touch it. Better still to kiss it. To discover how it would feel on the tip of his tongue . . .
    Sternly, he wrenched his eyes from the spot and his mind from the errant thought. Neither lips nor tongue would ever approach the vicinity of Mrs. Townsend’s breasts. Instead, he looked at her face, and that was a mistake. Her gaze spoke eloquently to him of indecent, bedroom thoughts. Brown eyes glowed like gold fire, and carmine lips parted in a gentle invitation. A dull roar drowned out any thought but an incoherent urge to possess. His muscles followed the animal instinct that had taken over his brain. Both arms surrounded her, gripped her bottom, and lifted her against him so they were aligned from chest to thighs, and his mind dwelt on dark corners and dirty deeds. That bowed red mouth called, and his own responded, descending inch by inch through the hot feverish air.
    A sound, a little huff—of shock? Of desire?—penetrated the fog of his senses, and he realized what he was doing. He turned to stone, unable to move a muscle, drowning in the dreamy summons of her gaze. Until her expression changed, her eyes sparkled with laughter, and her mouth broadened to a merry grin.
    Quickly, he released her and put the few inches of air between them that the crowd would allow. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am.” He was surprised he could manage even that gruff apology.
    “No harm done,” she said. “It is quite a crush. Shall we enter the fray?”
    She didn’t seem upset. Had he imagined the whole encounter? Had the contact that seared him to the core in reality taken only a few seconds and left her unaffected? If so, he told himself sternly, it was just as well. He was going to wed her cousin.
    “Mrs. Townsend,” he said. Though no longer jammed together in a forced embrace, they were close enough to carry on a