“Waterloo?”

The concern in her face was quite genuine. It warmed him. “And the Peninsula.”

“Oh.”

Tony watched her digest that. Despite the fact he waltzed well—always had—the waltz wasn’t his favorite dance; with a woman in his arms, he’d much rather be involved in a romp that heated up the sheets on some bed, rather than a sedate revolution about some tonnish ballroom.

And in this case, the woman in his arms teased and challenged on a level he’d forgotten what it was like to be challenged on. For too many years, women, ladies and all, had come to him easily; generally speaking, he’d only had to crook his finger, and there’d always been more than one willing to slake his lust. He was an accomplished lover, too experienced to be anything other than easy and generous in his ways.

Too experienced not to recognize when his senses were engaged.

Taller than average, supple and svelte, she was less buxom than those ladies who normally caught his eye, yet she hadn’t just caught his attention, she’d fixed it— quite why he couldn’t say. There seemed a multitude of small attractions that made up the whole—the sheen of the candlelight on her perfect skin, a soft cream tinged with rose, a very English complexion, her eyes and their green gaze—direct, without guile, amazingly open—the lush, heavy locks of her dark mahogany hair, the way her lips set, then eased and lifted.

He wanted to taste them, to taste her. To tempt her to want him. And more. With her in his arms, his appetite, along with his imagination, was definitely inclined toward a bed.

Alicia was conscious of an escalating warmth, one that seemed to rise from within her. It was pleasant, even addictive—her senses responded with a wish to wallow and luxuriate. It was something to do with him, with the way he held her, whirled her so easily down the room, with the reined strength she sensed in him but which triggered her innate defenses not at all—that strength was no threat to her.

His effect on her, however, might be; she wasn’t experienced enough to know. Yet it was just a dance—one waltz—and she’d never waltzed like this before, never felt quite like this. Surely it couldn’t hurt. And he was a military veteran, an ex-Guardsman, and a viscount.

Quite what that said of him she wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t all be bad.

He swung her through the turns at the end of the room; her heart leapt as his thigh parted hers. Letting her lids fall, she concentrated on breathing—and on the warmth her senses seemingly craved.

The music slowed, stopped, and they halted. And she realized just how pleasant—how pleasurable—the dance had been. She glanced at him, met his black gaze, and thought she saw a fraction too much understanding in his dark eyes. How black could seem warm she had no idea, but his eyes were never cold…

She looked to where Adriana’s court waited, and saw Adriana on the arm of Lord Manningham ahead of them, moving that way. Torrington took her arm and steered her in their wake.

As seemed normal for him, he didn’t offer his sleeve or ask her permission…

And, as was starting to be normal for her, she’d let him.

She frowned. Not once during the waltz had she thought to check on Adriana and Manningham—her distraction had been that complete.

The man on whose arm she was strolling was dangerous.

Seriously dangerous; he’d managed to make her forget her plan for a full five minutes, in the middle of a ton ballroom, no less.

Tony saw the frown form on her face. “What’s the matter?”

She glanced up. He looked into her green eyes, watched as she debated, then decided not to tell him the truth—that he was disturbing her, ruffling her senses, undermining her equanimity—as if he didn’t know.

Frown deepening, she looked down. “I was just wondering whether my demon brothers had behaved themselves tonight.”

He felt his brows rise. “Demon brothers?”

She nodded. “Three of them. I’m afraid they’re quite a handful. David is a terror—he pretends to be a pirate and falls out of windows. I don’t know how many times we’ve had the doctor to the house. And then Harry, well, he has a tendency to lie—one never knows if the house really is on fire or not. And as for Matthew, he is only eight, you understand, if we could just stop him from locking the doors after people, and slipping around the house at night—we’ve lost three parlor maids and two housekeepers, and we’ve only been in town for five weeks.”

Tony looked into her face, into her green eyes so determinedly guileless, and struggled not to laugh. She was a terrible liar.

He managed to keep a straight face. “Have you tried beating them?”

“Oh, no! Well, only once. They ran away. We spent the most awful twenty-four hours before they came home again.”

“Ah—I see. And do I take it these demons are your responsibility?”

Head rising, she nodded. “My sole responsibility.”

At that, he grinned.

She saw. Frowned. “What?”

He lifted her hand from his sleeve, raised it to his lips. “If you want to scare gentlemen off, you shouldn’t sound so proud of your three imps.”

Her frown would have turned to a scowl, but her sister came up on Geoffrey’s arm and effectively distracted her. Adriana’s court trailed behind; within minutes they were once more part of a fashionable circle, within whose safety Alicia remained, shooting the occasional suspicious glance his way until, deeming his duty on all counts done, he bowed and took his leave.




THREE

HE REPAIRED TO THE BASTION CLUB.

With a sigh, he sank into a well-stuffed leather armchair in the library. “This place is a godsend.”

He exchanged a glance with Jack Warnefleet, ensconced in another chair reading an issue of The Sporting Life, savored a sip of his brandy, then settled his head against the padded leather and let his thoughts roam.

To his life—what it used to be, what it now was, most importantly what he wanted it to be. The past was behind him, finished, brought to a close at Waterloo. The present was a bridge, a transition between past and future, nothing more. As for the future….

What did he truly want?

His mind flashed on snippets of memory, a sense of warmth in company, of rare moments of closeness punctuating long years of being alone. Of camaraderie, a sense of shared purpose, a passion for life as well as justice.

Dalziel and his mention of Whitley had brought Jack Hendon to mind. The last he’d seen of Jack he’d been firmly caught in his lovely wife’s coils, trooping, gesticulating and protesting, at her dainty heels. A vision of Kit with their elder son in her arms, Jack hovering protectively over them both, swam through his mind. And stuck.

Jack and Kit were coming down to London this Season; they’d be here within a few days. It would be good to

see them again, not only to renew old friendships but to refresh his memory, to sense again how a successful marriage worked.

The restlessness that for a few hours had been in abeyance returned. Draining his glass, he set it aside and rose. With a nod to Jack, who returned a salute, he left the library and the club.

At that hour London’s streets were quiet, the last stragglers from the balls already at home while the more hardened cases were ensconced in their clubs, hells, and private salons for what was left of the night. Tony walked steadily, his strides long, his cane swinging. Despite his self-absorption, his senses remained alert, yet none of those hanging back in the shadows made any move to accost him.

Reaching his house in Upper Brook Street, he climbed the steps, fishing for his latch key. To his surprise, the door swung open.

Hungerford stood waiting to relieve him of his coat and cane. The hall lights were blazing. A footman stood to the side, still on duty.

“The gentleman who called this morning has returned, my lord. He insisted on waiting for your return. I’ve put him the library.”

“Dalziel?”

“Indeed, my lord.”

From Hungerford’s tone, it was clear that he, no more than Tony, was certain just who, or more correctly what, Dalziel was, other than someone it was unwise to disobey, let alone cross.

Tony headed for the library.

“The tantalus is well supplied. Do you require anything further, my lord?”

“No.” Tony paused and glanced back. “You and the staff can retire. I’ll see”—he’d been about to say his lordship; Dalziel was at the very least that—“the gentleman out.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Tony continued across the green-and-white tiles toward the library door. The hall was paneled in oak, an airy, high-ceilinged space…it was a night for memories. He could recall running here as a child, with a fire roaring in the hearth at the end, the dancing flames reflecting off the oak, a sense of warmth enveloping him.

Now the hall seemed… not cold, but it no longer held that encompassing warmth. It was empty, waiting for that time to come again, for that phase of life to return.

Hungerford and the footman had disappeared through the green baize door. Alone, Tony paused; with his hand on the knob of the library door, he looked around. Let his senses stretch farther than his eyes could see.

He was alone, and his house was empty. Like it, he was waiting. Waiting for the next phase of life to rush in and fill him, engage him.

Warm him.

For a moment he stood silent and still, then he shook off the mood and opened the door.

Dalziel was in an armchair facing the door, an almost empty brandy balloon in one long-fingered hand. His brows rose faintly; his lips curved, cynical and amused, in welcome.