“You approve, I take it.”
“I more than approve. I stand in awe.”
Well.
“Is that your dance card?” He touched a white-gloved finger to the dangling fan at her wrist.
“It is.”
“And how many dances may I claim?”
“How many would you like?”
Ned’s voice deepened. “All of them.”
Sophie’s lips tilted in a bemused smile. “You don’t even know if I’ll make a good partner.”
“I know.” He spoke with unerring confidence. “Shall I put my name down for all of your waltzes?”
“There are four waltzes this evening. And I can dance no more than three dances with any one gentleman.”
“Three, then.”
She nodded and Ned made short work of penciling his name into her dance card. When he’d finished, he looked at her again, the weight of his gaze making her feel a tiny bit flustered. “What is it?”
“You,” he said simply. And then: “I’ve never seen anyone look so vivid under the gaslight.”
“Oh, that.” Sophie gave her skirts a little rustle over her crinoline. “Most colors lose their brilliancy by gaslight. But this particular shade is complemented by it. The gaslight deepens the hue. Makes it warmer and richer, like a full-bodied red wine. Or so my seamstress claims.”
“She’s not wrong. It looks… You look…” He made a noise low in his throat. “I’m not sure I can let you—”
“What?”
But he didn’t seem disposed to answer. Instead, he caught her hand and pulled her into a small alcove off the hall. Once upon a time, it had contained a marble pedestal holding an expensive sculpture. Now, the alcove was empty—and just large enough to fit the both of them standing face to face.
Ned bent his head. “I don’t know if I can let you dance with anyone else. Not without kissing you first.”
Oh my.
Sophie’s heart skipped several beats. A wall sconce outside the alcove flickered, casting a half shadow over Ned’s face. This was to be her gaslight kiss, then. Just as he’d promised her. “We can’t. Anyone might see.”
He brought his hand to cradle her face. “We’re quite hidden.”
She refrained from pointing out that her skirts were spilling out into the hall. At this stage it didn’t seem to matter. He wanted to kiss her. And she very much wanted to kiss him back. She raised her hand to curl about his neck, the movement unsteady and uncertain. “I’m afraid I’ll crush your cravat,” she admitted, a little sheepishly.
Ned’s expression softened with something like tenderness. “Never mind my cravat.”
And then his mouth covered hers.
Sophie’s eyes fell shut and her breath stuttered. For a moment, she stood still as a statue, just as she had the first time. But it was impossible to remain so. Not with her hand curved tight around his neck. Not with his arms moving to encircle her waist, drawing her flush against his chest.
Her lips softened beneath his, half-parting under the gentle, searching pressure of his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath. The clutch of his fingers at her corseted waist. And they kissed each other. There was no other way to describe it. They kissed each other. Like equals. Like partners. Both active participants in what had to be the most intimate experience of Sophie’s entire life.
“My God,” he breathed when they finally broke apart. It sounded like a groan. Or possibly a prayer. “My God, Sophie.”
She held his gaze, lips still half-parted as she tried to catch her breath. “Was that all right?”
Ned ran a hand over his face. And then he gave her a lop-sided smile. It was the smile of a much younger man. Smitten and foolish. A little rueful. It was utterly unlike any smile he’d ever given her before.
Sophie’s heart clutched. Had she finally managed to put the stern and forbidding Mr. Edward Sharpe out of countenance? To render him no more than a speechless schoolboy?
Or perhaps not so speechless.
“It was more than all right,” he said. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.”
It was the worst possible thing he could have said. Especially following Emily’s accusations of perfection.
Not that it ruined the moment. She didn’t think anything could. Still…
She’d rather he thought of her as a woman than some glorified feminine ideal
“I’m not perfect.” She backed away from him, or at least as far as the alcove would allow. “But I am obliged to you for the kiss.”