He could dance. Rather well. Really well. She could dance, too, guided by his hands.
“I thought you were a pugilist, not a dancer,” she yelled as they spun.
“It’s very similar,” he replied, “boxing, dancing, in Scotland. Look at the footwork—it’s useful to practice for a sword fight, for close combat.”
“Sword fight,” she echoed. Was he jesting with her? This dancing, laughing version of him was unfamiliar and difficult to gauge. It was also a dangerously attractive version.
“I should like some fresh air,” she said. The room was broiling, blurred, and loud.
She hung on his arm as he guided her out the side door near the bar. The cool night air was reviving, and she inhaled greedily. Her stomach roiled in response, so she breathed through her mouth.
“The bride’s hair comb looked very similar to one of yours,” Lucian said casually.
“It did?” she said. “What a strange coincidence.”
“Och,” he said. “What will she do with it, wear it when doing the washing out back?”
“Lucian,” she slurred, and placed her hands on his chest. “You must understand: every woman needs something that serves no purpose other than that it please her eye. Or something that makes her feel pretty. There is a lot of pleasure to be had from being frivolous.”
His hands were on her waist. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Aye,” she said. “And I know you think me terribly frivolous, but don’t spoil my otherwise splendid evening by telling me so.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll not say it.”
Across the black sky behind him, the Milky Way arched white and billowing like a giant bridal veil. She was certain that it shouldn’t be billowing to the bare eye. “I think I’m a trifle intoxicated,” she mumbled.
“A trifle,” Lucian said, urging her closer into the shelter of his body, and she leaned against him with a sigh, because his chest felt wonderfully solid and he could make stars explode behind her eyes with his fingers. Lucian’s shoulders went rigid. She realized her head was on one of the shoulders.
“Do you own a kilt?” she asked.
“What?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he said after a moment, “why?”
She snuggled closer. “Why did you not wear it for our wedding?”
He took his time to reply. “The queen wears tartan now,” he finally said. “It’s hardly the rebel fashion of my ancestors anymore.”
She rose to her toes and nuzzled his warm throat. No reaction. She pressed her breasts against him, because she was young, and curious, and filled with a newly roused passion that had nowhere to go, and because she could not seem to get close enough to him. She touched the tip of her tongue to his skin, just where his collar met his neck. He shivered and pulled back. “Let’s take you inside.”
He walked her round the inn, to the main entrance. She was giggling and silly when he maneuvered her up the dark stairs with his hand on her bottom. She thought Mr. Matthews was in the narrow corridor when Lucian guided her past, and she tried to behave, with no success: the moment he had closed the door to their room and flicked the light switch, she clasped the lapels of his jacket and rose to her toes.
He turned his face away, and her eager mouth met his cheek.
“What?” she murmured. “Look, I’m quite willing.”
“Good,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “Now you only need to be conscious.”
“How rude, sir.” She grabbed for his cravat. “I am consh—consc—”
He caught both her groping hands in one of his and stilled them.
He was rejecting her.
She hadn’t expected it, and the humiliation felt like a stab to the gut, which was also unexpected. Her nose burned with a salty surge of tears.
“You very arrogantly told me to ask for it,” she said, accusingly, aware that she had left her dignity on the dance floor. “Is this just a sport to you?” He released her hands, and she touched her wet cheeks. “And why am I crying?”
It took her a moment to comprehend that Lucian was chuckling. “Because, mo chridhe, you are pissed,” he said.
“What?”
His hands framed her face, steadying her. “You’ve had too much whisky.” He was enunciating every word. “You are deep in the cups. And it appears you’re a crying drunk.”
“Cruel of you to acknowledge a lady’s incapacitation. I don’t want to be a crying drunk.”