Though he did dance like a dream.
“You have many pleasant memories from many balls, do you not, Lady Henrietta?”
“Not really. I’ve only attended one ball in my lifetime before this evening.”
His brow furrowed. “How can that be? You’re young and beautiful. Doesn’t your social set dance every evening?”
“I’m four-and-twenty, Mr. Ellis. And this will most likely be my very last waltz.” She had no time for frivolous pursuits. She had a schedule to maintain. The vines wouldn’t harvest themselves.
“What a terrible shame to deprive the ballrooms of London of your radiant presence.”
There he went again, slathering on the compliments like butter on a breakfast roll. He probably thought he was an expert in seduction, as well as waltzing.
Well, this was one female who wouldn’t fall under his spell. Thankfully, the waltz was nearly finished.
“Why is your waistcoat embroidered with playing cards?” she asked.
“Not just any playing cards. The Ace of Spades. The highest card in the deck. To bring me luck.”
“Are you a gambler?”
“Always.”
“I don’t approve. My friend is music instructor to the Duke of Westbury, and he’s gambled away his entire fortune at the low gaming hells in St. James’s.”
“Poor blighter. Shouldn’t play cards if you don’t know how to win.” He held her gaze with an intense focus that made the rest of the room fade and blur.
“You must be related to one of the duchess candidates I invited.”
“Must I?” he asked.
“Tell me your connection.”
“It amuses me to leave it a mystery for now.” His slate-gray eyes glinted with devilish humor. “Haven’t you always wanted to waltz with a mysterious and devastatingly handsome stranger?”
“You must have me confused with a lady who thinks you’re handsome.” Lie. He was sinfully attractive. And well he knew it.
“They told me you were a bluestocking with a tart tongue. You don’t disappoint.”
“It’s probably best if you keep such impolite observations to yourself.”
“Never expect politesse from me.”
“What should I expect?”
“Danger, Lady Henrietta,” he said in a low, intimate voice. “Expect danger.”
His gaze caught and held her captive.
His fingers slid along the back of her gown, slipping ever so slightly beneath the fabric to stroke her back.
A quiver traced the curve of her spine and raised gooseflesh on her arms.
He wasn’t the stuff of her seventeen-year-old dreams. He was rough-mannered and dominant. Unpolished. Nothing pretty, poetic, or respectful about him.
She’d never been touched in such a sensual, commanding way. Never seen desire flare to life in a man’s eyes like a warning beacon on a hilltop.
An answering fire lit within her. The heat of it gave her a flush that bloomed across her bosom and spread up her neck and across her cheeks.
Surely he recognized the effect he had on her.
“You’re blushing, Lady Henrietta.”
“It must be the sparkling wine.”
“Or it could be that you like relinquishing control for a few minutes. You like following my lead. Your body betrays you when you sway against me like that.”
Couldn’t everyone in the room see what he was doing? Seducing her in plain sight. Controlling her movements. Undressing her with his eyes.
But no one was paying them any attention. All eyes were focused on her father and Mrs. Dudley. Everyone was wondering if she would be the lucky new Duchess of Granville.
Once the scandal sheets had reported that the duke was on the hunt for a new bride, the gossip had flown thick and fast. Wagers had been placed in the betting book at White’s club.
Young widows and debutantes had formed a queue, writing letters extolling their accomplishments and virtues, and hinting that they had every expectation of fecundity.
Which one of the ladies she’d invited had brought this wolf to their door?
Ash stared into those big brown eyes of hers. Eyes that held a velvet, near-purple darkness, like the heart of a violet.
The lady hadn’t recognized him. Everyone else in the room knew exactly who he was: The Devil’s Own Scoundrel. Owner of the notorious gaming hell known as The Devil’s Staircase. Because he led people to sin.
To ruin.
He wouldn’t mind leading Lady Henrietta to sin.
He’d known Granville had a bluestocking spinster daughter living on his estate in Surrey. He’d pictured a mousy, bespectacled thing. Not a voluptuous goddess with lush curves poured into a tight silk gown the color of clotted cream. Abundant brown hair begging to be freed from its jeweled hairpins.
And more than enough wit and fire to talk circles around him.
Candlelight spilled over the graceful lines of her shoulders and breasts. They were dangerous, those curves. They felt entirely too good in his arms.
He’d never danced with a genteel lady before. Polite society snubbed him when it suited them, deeming him of inferior birth, and resenting him for what they saw as his ill-gotten riches.
Once the lady put two and two together, she’d stare down that straight nose at him disdainfully. Purse her lips with displeasure at being sullied by waltzing with the devil.
He pulled her closer. Only a sliver past propriety . . . but enough to make her blush deepen. She relaxed into him with a dreamy look on her face that made him think about her draped across his bed after being thoroughly pleasured.
Attraction, strong and immediate, spiked through him like the first deep drink from a bottle of strong spirits, quickening his pulse and settling low in his belly.
He was here to speak to the duke, not to seduce the daughter.
The duke had been a difficult man to pin down. He had thick walls around him—solicitors, servants, sycophants—to keep the devil out.
So Ash had taken matters into his own hands, forging an invitation to the ball and presenting it with the combination of confidence and crisp banknotes that always seemed to get him whatever he wanted.
He had to take what he wanted. No one was going to hand him anything on a silver platter. Life was something to be conquered, a game to win, and he was good at winning.
He redistributed ill-gotten wealth. Trimmed the fat from bloated budgets. Skimmed from the top of tainted cream. He ran high-stakes card games that were mostly honest, but he’d selected a small list of targets to lead along the garden path to ruin. Wealthy, rash young bucks who could afford to lose their fathers’ money.
Landed gentry, born into privilege and ease, greedy, arrogant, and cruel-minded.
And one of those reckless young bucks had inadvertently given him what he needed to win an even more glittering prize: a dukedom.
The lady in his arms was a symbol of the order he meant to topple.
She’d been born to wealth, coddled and cared for by servants and family. Blinded to the suffering of those less fortunate than she, all wrapped up warm and cozy in her privileged life.
Heedless and ignorant of the source of her father’s wealth.
She was French champagne, expensive and sweet; he was back alley gin.
But his day would come.
The music had ended. He released her and bowed.
“Our waltz is over, Mr. Ellis,” she remarked, with a slightly dazed expression.