The Naked Baron. Sally MacKenzieЧитать онлайн книгу.

      She was not going to think about Papa and Lady Harriet, Lord Dawson’s mother. She was not going to think about the baron’s bizarre marriage proposal. She was not going to think at all—she was just going to enjoy fully the one dance she’d ever had when she didn’t feel like a lumbering—a regal—Brobdingnagian.

      Lord Dawson was mad, completely and utterly mad, but he was a wonderful dancer. Grace spun through a turn, tethered by his large, strong hands. She wanted to put back her head and laugh. She’d never felt such joy in movement.

      She hated to dance, and she hated to waltz most of all. She always felt so large and ungainly. Most of the time she was taller than her partner and sometimes…well, back at Standen she’d been forced to inform Mr. Fenton she would no longer stand up with him—ever. He was almost a head shorter than she and took dancing as an opportunity to get a very close look at her bodice.

      But tonight, with Lord Dawson, dancing was an entirely different experience. She felt light and…graceful. Her smile widened—and then faltered.

      John hated to dance—or at least he hated to dance with her. They plodded around the floor in time to the music, but…She sighed. Dancing with John was prosaic at best, but wasn’t that the way life was?

      This—the dancing, the music, the brilliant colors, and beautiful dresses—this romance was merely a moment out of time. A glimmer of magic, impossible to hold. In the morning the elegant members of the haut ton, the flowers, the musicians would be gone and all that would be left would be a scuffed floor, a scattering of dead leaves, and a few wilted flower petals.

      But that was the morning. Tonight she would revel in the magic; when it was time, at the end of the Season, she would go home to her dull, commonplace life, to Papa and to John.

      “Enjoying the music, my dear?”

      She would even pretend for the moment that having handsome men call her “dear” was normal. “Yes, I am.”

      His mouth turned up in a half smile—and her stomach did that odd little flutter again.

      It was not fair he was so sinfully handsome. That strong, square chin with its little cleft was completely captivating. And that dimple! Dimples should definitely be outlawed in a face as attractive as Baron Dawson’s. He had sun streaks in his slightly shaggy, dark blond hair, and his deep blue eyes glinted with humor—and something else…something hot and intense.

      She felt rather hot herself. She must be blushing—his smile had grown, damn it.

      She closed her eyes, but that didn’t help at all. Now she focused on the feel of his hands—firm, yet gentle—as they guided her through the dance. Her bodice brushed against his waistcoat briefly and her breasts felt fuller and heavy. Shocking. She drew in a deep, shuddery breath and inhaled the spicy heat of him.

      Her eyes flew open. This was too much. She should have run from him in the garden or at the least fled the moment she’d returned to the ballroom.

      She glanced up at his face. His cheeks creased, making the dimple deepen as his smile broadened to a full grin. He knew exactly what she was thinking!

      Blast, now her face must really be as red as a fire’s embers. She certainly felt as if she were glowing. She frowned again.

      He had to swallow a chuckle. Did she think to cow him? That look might work on her not-quite betrothed, but it didn’t on him. He could almost feel sorry for the man. If the fellow did wed Grace—an event David was becoming more and more determined to prevent—she would ride roughshod over him. In truth, it would be a charity for David to take Grace off the gentleman’s hands. He knew how to manage her fire.

      Damn. He edged his hips back slightly. Thinking of managing Grace—in his bed, of course—had the predictable effect on his person.

      She was still frowning.

      “Don’t try to look so fierce, Grace. You don’t scare me, you know.”

      Scare him? Grace was tempted to roll her eyes. He was the one who was frightening, like a spider sitting in his web of seduction, waiting for her to fall into his trap. “You are absurd. Of course, I don’t scare you. I’ve never scared anyone in my life.”

      The odd glint in his eyes grew more pronounced. Was he laughing at her? How dare he? She should…she should…

      She should feel angry, but instead she felt hot and unsettled.

      “Ah, there I’m certain you’re wrong,” he said, swinging her through a turn. “I imagine the average male quakes when he sees you.”

      She snorted. “Only because he fears for his toes. The men of Standen know too well what the ton will soon discover—I’ve sent more men limping home than Napoleon.”

      He pulled her close to avoid another couple and her bodice brushed his chest again. Her breasts were still extremely sensitive. Her nipples hardened. How mortifying! He couldn’t tell, could he?

      “Nonsense,” he was saying. “I don’t worry about my toes at all.”

      Toes? Damn, she suddenly had salacious thoughts about the man’s toes. They were talking about dancing not Lord Dawson’s bare feet. “You don’t worry about your t-toes only because you are an amazingly skilled dancer.”

      His mouth slid into a slow, knowing curve. He dropped his head and his voice—he had the most wonderful voice, deep and smooth and warm like a cup of the richest chocolate. His words stirred her hair, caressed her ear, sent heated shivers down her back to her—

      No. She would not think about such things. No toes, no feet, no secret, wet, aching—No, definitely not. Most assuredly, without a doubt, without question—

      “Would you like to see what else I’m amazingly skilled at, sweetness?”

      The dark, wet, empty, aching place throbbed with eagerness. Her head snapped away from his lips, and she sent an urgent message to her heart and other organs to behave themselves. She wasn’t a child. She knew seduction when she heard it. She gave him her sternest look. “Lord Dawson—”

      “Shh, Lady Grace.” His eyes were glinting—he was laughing at her again, damn him. “Why are you so agitated? I was merely referring to parlor games—Twenty Questions, Pope Joan, charades, spillikins.” One eyebrow arched up. “What did you think I meant?”

      Drat her pale complexion! She was definitely burning hotter than the candles now. He was trying to intimidate her. She would not let him do so.

      “Seduction, my lord. Do not play me for a fool. You were trying to seduce—”

      The orchestra played its last note. Her voice had, unfortunately, got somewhat strident. The ladies and gentlemen near them turned to stare. Lord Dawson raised his other eyebrow.

      Damn.

      “—to seduce me into the re-refreshment r-room.” Please God, let no one be able to see how red she was. Or, if they noticed, let them think it was from the exertion of the dance.

      Lord Dawson smirked slightly. “Ah, yes, those lobster patties are so enticing, are they not?”

      Thankfully, everyone around them went back to their own conversations. “What?”

      “The lobster patties, Lady Grace. The alluring, tempting, seductive lobster patties.”

      “Oh, do stop laughing at me, will you?” And he was laughing. Not out loud, of course. He wasn’t even grinning, but his damn eyes were positively gleaming.

      “But you are so amusing.” He took her hand and laid it on his arm. “And the most amusing thing is you have no idea how beautiful, how utterly enchanting you are.”

      The