The Glory Game (27 page)

“It's been a long time since I danced with a stranger,” she mused aloud. “I suppose I'll have to get used to that.”

Her attempts to follow the slow pattern of his dance steps were uncoordinated. The champagne had affected her sense of balance, and she had to rely more heavily on the muscled band of his arm. When it tightened to bring more of her weight against his body, she relaxed in his hold. Dancing with him felt different somehow—the pressure of his hand on the hollow of her spine, the movement of his legs against hers. This wasn't what it had been like to dance with Drew. It was all strange and new. Luz didn't know whether to blame the sensation on the man or on the alcohol.

Her hand rested on the ridge of his shoulder. It was wider than Drew's, muscled but not bulging. Almost idly, she ran her hand along it, stopping at the darkly tanned column of his neck. She noticed the sinewed cords and traced one from collar to jaw before lifting her gaze to his face. She was conscious of his blue eyes looking down at her, but they made no impression on her. Her tactile exploration was almost abstract, the way one would explore the contours of a statue. Her stroking finger followed the high ridge of his cheekbone, then made a slow sweep down the slashing groove by his mouth and stopped on the point of his chin.

“My husband had a deep cleft,” she murmured absently.

On the sidelines, Trisha watched the pair, appalled by her mother's behavior. Luz was practically draped all over Raul. And the way Luz was touching his face, like a lover—it was too intimate. She knew Luz was drunk, but that made it all the more embarrassing. Trisha scanned the other couples on the dance floor, looking for Rob so that she could signal him to cut in.

“May I have this dance, Trisha?”

The inquiry took her by surprise, but she recognized the young man with the acne blotches on his smoothly shaven face. She'd met him several times at various parties, although his name escaped her at the moment. He was the third son of some viscount or earl—and a lot of fun, she remembered that much.

“Not right now. I'm looking for my brother. Have you seen him?”

“I think I saw him duck outside a few minutes ago.” He grinned. “Our sin-loving Lady Cyn had him in tow, I believe.”

“Thank you.” Her smile came and went swiftly as her attention reverted to the dance floor. Silently she swore at Rob for disappearing at such an inopportune time while she watched helplessly, wondering how much longer that slow, seductive song was going to last.

When Luz's reference to the cleft in Drew's chin elicited no response from her partner, she wasn't troubled by his silence. She was in a champagne mist. And if her living statue were to speak, it would likely have jarred her. As it was, nothing disturbed the swirling fog.

With the rounded point of a polished nail, she outlined the lower curve of his mouth. Lately she had tried to imagine what it would be like to have another man hold her and make love to her. All these years there had been only Drew. One or two times she had met men who had briefly tempted her, but she had never needed the stimulation of an outside affair. Now she wondered if that meant she'd been a coward all this time, afraid to try something new and different.

She had tried to imagine the passion of another man's kiss devouring her lips—the taste of his tongue. She had gone so far as to visualize his hands roaming over her body, cupping her breasts, spreading across her hipbones and up the curve of a bent leg. Yet when she tried to see her imaginary lover's face, he had none, and her fantasy was lost. A body could not make love to her. It had to be a person with a face.

And here was a face. She liked his clear eyes, the way they looked at her so steadily. And his hair, so thick and dark—she wondered if it was coarse like Drew's. She hadn't thought about a man's hair before. She touched a smooth side, discovering its fine texture, so soft, almost silken. She slid her fingers into it, and decided it was more like velvet, hundred-dollar-a-yard silk velvet.

Of all the eligible men she knew, she had finally met one whose face could fit with the body of her fantasy lover. The man had admitted being a bachelor. Dimly Luz also recalled that he'd claimed his age as thirty-seven. He was younger than she was.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked, but when his glance sharpened on her, it almost pierced the alcohol veil that protected her. “No. Don't look too closely.” Quickly, Luz lowered her chin and rested her head on his shoulder, partly hiding
her face near the curve of his neck so that he couldn't see the fine lines that had begun to appear.

This was better, not looking at him. Everything was becoming hazy from the champagne, and it was difficult to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. At the moment, she was satisfied with the sensation of his hand on her lower back, the pressure of his thumb on her spine and the alternating touch of his fingers on her waist. Luz felt loose and warm. Everything had been so wrong in her life for so long; this was the first time in months anything had seemed right.

His jaw and throat gave off the heady scent of a male cologne. She breathed it in each time she inhaled. At the same time, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her eyelids and knew his mouth must be somewhere near her eyebrow. Little things, yet they were so disturbing they made her ache inside. She wanted to cry, but she wasn't sure why. Drinking did that to her sometimes. Tears would flow from her eyes on their own.

“Mrs. Thomas.” His voice seemed to prod her, and she wished he had kept silent.

“What?” she said impatiently. So little effort had been expended in movement that Luz was slow to realize they had ceased dancing. In her eyes, the room was still swaying.

“The song has ended,” he told her.

She listened and could hear no music, only the uneven hum of accented voices. With a push of her hands, she reeled away from him, and the room started to spin. Luz stopped and pressed a hand near her eyes, trying to clear her head and her vision. She felt his arm go around her ribs in support of her tottering body.

“The song ended.” When she looked up, her fantasy died, too. Men like her lord of nothing wanted young girls. A bitter laugh rolled from her arched throat. “I almost forgot. All men are bastards.” She badly needed a drink. “God, where's Simms? Damn him anyway.” She shrugged away from the arm holding her and lurched forward to look for the servant. As he crossed the room with a drink tray, Luz saw him. “Simms.” But someone stopped her before she could go after him.

“Luz, you're drunk.” At the low and angry denouncement, she frowned, while Trisha's face kept going in and out of focus. It was true.

“More champagne, madam.” A sea of glasses swam in front of her eyes, all filled with amber-pale liquid.

“No, thank you, Simms.” Luz formed her words carefully, making an effort to speak clearly. “I believe I am sufficiently inebriated. Would you be so kind as to escort me to my room? I should not like to pass out in front of … all these people.”

“As you wish, madam.” He offered her a dark-sleeved arm, which she tightly gripped with both hands.

The incongruous pair crossed the room at a slow, stately pace. Trisha watched them, angrily ashamed yet grudgingly admiring the measure of dignity Luz was able to maintain. “Only Luz could get away with that.” She hadn't intended to think out loud, and glanced quickly at Raul. “I'm afraid my mother—”

“No apology is needed for her,” he interrupted. “If you will excuse me.” He turned and walked toward the terrace doors.

Trisha stood uncertainly, then swung in the opposite direction and came face to face with the young man who had asked her to dance earlier. “I didn't think those musicians could play anything that had a beat to it,” he said, drawing her attention to the up-tempo song. “Want to try it?”

“Sure.” She didn't glance in the direction of the terrace as they walked onto the dance floor.

In a secluded corner of the terrace where the shadows were thick and deep, Raul paused and took a thin cheroot from his inside pocket. He struck a match and cupped the flame to the end of the narrow black cigar. Blue smoke swirled in front of his face as he exhaled.

He was unsettled by what had happened. He had danced with countless women over the years. Some had aroused his lust, but few his interest. Yet this woman was different. The reaching out for love and comfort had touched something inside him—and the way she had bitterly rejected what she couldn't have had enforced the feeling. He sighed heavily and took another drag of the cheroot, wondering why she had gotten into him for even that brief time and why he still thought about her. Forgetting came easy to him. He'd forget her, too.

Beyond him lay the formal patterns of the knot garden, the hedges and plants arranged to create intricate knot designs. But the light from the terrace couldn't penetrate it, and the garden
was a dark blur, black shadows dissolving into one another. A hedge rustled nearby, and Raul caught muffled sounds, groaning whispers and heavy breathing. He dropped the half-smoked cheroot onto the stone terrace and ground it beneath his heel. He wasn't interested in listening to some couple make love. Besides, it was time he went back inside and made his presence seen so he could leave this obligatory party.

The thin material of her gown offered little barrier to the sensation of the nubby point of her breast under his hand. Its outline was as definite to Rob as it would have been if he were actually touching her flesh. The wild little sucking sounds she made while he drove his tongue deep into her mouth stimulated his own building excitement, and the hands kneading the muscles in his shoulders and back needlessly urged him to do more. He was almost half crazy now. The bulge in his pants had stiffened into a rod after the first kisses had exploded in passion. He could feel his throbbing penis straining against his trousers. He felt hot enough to pop right now.

He rocked his mouth off her wet lips and dragged it across her cheek to lick at the opening of her ear, his rough and labored breathing sounding loud in his own ears. “God, you're beautiful.” He meant it the way that anything with two bumps where a pair of breasts belonged and a hot quivering cavity between a pair of legs was beautiful to an aroused male. Only Rob knew she wasn't some ugly cunt a bunch of horny high school boys had persuaded to spread her legs for them. This girl was some sexy bitch, and she was hot for him.

“So are you,” she whispered rawly, kissing the side of his jaw and neck with an abandoned eagerness. “So are you.”

But when he tried to force her onto the grassy carpet of the garden, she resisted. “The grass. I'll get green stains all over my gown.” Rob groaned in agonizing frustration, thinking quickly and desperately.

“Let me take off my jacket. You can lie on it.” He urged with his hands and his nuzzling mouth, trying to keep her as aroused and wanting as he was.

“No, silly.” She laughed and pulled a half-step away from him. When he reached out to gather her back, Rob noticed her hoist her long skirt up around her waist. “I'll just climb on and neither of us will get soiled. Unzip your pants.”

The shadows from the hedges and the overhanging branches of a tree made it seem as if he were moving in a dream. And everything was centered on the ivory paleness of her legs and hips. He could hardly take his eyes off of them. Then she was too close, a hand on his shoulders and another holding up her skirt in a bundle while a long, slim leg hooked itself high around his hips. Instinctively he lifted her.

“Jeezus,” he swore at the ease with which he was swallowed into her hot, tight hole.

Her legs locked around his hips in a scissor hold, the strength of their muscles surprising him as she began rocking against him. But there wasn't any one thing he could concentrate on, not with that hot little tongue darting in and out of his ear and driving him wild. He felt the slap of her bottom against his pumping hips.

“Yes. Yes.” Her urging moans were getting louder.

“Sssh. Someone might hear.” From where he was standing, he could see the smokers on the terrace and glimpse the guests milling inside the Great Hall. But there was no way he could stop now.

“Do you suppose someone's watching us?” She sounded excited as her fingers dug into his hair, clutching him tighter. “I hope so. Let them watch. Let them watch,” she moaned.

It ceased to matter as he drove into her, thrilling with each shuddering sensation until it was all pumped out of him, weakening his knees. There was nothing left but a pleasant tingling ache. He wiped himself with his handkerchief, then belatedly remembered to offer it to her.

“You were fantastic.” Rob never quite knew what to say to a girl afterward.

“I know.” There was a smug, feline quality about her smile as she tossed his wadded handkerchief under a bush. “Let the gardener wonder about that in the morning. Or did you want to keep it for a souvenir?”

“No.” Such coarse remarks didn't appeal to him.

“I told you I wanted to find out everything you did well.” She came over to him. “And it was good, wasn't it?”

“You know it was.” Standing close to her this way, he remembered the heat of her and the things it did to him.

“I know something better,” she said.

“There is nothing better,” Rob retorted. Except maybe the
thrill and excitement of polo—that stimulating chill of danger—but she wouldn't know about that.

“You disappoint me.” She unfastened the clasp of her beaded evening purse and removed a mirror and a tube of lipstick. Turning so the light from the manor reflected on the mirror, she redrew the outline of her mouth with the red lipstick. “I thought all you rich American boys knew about stardust.”

“What?”

“Stardust. Spelled with a
C
—as in my name, Cyn.” She shook her head at him, doubting that he understood her. “Cocaine, darling boy.” The lipstick was tucked back inside her purse, but when she took her hand out, a vial of white powder was between her fingers.