Far Beyond Scandalous (19 page)

Amy could feel society's eyes on
them as they moved, curious and ready to gossip at the slightest misstep.
 
However Lady Isabelle, in her rather
noticeable gray gown, was still seated among the chaperones and wallflowers, a
serene smile on her face, and had not uttered a single word about how
inappropriate the dance was.

Even though it was.
 
And everyone well knew it.

Amy knew it, too, and she was also
aware that Gibson knew it as well.
 
But
for once, she didn't give a fig what the others thought.
 
She was doing as she pleased for once, in
that moment refusing to be defined by the paragon label that had dogged her for
so many years.

She was simply a lady dancing with
the man she was coming to love.
 
Not
merely lust after, but love.
 
For all
that she desired him, there was something more blossoming between them, and Amy
could no longer deny it.

There was a depth to Gibson that
she had not seen before.
 
Yes, he was
handsome, undeniably so, but he was also strong of character, more good and
noble than any man of her acquaintance.
 
Few men would do for her what he was - putting their life on hold to
assist her, with little to no hope of receiving anything in return other than
extreme gratitude.
 
He was simply doing
it because he was Gibson, and because he cared for her.
 
Because they were more than friends and
forever would be.
 
In Amy's experience,
men like that simply did not exist.

The only incident to mar the
otherwise complete perfection of the dance was the sight of Lord Drake lurking
in the back of the ballroom near the terrace doors, his arms crossed and a look
of sheer hatred on his face.
 
He loathed
Gibson; that was no secret.
 
Tonight,
however, the way the young lord silently fumed at the physician took dislike to
an entirely new level, one that Amy wasn't comfortable with.

Then, Gibson spun her into a turn,
and Drake and his ugly purple waistcoat were forgotten.

Amy was in Gibson's arms, just as
she had longed to be, and the way he was looking at her let her know that he
was feeling the same magic that she was.
 
His expression was almost wistful, as if he was well aware that this
moment could not last, so she offered him her brightest, most flirtatious
smile, and prayed to God that for just this one moment, they might be
happy.
 
That for once, she could have
something she desired without fear of it being taken from her or having to play
a role she was no longer comfortable with.

Someone, somewhere must have been
listening for out of the corner of her eye, she saw Drake rise and leave,
taking his aggravating stare with him.
 
Leaving only Amy and Gibson under the slightly mistrustful, but
far more forgiving eyes of the rest of polite society.

Her expression must have softened
for Gibson pulled her ever so slightly closer and whispered in her ear.
 
"I do not know what has put that dreamy
expression on your face, but I dare say that I like it immensely."

You
, Amy wanted to shout as
loudly as she could.
 
You, Gibson
Blackwell, have put it there.
 
All that
I feel is wrapped up in you.

 
However, she was wise enough to hold her tongue and preserve the
moment.
 
Just because the dance was
permitted didn't mean that anything else was, especially confessions of
love.
 
If Gibson even suspected she was
thinking such wicked thoughts, he would probably be livid and remind her of how
inappropriate such notions were.

Instead, Amy tilted her head and
gave him her most coy and inviting debutante smile.
 
"I believe you know, my dear doctor, what has made me smile
this evening.
 
You need not think overly
hard on the matter."
 
Then she
squeezed his hand tightly for good measure, able to get away with the gesture
under the guise of the dance.

He raised his eyebrows in mock
confusion, but from the small smile on his face, she knew her message had been
understood.
 
"I will defer to your
better judgment, my lady" he teased and pulled her into another turn,
tightening his grip on her waist ever so slightly.

Around them, the music swelled,
rising and falling with the tempo of the dance.
 
The soft candlelight made the jewels that adorned necks, wrists
and ears glitter with the light of a thousand fires.
 
The heat of the ballroom teased her senses again, making her
recall another, much smaller room, but one that was every bit as magical.
 
And in Gibson's eyes, she saw those memories
reflected back at her as he remembered every moment with as much clarity as
she.

Together, they moved like liquid
fire, twirling and twisting, their bodies indecently close.
 
Yet if anyone noticed, no one uttered a
word.
 
There were no hands to pull them
apart, no recriminating words reminding them both that this dance was wholly
inappropriate.

In that moment, they were simply
Amy and Gibson, two lovers caught out of time by circumstances conspiring to
keep them apart.
 
There was no one
else.
 
Just them - fire and ice, light
and dark, two sides of the same element bound together as they should be.
 
No judgment or recrimination to be found.

For Amy, it was as if she was
living in a dream world, one where, at the end of the night, she would not have
to return to Cheltenham House and face a cold, empty bed.
 
In this dream world, she would lay beside
Gibson in a candle-lit room and make love with him all night long, slow and
languorous, their bodies coming together again and again as they tasted passion
together.
 
Yet, at heart, she knew this
was a fantasy, and as the music slowed, she found she was coming crashing back
to Earth far too quickly.

All too soon, the dance ended and
propriety forced them apart so that they could applaud the musicians before
leaving the floor.
 
Beside her, she knew
the very instant that Gibson felt the eyes of the
ton
watching them,
judging them, and, in his mind anyway, finding him lacking.
 
He stiffened, his spine straightening, and
the softness of earlier was gone, replaced by the rigid posture she hated so
very much.

That was not her Gibson.
 
That was proper, fussy Dr. Blackwell, the
son of a traitor and a man of poverty.
 
Damn them all.
 
They had shattered
her illusion, and, even though she knew it had to be done, it still hurt just
as much.

When the last note from the
musicians' instruments fell silent, Gibson became acutely aware of two
things.
 
One, he, a man of disgrace, was
in the middle of a dance floor at a grand ball with a proper lady in his arms.
 
The Paragon, no less.
 
And they had just danced an extremely
scandalous waltz together.
 
Two was that
he had precisely one chance to save her reputation from being in tatters by the
end of the night.

For one moment, he had forgotten
both who and what he was.
 
Instead, he
had been back in the summerhouse.
 
It
was just him and Amy, naked and wrapped in each other's embrace, feeling the
silken sensation of skin against skin.
 
Gibson had forgotten his promise to himself; he had sworn not to put her
or her reputation at risk.
 
Yet, in his
selfish desire to possess her, he had done just that.

He had to make things right.
 
He had to undo the damage he had caused.

"My lady," he said as he
deposited her rather abruptly next to Lady Isabelle, "thank you for the
dance.
 
It was an excellent opportunity
to observe you in motion to ascertain the likelihood of an apoplexy."
 
Behind her, the gray-clad chaperone smiled,
as if confirming the lie and further shattering Amy's carefully guarded
illusions.
 
"I would also like to
thank Miss Tyler, our Lady Isabelle, for allowing the slight impropriety in the
name of your prolonged good health."

Then, with a sharp turn on his
heel, he was gone, moving back into the crowd before disappearing completely
from sight.

Amy turned to glare at Isabelle,
who simply pasted on another maddeningly serene smile.
 

"It had to be said, my
lady.
 
You were on the verge of a great
scandal, and Dr. Blackwell wishes to spare you from that."
 
The chaperone's words were whispered so low
that Amy had to struggle to hear them, even with her excellent hearing.
 
"The waltz was not a good choice, but
once the decision was made, it had to be seen through in order not to create
more gossip.
 
He did what was
necessary."
 
Then Isabelle returned
promptly to her seat as if the entire discussion had never occurred.

As if Amy's heart had not shattered
into a thousand pieces at Gibson's harsh words.
 
No matter how "necessary" they might have been.

Amy was tired of necessary and
proper.
 
She was tired of denying the
truth to herself.
 
She was also tired of
this back and forth with Gibson, one moment lovers in the heat of passion and
the next as cold and distant as if they had only just met.
 
Her heart ached for him.
 
Her body yearned to be held securely in his
strong arms, and she was tired of denying that she felt any of those things.

Most of all, she was tired of being
moved around like a pawn on a chess board, held up as an example of feminine
perfection, yet treated as if she had no heart or mind of her own.
 
Tired of this hot and cold charade that she
played with Gibson and the
ton
day in and day out.
 
For once, she wanted to do as
she
pleased and damn the scandal.
 
Damn them
all.

She wanted to feel as she had that
day in the summerhouse.
 
She wanted to
simply be Amy once more.
 
Not a prize to
be won or an ornament to compliment a man's finely tailored clothes.
 
She had been in love that day and loved in
return.
 
She wanted that again.
 
She deserved nothing less.

Standing on tiptoe, she saw
Gibson's distinctive mahogany hair moving quickly through the crowd and towards
the terrace.
 
He was leaving.
 
Had she blundered that badly?
 
Had she hurt him in some way?
 
Her heart in her throat, she belatedly
remembered now that not only was Gibson saving her, but he was saving his own
reputation as well.
 
They both had much
to risk, and it was foolish, not to mention extremely selfish, of her not to
have realized it.
 
Normally, she was not
sot selfish, except, it seemed, when it came to Gibson.
 
Around him, she could not think
properly.
 
If she was able to think at
all.

As quietly as she could, Amy moved
through the crowd, offering a few quick words of greeting to everyone who
called out to her, but pleading a megrim from the heat.
 
It wasn't a complete lie.
 
She did feel the beginnings of one, but not
from the heat.
 
Rather it was caused by
her own foolishness.
 
The last thing she
wanted was for Gibson to think she did not care about his reputation and good
standing within society.

As she approached the retiring
room, Amy paused near the entrance to Lord Coleridge's library, making it appear
as if she was attempting to catch her breath.
 
Having attended many events at the stately Mayfair home, she knew that a
set of doors at the back of the library led directly to a narrow portion of the
terrace which was rimmed in by a balustrade at one end before opening up to
wide, sweeping marble steps that led to the lush back gardens at the
other.
 
She hoped that she could
intercept Gibson before he left, probably by way of the mews so he would not be
seen entering the Cheltenham family carriage.
 

More than anything, Amy wanted to
explain herself.
 
And apologize.

When she was certain no one else
was around, she slipped through the silent library and out onto the
terrace.
 
There was a little light here,
mostly from the paper Japanese lanterns that had been lit to illuminate a few
of the closer walking paths, allowing guests to stroll the gardens at their
leisure.
 
Many of the lanterns had since
burned down, leaving her cast primarily in shadow.

At first, she was worried that she
would have difficultly finding Gibson, but as her eyes adjusted to the
darkness, she saw his familiar shape leaning against the marble railing,
gripping it as if his life depended on not letting go.

As quietly as she could, she
approached him, the soft shuffling of her pale, peach-hued silk slippers on the
stone floor the only sign of her approach.

"Amy?" Gibson hissed into
the darkness as he turned in her direction.
 
"What are you doing out here?
 
You should not be here.
 
We could
be discovered!"
 
There was real
panic in his voice, and she hated that she had put it there.