Iris had never felt so treasured. She had never felt so . . .
Desired.
A shiver ran through her, and she stumbled. Was this what it felt like, to be wanted by a gentleman? To want one in return? She had watched her cousins fall in love, shaken her head in dismay as infatuation made fools of them all. They had spoken of breathless anticipation, of searing kisses, and then, after their marriages, it had all dropped to a low whisper among themselves. There were secrets—very pleasant ones, it seemed—that were not spoken of among unmarried ladies.
Iris had not understood. When her cousins had spoken of that perfect moment of desire, right before a kiss, she could only think that it sounded dreadful. To kiss someone on the mouth . . . Why on earth would she wish to do that? It seemed rather sloppy business to her.
But now, as she circled through the dance, taking Sir Richard’s hand and allowing him to spin her about, she could not help but stare at his lips. Something awakened within her, a strange yearning, a hunger from deep inside that stole her breath.
Dear God, this was desire. She wanted him. She, who had never even so much as wished to hold a man’s hand, wanted to know him.
She froze.
“Miss Smythe-Smith?” Sir Richard was immediately at her side. “Is something amiss?”
She blinked, and then finally remembered to breathe. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I feel a bit faint, that is all.”
He led her away from the other dancers. “Allow me to get you something to drink.”
She thanked him, then waited in one of the chaperones’ chairs until he returned with a glass of lemonade.
“It’s not cold,” he said, “but the other choice was champagne, and I don’t think that would be wise if you’re feeling light-headed.”
“No. No, of course not.” She took a sip, aware that he was studying her intently. “It was very warm out there,” she said, feeling the need to explain herself, however falsely. “Don’t you think?”
“A bit, yes.”
She took another sip, glad to have something in her hands upon which to focus her attention. “You don’t need to remain here and watch over me,” she told him.
“I know.”
She had been trying not to look at him, but the pleasant simplicity of his words caught her attention.
He gave her a mischievous half smile. “It’s quite agreeable here at the edge of the ballroom. So many people to watch.”
She turned quickly back to her lemonade. It was a sly sort of compliment, but a compliment, indeed. No one would have understood it but they two, and for that reason it was all the more wonderful.
“I shall not be sitting here long, I’m afraid,” she said.
His eyes seemed to sparkle. “Such a statement can only demand explanation.”
“Now that you have danced with me,” she told him, “others will feel the need to follow suit.”
He chuckled at that. “Really, Miss Smythe-Smith, do you find we men so lacking in originality?”
She shrugged, still keeping her gaze fixed ahead. “As I told you, Sir Richard, I am very fond of observation. I cannot say why men do as they do, but I can certainly tell you what they do.”
“Follow one another like sheep?”
She bit back a smile.
“I suppose there is some truth in that,” he acknowledged. “I shall have to congratulate myself on having noticed you all on my own.”
She looked over at him at that.
“I am a man of discerning tastes.”
She tried not to snort. Now he was really laying it on too thick. But she was glad of it. It was easier to remain indifferent when his compliments felt too deliberate.
“I have no reason to doubt your observations,” he continued, leaning back in his chair as he watched the crowds milling about. “But as I am a man, and therefore one of your unknowing subjects—”
“Oh, please.”
“No, no, we must call a spade a spade.” He tilted his head toward hers. “All in the name of science, Miss Smythe-Smith.”
She rolled her eyes.
“As I was saying,” he continued, in a voice that brazenly dared her to interrupt, “I believe I can shed some light upon your observations.”
“I do have a hypothesis of my own.”
“Tsk tsk. You said you could not say why men act as they do.”
“Not conclusively, but I would be appallingly lacking in curiosity if I did not ponder the matter.”
“Very well. You tell me. Why are men such sheep?”
“Well, now you’ve boxed me into a corner. How am I meant to answer that without giving offense?”
“You can’t, really,” he admitted, “except that I will promise that my feelings will not be hurt.”
Iris let out a breath, hardly able to believe she was having such an irregular conversation. “You, Sir Richard, are not a fool.”
He blinked. Then said, “As promised, my feelings are not hurt.”
“And as such,” she continued with a smile—because really, who could have not smiled at that?—“when you take an action, other men will not immediately think you foolish. I imagine there are even a few young gentlemen out there who look up to you.”
“You are too kind,” he drawled.
“To continue,” she said, brooking no interruption, “when you ask a young lady to dance . . . More specifically, a young lady who is not known for dancing, others will wish to know why. They will wonder if you have seen something in her that they have not. And even if they look more closely and still find nothing of interest, they will not wish to be thought ignorant. So they will ask her to dance, too.”