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waltz from The Merry Widow operetta.

      ‘Well, I think this calls for audience participation,’ said the charity director at her side, as all around them at the other tables guests were getting to their feet to take to the dance floor. ‘Will you do me the honour?’ he asked Ellen with a smile.

      But he was forestalled. Max was standing up.

      ‘I claim the first waltz,’ he said, catching Ellen’s elbow and guiding her to her feet. His rival conceded gracefully. Max bore Ellen off.

      She was in a state of consternation, aware that her heart was racing and that she felt breathless. Taken over.

      But then Max has taken me over all day, hasn’t he? I’ve done everything he wanted, all the time!

      Well, now she was going to dance with him, and she wasn’t getting a choice about it. Except—

      ‘I have no idea how to waltz!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I think the Viennese waltz is different from the English waltz anyway. And I—’

      He cut her short. ‘Follow my lead,’ he instructed, and simply took her into his arms and swept her off.

      Into the dance.

      Into the irresistible, lilting music that wafted them around the ballroom floor.

      She felt her long, heavy silk skirts become as light as a feather, swirling around her legs as Max whirled her around until she was dizzy with it, until all she could do was clutch helplessly at his shoulder, hang on to his hand for dear life as he turned her and guided her and never, never let her go.

      ‘You see? It’s easy.’ He smiled at her. ‘Much easier than you feared.’

      And she knew, with a little skip of her heart, that it was not just the waltzing he meant.

      It’s all been so, so easy. The lifting of the hex. Her transformation tonight. Putting on this gorgeous costume, being swept away in his arms...

      Joy filled her—a wonderful sense of carefree elation as if, simply by whirling her around like this, he had whisked away all that oppressed her.

      And for tonight he has! I know that I will have to go home tomorrow, back to all the difficulties and the stress and the fear of losing Haughton. But for tonight I will waltz my cares away.

      The music ended with a flourish, and the cessation of the swirling made her head spin instead. But then she was joining with the others in applauding the orchestra, its players in historical costume as well, and their leader was turning and bowing, introducing the next dance they were going to play.

      It was a polka, and Ellen’s eyes widened again.

      Max didn’t let her speak. ‘Just follow my lead,’ he instructed again.

      And once more she did. It was just as well, she thought absently, that she was pretty fit, for the dance was vigorous and not a few couples finished panting. But Max wasn’t the slightest out of breath, and neither was she.

      ‘Thank goodness for early-morning runs!’ she exclaimed.

      ‘It’s hot work, this elegant dancing,’ Max agreed, running a finger around his distinctly damp collar.

      Ellen smiled. ‘My father used to say that his father, when they went to dances before the war, had to take spare collars with him because they wilted during the night.’

      Max laughed. ‘Well, I envy you your bare shoulders and arms, I can tell you. Will it cause a scandal if I shed this very hot evening jacket, I wonder?’

      ‘You’ll be blackballed instantly!’ she warned him with a laugh.

      ‘Oh, well, I’m just a foreigner and a parvenu, so I won’t care,’ he riposted, and took her back into his arms as the music started up again.

      It was a much slower waltz now, and Ellen was relieved. Or at least she was until she felt Max’s hand tightening at her waist. It was hard to feel much through the whalebone bodice, but there was something in the way he was imprinting his hold on her that made her breath catch despite the slowness of the music. Made it catch again when she saw the expression in his eyes, looking down at her. She felt colour run out into her cheeks. She tried to stop it, tried to hope that he would take it only for heat, no other reason. She tried to pull her gaze away, but it was hopeless...

      ‘Glad you came to the ball?’ he asked, a faint smile ghosting at his mouth.

      His long lashes swept down over his eyes and he smiled at her. Were there gold flecks in those eyes? She could only gaze into their depths, captivated and entranced.

      Her lips parted in a wide, joyful smile. ‘Oh, yes! It’s just...wonderful! All of it. Every bit!’

      A wicked glint gleamed in Max’s eyes. ‘Even the whalebone in your bodice?’ he asked.

      ‘OK,’ she allowed. ‘Not that.’

      ‘Though it does give you the most superb figure,’ he said, and now...oh, most definitely...now there were golden flecks in his eyes.

      He pulled a little away from her so his eyes could take in the glory of her narrowed waist, the full roundness of her hips, and then, moving upwards, the generous curvature of her breasts. His gaze lingered...then he dragged them away.

      No. The voice inside his head was stern. No, he must not. This evening was about liberating Ellen Mountford from the chains that weighed her down. Freeing her from the mental burdens that blighted her life, made her want to hide herself away in her safe place, her childhood home, where she could moulder away, never emerging into the world.

      Well, she was emerging now, all right. Male eyes were all over her. Max had seen that the moment he’d walked into the ballroom. They were on her still, and he didn’t blame them.

      Mine are too...

      No. The stern voice inside his head came again. No—he must not permit that. This evening was for her, not him! Oh, it was for himself too—of course it was—but only because showing Ellen how wonderful her life could be once she joined the world, instead of hiding herself away at Haughton, would mean that he could acquire what he was set on acquiring. Which was not Ellen Mountford—it was the house she would not willingly sell to him.

      But you could have her as well...

      The siren thought was in his head, as sinuous and seductive as the slow pulse of the music he was moving to.

      Ellen was in his arms, her body so close to his, her weight pressing in on him as they turned, his arm around her waist, her rich ruby mouth smiling up at him. Tempting him...

      The music ended and he was glad. He led her back to their table and immediately the charity director was on his feet. Ellen was led away, and Max watched her go. Was there a reluctance in her now? Would she rather have not danced again but sat with him and watched the dancers? He didn’t know—knew only that there was a kind of growl inside him...a growl that made him reach for the cognac bottle and pour himself a glass.

      The two other couples at the table were taking a break as well, and were chatting, drawing him into their conversation. He joined in civilly but his gaze, he knew, kept going back out to the dance floor, searching for Ellen.

      I want her.

      That was the voice in his head now. Stark, blunt and simple. His jaw set. He could want her all he liked, but fulfilling that want would lead to complications.

      The question was—did he care?

      And right now, watching her in another man’s arms—this woman he’d released from the bondage of her mental chains, freed to revel in the natural beauty that was hers—and feeling that deep, primal growl rising in him again, he knew as the fiery liqueur glazed his throat and fuelled his heated blood that he didn’t care at all...

       CHAPTER SEVEN

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