A Waltz in the Park Read Online Free Page A

order.  Society’s older women loved him for it—or they stayed away.  Innocents who wandered into his path usually sidled quickly away again, as if the stain of his wickedness might rub off on them.
    They did not usually stare at him with frank assessment and open appreciation.  They did not often run a searching gaze over him, from his short hair to his shining Hessians—and every spot in between.
    And he did not usually react like a restless and jumpy, untried boy. 
    “Last chance?” he asked at last. “At what?”
    He stopped, suddenly aware that this was the third—no, fourth , time he’d responded to her with a short, sharp question.  So much for his vaunted charm. 
    “To make your acquaintance.”
    Her gaze still roamed, scanning his shoulders and arms, following the lines of his waistcoat and moving on to widen again, as if measuring the width of his thighs.
    “Is that what you are doing?” he asked wryly.  “Making my acquaintance?”
    She stilled and looked him in the eye again at last.  “Yes, I hope so.  But I admit, I am quite admiring you as well.”
    He clamped his mouth shut.  Safer to say nothing at all to something like that.
    She shrugged.  “One does hear so many things about you, Mr. Vickers.  I am glad to find that at least one of the reports is true.  You truly do inspire chill bumps, up close.”
    Surprise vanquished any remaining annoyance.  He laughed.  “I’ve heard about you too—heard that you are Perfection Itself.  Though if I were to judge by this conversation alone, I might be skeptical.”
    “Perfection?  No.  Careful?  Yes.”  She shuddered.  “Who would want to be perfect?  It sounds ghastly boring.”  She glanced up.  “Though it’s a relief to know there’s at least one person in Town who knows I’m not.”
    Again, she kept her voice low and her expression polite.  For all the people milling about and past them knew, they could be discussing the weather.
    He had to admit, he was enjoying the farce.  He lowered his tone, too.  “And you?  What do you inspire, up close?”
    Some of the light left her face.  “It would depend on just who you ask, sir.  I’ve learned that Society looks at me and I am instantly dubbed either a saint or a sinner.  Either way, the only thing I seem to inspire is caution.”
    “You continually surprise me, Miss Stockton.  I felt sure the answer would be befuddlement.”
    “It’s been known to happen,” she said affably. 
    He narrowed his gaze and glanced at the group still moving off without her.  “What else do they say about me?
    “Oh, many things.  That you are quite wonderfully witty, but wicked with it.  That you drink too much, gamble too much, and spend time with the wrong sorts of women.”
    He shot her a tight glance.  “Let’s add exasperation to the list of reactions.  Do you always answer a question so directly?”
    She shrugged.  “Not lately.”
    He snorted.  “Then I don’t know whether to feel honored or annoyed.  I’ll wager that on further acquaintance you inspire even more volatile responses . . . murderous tendencies, perhaps?”
    She stilled and he thought perhaps he’d taken it too far.  But no.  She didn’t look upset . . . but interested.  Everything about this encounter had been novel—but that look of speculation?  He was more than passing familiar with it.
    The trees behind them shifted in the breeze just then and a stray shaft of sunshine lit her from behind.  And in that moment he understood the reverence with which Nowell had spoken of her.  Fair skin and fine form, wide blue eyes and the fresh look of a dew-kissed nymph—celestial indeed.  Yet paired with that saucy humor and the hint of pain she’d revealed? 
    It all made an image that might have been specifically crafted to set his nerves on edge and his heart to kicking like an irritable stallion.  To stimulate his senses and tug at his dusty, neglected heart strings.
    He spoke quickly