Page 16 of The Notorious Lord Sin
She would never forgive him for his treatment of her, but he was the only man who had ever made her burn with desire, and she needed to feel alive again.
Not to mention to make him fall in love with her, give him hope so she may rip it from beneath him when he least expected it.
The thought made her giddy, and she clasped two crystal glasses of champagne from a passing footman and handed one to Millie.
"To the costume ball. May we have a jolly good time," she toasted.
Millie clinked her glass against Paris’s, and they both took a healthy sip. "I think your Mark Antony is here," Millie said, nodding toward the ballroom door.
Paris glanced in the direction of the doors and felt her mouth gape. "That's not Mark Antony. That's Caesar," she said, not wanting anyone to think she had dressed as Caesar's love interest. She frowned, hating the idea that people's tongues may wag, and regretted her costume immediately.
"Well, your Roman gentleman seems to be making his way over to you in any case," Millie said, tapping her glass against hers a second time before sauntering off.
Paris whispered for her to come back but to no avail. Her friend ignored her plea and moved on to another group of friends. Paris inwardly swore. Watching Lord Astoridge stroll toward her with a determination that left her breathless was not what she needed.
She needed to remain angry at him. Not allow the handsomeness that oozed from his every pore to seduce her to forget how he treated her.
He may be all gentlemanly behavior now, but that was not always the case. Because of his cruelty, her daughter would never know who her birth father was.
"My queen," he said, dipping into a low bow before her, his eyes sparkling with mischief when he stood.
She raised her brows and attempted to look less than impressed. Not that anyone could not be impressed with his costume. Historically accurate toga right down to his leather sandals.
Her attention dipped to his feet, his bare, muscular calves and knees. He was as hairy as she remembered, and God save her sinful soul, she wondered if he wore anything under that silk but himself.
"Caesar. Still alive, I see," she drawled.
"That I am." He chuckled and came to stand at her side. "You look beautiful, Paris," he said, his attention moving over her like a caress. She felt every shifting of his gaze from the tip of her nose to her feet. "When I saw you this evening, I felt my breath catch."
Paris threw back her head and laughed, a part of her reveling in his attention, his sweet, seductive words, while another part of her, a dark, angry portion of her soul, wanted to growl that he dared even speak to her.
"You are so very good with words, my lord. You remind me of the man I once knew. A man willing to say anything so long as he gained his way or pleasure," she whispered. "Before moving on to greener pastures."
He flinched at her words, and a small frown deepened between his eyes. "Can we not throw barbs at each other this evening? I know I did you wrong, but you married well despite my atrocious behavior against you. I know we shared one sinful night, but nothing came of it."
Paris bit down her retort that something did come of them sleeping together. A beautiful, sweet girl who had been denied her true name because of the disregard of the man before her. But she could not tell him that. To do so would ruin Maya, and no matter how angry or hurt she was, she could not injure her child.
"Very well, I shall lay down my sword, which is probably best. I would hate for Caesar to be murdered again by a knife in the back," she said, only half-teasingly.
He grinned, watching her. "Shall we dance?" he asked, holding out his hand.
She reluctantly slipped her hand into his and let him lead her onto the floor. The orchestra started to play a waltz, and soon she was floating about the floor in her white silk tunic, all that separated her and Dominic.
His hand felt warm and large on her back, the thin material no barrier to his heated touch. Her skin prickled, and a shiver stole down her spine. How easy it would be to fall for such charms again. But she could not. They were not for her. He would best be dancing with Lady Esme.
As if the reflection of the one woman who loathed her most in society was conjured at the thought, she noted her on the side of the ballroom floor, watching them. Her pinched mouth told Paris without words that she did not like Lord Astoridge dancing with her.
"Lady Esme will hate me even more now that you're dancing with me. You should spend more time with her, rather than wasting it with me."
"I do not want Lady Esme in my bed," he stated. "There is only one woman who interests me right at this moment, and I'm holding her in my arms."
"Still so very good with words, Lord Astoridge," she said, forgetting she had promised to be civil.
He stared at her, nonplussed. "Play nice, Paris," he warned.
"And if I do not wish to?" she replied, feeling as though the conversation had slipped into another subject entirely and one that was not at all proper.
"Then I shall have to punish you, my queen," he stated. "As a Roman senator, it is my duty, I feel, to guide you when I believe you're misguided in your thinking."
