This dinner was turning out to be quite the disaster. At least for him. The other guests seemed to be enjoying themselves, dressed in a flood of brilliant colors, silk and feathers.
Rolling his eyes promptly at Jocelyn’s use of the word sweetheart, he made a hard sound in the back of his throat. Valentine could see his mother enter the dining area next to his father’s side. His father’s arm was wrapped around his mother’s middle, holding close to her side proudly. They looked regal — like a lion and a lioness. For a moment, in that thought, he’d forgotten about the hurricane that was Jocelyn Fairchild.
“Lovely party, Miss Fairchild,” Valentine began, as politely as he possibly could. He couldn’t help but steal a glance at the way her breasts pressed up against the cut of her dress. He quickly looked away. To be driven mad by such desires was not in his nature nor did he want to make it his nature. “That is, aside from your presence here.”
Jocelyn noticed the almost imperceptive flick of Valentine’s gaze, felt it graze the pale flesh of her bosom. Hot embarrassment rose in her cheeks. For the first time that night, she regretted wearing such a tight fitting dress that showed off everything. For the nine hundredth time in her life, she wished her skin wasn’t so pale, so transparent, that a blush sent a rage of color through her entire face. She said nothing of it, just glared harshly over at him, as if she was trying to send him to Hell with a mere glance.
“Well, Mr. Morgenstern,” she snapped, her green eyes alive with frustration and anger, “I can hardly be absent from my family’s ball, can I?” She glared at him, swirling her champagne around in her glass.