between their two bodies.
“I adore dancing,” she said as she opened her fan and plied it slowly before her face. “I daresay you do too. I do apologize for depriving you of the pleasure of participating any further until the next set.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Besides, I do
She could feel the heat from his body and smell that very enticing cologne again. She would not mind at all, she thought quite scandalously, if he accidentally touched her arm or kissed her hand. Or her lips, for that matter. She had never been kissed. She had
The ballroom was surely exceedingly warm.
“I suppose,” she said because she did not want him to suspect that she had guessed the truth, poor man, “you have been dancing for so many years that you have become quite jaded.”
“Not at all,” he said again. “I have always been clumsy at it. I have been able to avoid dancing until this year. I was insignificantly positioned as the younger brother of an earl who was married and beginning to set up his nursery. When he died last year, my life changed.”
Ah, an honest man. One who was willing to admit that he was a clumsy dancer. There were not many honest people in this world, Angeline suspected, especially on the subject of their own defects.
“And now you are expected to dance all the time,” she said, smiling at him. “You were forced to dance with me.”
“I was not
Ah, not always honest. Her smile deepened.
“You were in mourning all last year, then, were you?” she asked him. “I have been in mourning too, though not last year. It was the year before. For my mother. I ought to have made my come-out last year. Is that not strange? If I
Perhaps he did not see their meetings as fate. Or not as a happy one, anyway. If he did, he had nothing to say on the subject. And when she glanced at him, she could see that his lips were rather tightly set.
It really was a fast and vigorous dance, she thought as her eyes strayed beyond his shoulder. Tresham was dancing with the widowed Countess of Heyward and Ferdinand with the small, blond- haired, very pretty Lady Martha Hamelin, with whom Angeline had chatted at great length at St. James’s Palace this morning. Trust Ferdie to single out the loveliest girl in the room.
She really hoped Lady Martha would be one of those close friends she craved.
“I
She glanced down at it. Her foot was reclining on the brocaded stool. Her
“You are accident prone, Lady Angeline?” he asked.
“I fell out of a tree,” she said. “I was crossing the bull’s meadow because I was late and needed to return home quickly and because there was no sign of the bull. I
He was looking fully at her and it struck her foolishly that she could well drown in his blue eyes if she gazed into them for long enough.
“I hope,” he said, “you learned to be more punctual for appointments, Lady Angeline, so that in future you need not be tempted to cross forbidden and dangerous meadows.”
She tipped her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully.
“I told the story to make you smile,” she said. “Other men slap their thighs when I tell it and roar with mirth. Ladies titter behind their fans and look merry.”
“I wonder,” he said, “if they would all laugh so hard if it were Tresham telling the story about his
“Lord Heyward,” she said, “are you perhaps just a little bit stuffy?”
And there, she had done it again. Words before thought. But it was too late to recall them.
His nostrils flared slightly. She had annoyed him, which was really hardly surprising.
But she had not meant her observation to be an insult or even a criticism. She did not mind in the least if he was a little stuffy. Not under the circumstances. It had probably never occurred to anyone else whose ears she had regaled with that particular story that it might just as easily have been a
Perhaps she ought to have used the words
“According to your definition of the word, Lady Angeline,” he said, “no doubt I am. I do not find stories of charging bulls amusing. Or stories of unescorted ladies being accosted by impudent fellows in inn taprooms, though I daresay such incidents could be made to sound uproariously amusing. Or stories of daredevils racing their curricles along a narrow road used by other innocent and unsuspecting travelers, though I daresay such incidents have entertained many a gathering of men who admire sheer daredevilry. I make no apology for being
Angeline gazed at him.
And had a thought.
Had his brother died in a curricle race? Had he been a daredevil?
Did he blame
He certainly blamed her for the bull incident. Because she had been
She might have bristled with anger at the implied criticism, as she undoubtedly would have done if it had been Tresham delivering the scold, or Ferdinand. Or Miss Pratt.