this particular dance, when their slippers are in such close proximity to their partner's dancing shoes. And I am not your sweetheart.'
The orchestra began playing, and for a while he forgot everything but the sheer pleasure of moving with her through the lilting steps of the waltz. He was going to regret not seeing her again after tonight, not matching wits with her. Not kissing her.
She looked up at him and arched her eyebrows.
'No squashed toes yet,' she said.
'If I do anything so clumsy and unmannerly,' he said, 'I will allow you to use your fist on my face without even trying to defend myself.'
She laughed.
'How is your courtship proceeding?' she asked him. 'Your aunt looks very pleased with herself this evening.'
He grimaced. 'Parson's mousetrap hovers,' he said. 'According to Constance, who is about as eager for the match as I am, she is determined to throw us together tonight with such frequency that for very decency's sake we will be obliged to announce our engagement. It might be of interest to add that the woman's will has almost never been thwarted.'
'Nonsense!' she said. 'I found her quite an unworthy foe when I spoke with her this morning.'
'Perhaps Connie and I should let you loose on her then, sweetheart,' he said. 'I don't suppose you feel like entering into a fake betrothal with me for a day or two, do you?'
He grinned at her.
She stared at him, an arrested look on her face. Her eyebrows rose haughtily. He waited for the lash of her tongue.
'Actually,' she said, 'it would be rather fun, would it not?'
They were still waltzing, he discovered with some surprise.
CHAPTER VIII
He was mad.
She was mad.
They grinned at each other like a pair of prize idiots.
It was a wild, mad suggestion. Surely he had not been serious. But the chance of getting even for this morning's insults in the Pump Room was irresistible to Freyja. Besides, she had been in the mopes all day because of that infernal letter-or rather, because of that one brief infernal paragraph in the letter. And this really did sound like fun.
A mock betrothal! Just what she had suspected Kit of last year, some part of her mind told her. She pushed the thought firmly aside. She was sick to death of Kit Butler, Viscount Ravensberg.
She had always been a madcap. Those many governesses she had plagued had been forever trying to explain to her that if she only learned to think before she acted instead of dashing impulsively onward with every scheme that presented itself to her vivid imagination, she would land herself in trouble far less often.
Freyja had always rather enjoyed trouble.
She found herself suddenly, irrationally, and quite inappropriately happy.
'By all means,' she said to the marquess. 'Let us do it. Tonight. Now. We can break it off tomorrow. It is doubtless what people will expect of us anyway.'
She had always loved performing the energetic, slightly scandalous waltz. She had been particularly enjoying this one. But she was quite happy to abandon it before it ended. The marquess waited until they were close to the doorway leading to the tearoom, then waltzed her through it before releasing his hold on her, taking her by the elbow, and going in search of the master of ceremonies, who was absent from the ballroom.
Mr. King was in the tearoom, circulating among the tables there, conversing with their occupants. He beamed genially at them, rubbing his hands together as he did so.
'My lord,' he said. 'I am delighted to have such illustrious guests at the assembly as you and Lady Freyja Bedwyn-and the marchioness, your aunt, and her daughter, of course. A table for two, my lord?'
'No, thank you,' the marquess said, smiling amiably. 'Perhaps you would be willing to make a public announcement at the end of the waltz, King. I wish all my friends and acquaintances in Bath to share my joy. Lady Freyja Bedwyn has just made me the happiest of men by accepting my marriage proposal.'
Mr. King looked almost speechless with wonder for a few moments. But it did not take him long to recover himself and puff out his chest with importance. He beamed with delight.
'It will give me the greatest pleasure, my lord,' he declared, taking one of the marquess's hands between both his own and pumping it up and down. He made Freyja a deferential bow. 'My lady. I cannot tell you how gratified and honored I am.'
They left him as he called for the attention of everyone in the tearoom and informed them that if they proceeded to the ballroom when the music ended, they would hear a happy announcement indeed.
'You have just saved me from a situation akin to walking on eggs, sweetheart,' the marquess murmured as he led Freyja back to the ballroom. 'Perhaps I can repay you in some way one day.'
'You may depend upon it,' she said. 'Though I do believe that just the look on your aunt's face is going to be reward enough for now. Indeed, I would not miss it for worlds.'
The waltz was ending. The marquess offered Freyja his arm and led her to where Lady Holt-Barron was sitting. Very properly he bowed before returning to his own party, but his eyes were dancing with merriment, Freyja noticed, unfurling her fan and cooling her hot face with it.
She schooled her features to their customary hauteur. What on earth had she done now? Wulf would freeze her solid with a glance if he ever heard about it. How soon tomorrow could they end the joke?
