“Now, Horton, look lively!” Lady Alameda ordered. “We’ve gathered a very distinguished audience in Lady Ashburton’s private drawing room to hear these bawdy poems of yours.”
Lady Ashburton patted her palms together eagerly, but with the soft fabric of her gloves it made almost no sound. “Oh yes! You will be all the talk, Lord Horton. All the talk. Lord Byron move over, I say. Nothing like a good arousing poem.”
“Amelia!” Lady Bessborough rebuked her friend loud enough for half the occupants of the room to hear. “You’re flushed already. Do try to control yourself, my dear.”
Elizabeth stood dumbfounded as they dragged away Lord Horton and his Missing Spine to begin a career as an erotic poet. She stepped out of the promenade pathway. Her hand fluttered up helplessly in a wave of farewell.
Someone captured her floating hand and bowed over it, someone in a green coat. “May I?”
By the time she composed herself enough to skewer Lord St. Evert properly, it was too late. The waltz had begun, and he held her in his arms, his green-sleeved arms.
As St. Evert whirled her in step beside the other waltzing couples, she caught sight of Sir Blah and Lord Not-So-Cherubic nudging one another and falling in line behind the matrons and their naughty poet. A veritable parade of guests streamed out of the ballroom after them. “Well, that’s that then,” she muttered and glanced up at Lord St. Evert.
He was studying her. “Are you disappointed?”
The question caught her off guard. Too late to hide the play of emotions that must surely be marching across her face. If only he would look away. Disappointed? To have exchanged pasty Lord Horton and his bulging corset for Lord St. Evert, whose hand on her back guided her with strength and confidence, whose sprinkling of mischievous freckles belied the intensity of his eyes and the firm line of his jaw? Hardly.
Yet she could not forget he probably had less than a thousand pounds a year compared to Lord Horton’s thirty. There was also the matter of the coat. Not to mention his abominable lack of fashion sense and a dozen other annoying habits. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
He almost smiled at her. “At last, an honest answer.”
One of his dozen or so annoying habits was the uncanny ability to lace his comments with barbs. She sniffed at him. “Are you trying to flatter me?”
His wicked dimples curled into existence. “You don’t need flattery, my lady.” He smiled as he glanced away, guiding them through a turn.
“And what precisely does that mean?”
“Haven’t you enough flatterers in your court?”
“No.”
He tilted his head, chiding her with a single look. “Tut-tut, Izzie. Honesty.”
“Don’t tut-tut me. You are not my father. Nor my governess. And you may address me as Lady Elizabeth.”
His impudent grin ought to have faded, but it stayed securely in place. “You’re frowning, my dear. Mustn’t pucker your brow in public. People will think I’m torturing you rather than waltzing.”
“They would be correct. While we’re on the subject of torture, I wish you would stop persecuting me in this childish manner.”
“Persecuting?”
“Trying to embarrass me. Your coat.” She glanced at the sidelines. Two debutantes in white ruffled gowns nodded in their direction and tittered. “You see. People are laughing at us.”
“You have a vivid imagination. I doubt anyone is laughing at us. Who would care about such a trivial matter?”
“They are. I saw them laughing.”
“Nonsense. The whole world does not set their clocks by you.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“Good. Then don’t wrinkle up your brow so ferociously or they will be snickering at your prune face instead of the color of our clothing.”
Prune face, indeed! And it will be all his fault. “This is the third time, is it not, that we have matched? I do not believe for one instant that it is simply a coincidence your coat is the exact color of my dress. You did it on purpose.”
“I assure you, Lady Elizabeth. It is precisely that, a coincidence. More to the point, we don’t match. There is not one peacock on this coat. While you have a veritable flock of them on your gown.”
“Splitting hairs. It’s as if you snuck into my room, saw from a distance the fabric I was sewing, and copied it. These peacocks blend with the background color to form the very shade of green you are wearing.”
“Sewing? And here I thought you were merely reading late at night.”
“So you did spy on me.”
“You wound me, my lady. Were I to spy on you, I would do a far better job of it. I would find the exact fabric and produce a coat far more interesting than this dull old thing. This happens to be my cousin’s coat. I borrowed it for the evening. My coat was...” His dimples disappeared, and he swung her forcefully into the half turn, narrowly avoiding another couple. “No longer suitable.”
She stared at him. He was earnest. This coat certainly didn’t resemble the horrid creation with huge lapels he’d worn to Lady Sefton’s breakfast. No, this one fit his broad shoulders perfectly and hung as if Weston himself had designed it. Perplexing.
He leaned in, speaking nearer to her ear. “Further to the point, if I were to sneak into your room late at night, let me assure you, it would certainly not be for a look at your fabric.”
Elizabeth blinked. She felt the jostle of his shoulder under her hand. He was chuckling at her. He’d just made a lurid remark, hadn’t he? Yes. Yes, he had. She felt a rush of heat prickle up her neck. “I ought to slap you for that remark.”
“Should you? Why?”
“It was unseemly.”
“Oh, well, in that case, slap away, my dear. But first, tell me, what must I do to you for wearing that unseemly gown?”
“My gown?” She glanced down to see if something had fallen off or ripped open or...
Her brow
