“Why not?” Montbarrow asked, indignant on Tensford’s behalf.
“Perhaps she is Lady X,” Tensford threw out.
“No, it’s because Westmore is great friends with the man who prints the paper, Childers. Boyhood chums. His family will never feel the sting of Lady X’s sharp wit.”
“Chit’s too young to be Lady X, in any case,” Montbarrow said thoughtfully. “Her scandal rag has been printed for years.”
“And people have been trying to ferret her out for just as long.” Neville emptied his glass. “We’ll never know.”
“Perhaps she is a he,” Tensford said, just to keep the conversation going.
“Now there is a thought I hadn’t entertained.” Montbarrow looked much struck.
“No—couldn’t be. She shows far too much interest in fashion,” Neville laughed. “And I mean the ribbons and furbelows, not in how easily they might come off!”
The laughter was lower and more conspiratorial this time—as was the conversation that followed, about much different sorts of women.
Tensford didn’t listen. Disappointment tasted bitter in the back of his throat. But this was just his first attempt. He sighed. There would be other ideas—perhaps a visit to the printer might turn something up—and this night held promise to be the first he might actually enjoy in London. He’d gained a modicum of acceptance from his peers—and he still had his dance with Lady Hope to look forward to.
He watched her throughout the evening, so clearly enjoying herself, just as she’d wished, and he realized her mere presence made him feel more at ease. And that it made him happy to see her happy. But it also made him . . . impatient.
The more time he spent with her, the more he was drawn to her. He liked her smile. He liked the way she could listen with sympathy and not pity. Hell, he liked the way she actually listened, truly hearing what he said, without merely waiting for her turn to speak, to lecture, or to ask for things he couldn’t give.
He liked the way her hair shone in the candlelight and how she looked both curvy and elegant in that dress.
Two thousand pounds.
A handsome sum, but it lost in the balance against the sheer number of leaking roofs and crumbling barns at Greystone, not to mention the tenants in need of steady work.
So he curbed his impatience. He talked with the gentlemen and even danced twice. And he squashed the eagerness and anticipation he felt when the time came for the supper dance and he could approach her at last. He kept his smile relaxed and he kept a rein on the tightening in his nether regions—all in spite of the way her low bodice hugged her curves and the rich color of her gown enhanced the flush of her skin.
He bowed before her. “I believe this is our dance.”
His hand held steady, his manner elegantly detached.
He convinced himself that he could do this.
And then the first strains of the music began.
A waltz.
A cursed waltz, where he was going to have to touch her, hold her, feel her hands on him.
Damn.
Chapter 5
Have we, as a Society, given thanks for the waltz? Oh, but we must. To feel your partner move beneath your touch, to feel his arms around you . . . surely it is the most romantic dance of all time . . .
--Whispers From Lady X
Her heart pounded when the supper dance arrived—at last. Her excitement was partially due to her daring plan, of course, but that was not the full of it.
Why did it feel like relief when Lord Tensford approached? Gladness and relief, as if it had been a trial to spend the evening away from his side?
Breathing deeply, she managed to stay calm when he bowed over her hand—an effort that grew easier when the music sounded the first few strains of a waltz—and he looked horrified.
She laughed. “Do relax, my lord. I promise not to step on your toes.”
The stoic mask dropped back into place. “I wish I could promise the same, but it’s been some time since I waltzed.”
“You are safe with me. Should you miss a step, I vow not to show a sign of it.”
His mouth quirked. “Very well.” He held out a hand. “Let’s muddle through, shall we?”
He led her out and eased them into the dance. The music swelled. Their eyes met—and the world went blurry at the edges. No need for her to dissemble, despite his worries. Effortlessly they moved together while the dancers, musicians, and all the rest of the ball disappeared in a colorful haze, melted by the heat of his hand at her waist. She shivered suddenly, as the warmth began to spread, chasing cold and doubt and fear away.
Time slowed. She drifted, weightless, in his arms. Even the music had faded inside the bubble they’d slipped into. A place where they were connected in a way she had never imagined.
Yes. This, whispered her soul. And she knew her instincts had been right and this was exactly where they were meant to be.
Except it wasn’t.
Not yet.
So she blinked and the world came back into focus and he, too, looked like he was awakening from a dream.
Gradually, her wits returned. “So, how did you fare in your hunt, my lord?”
“I . . . hunt?” He sounded more than a little befuddled.
“For Lady X?” she prompted.
“Oh.” He shook his head a little. “I hit a bit of a wall.”
“I hope you won’t be offended if I say I am glad.”
His gaze cleared as he met hers directly. “You don’t think she deserves to be held up to the same scrutiny that she focuses on others?”
“I think revenge or retaliation rarely does anyone good, and can rebound upon the person seeking it.”
A
