“Oh, undoubtedly,” she replied.
He laughed and the sound made her grin.
“I did not come over to you just now out of pity, you know.”
She nearly laughed. Of course he felt guilty that she thought so. He had, but she wouldn’t argue the point. She wasn’t about to help paint herself as some hapless damsel in distress. She’d gone to great lengths these last few years to ensure that no one saw her as weak or pitiful. She was Lady Abigail Purewater, after all. And she was here to find herself a husband.
The fact that she had to remind herself of either truth made alarm bells ring in the back of her mind again, but she studiously ignored them.
“Then why did you?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Why did you seek me out?”
He smiled. “I seemed to remember a certain lady saying that she had a distaste for boring old military men.”
Her smile faltered. “Yes, well...a wise man once told me that war heroes deserve our respect.”
His gaze sharpened as if he was seeing her anew. And then a flicker of amusement lit his eyes. “A wise man, hmm?”
She laughed. “Please don’t go and become conceited on me. I’m afraid London society has reached its quota of swollen egos.”
His laughter made her feel dizzy and she looked away, taking in those preening peacocks she’d just mentioned. Those were the men she’d come here to attract. That was her job, was it not? They preened, she strutted. It was the mating ritual of the titled and powerful.
The good major was just a means to an end. As she was for him.
She rather wished she hadn’t let her gaze stray from his. Looking around the ballroom, she was all too aware of the judgmental eyes on them.
Major Mayfield seemed to become aware of them as well. “Is it my imagination or have we caused a stir with our dancing?”
Her smile felt brittle when she turned her face back to his. “Perhaps you did not hear, Major. You really ought not dance with me. Not here, at least, where I am so unwelcome.”
“You are a duke’s daughter,” he said. “I highly doubt you’re unwelcome anywhere.”
She tilted her head to study him. Did he really not know of the rumors? Hope flickered and died a quick death. If he didn’t now, he would soon enough. Exhaustion swept over her and she was grateful for the strength of his arms. “Yes, well…” Even her voice sounded weary. “This is Marigold’s party, and she and her friends have their reasons for disliking me.” She shrugged. “This is not my crowd, that’s all.”
He studied her in silence, and she wished he’d say something. Anything. As it was, his gaze held hers and it seemed to see right through her nonchalant words. “You’re not dead yet, you know.”
Her chin jerked back at the tone. For a second he sounded like Sir Geoffrey. “Pardon?”
“I just meant, whatever bad blood exists between you and this set. I’m sure it’s nothing that could not be overcome. It seems to me there are very few matters in life that are irreversible or non-negotiable.” He gave her a small smile. “Except death. And as I pointed out a moment ago…”
“It’s true. I am not dead.” Her tone was bland, but she was struggling not to laugh.
“Just so.” He glanced down between them, eyeing her from head to toe and making her skin sizzle wherever his gaze fell. “You look very much alive to me.”
Her breath hitched again as her heart thumped loudly in her chest at the heat in his gaze.
She was very much alive. And she’d never felt so alive as she did right this moment.
7
Alex walked away from Abigail, regret making his steps less precise than usual. He wasn’t sorry he’d asked her to dance. In fact, he was exceedingly glad.
He abhorred the way the others at the party were treating her, which was deplorable to say the least. They whispered from behind their fans, not that the fluttering instruments hid their intent. The ladies giggled as they whispered, and the gentlemen, if one could call them that, sneered as they avoided her company. He well remembered those same dandies leering at her in an entirely different manner at the last house party they’d all attended, the hypocritical halfwits.
So yes, he was glad he’d stepped in and asked her to dance. Though that wasn’t the only reason he was glad he’d asked. The dance had been...wonderful. Surprisingly so.
Once again, they’d moved seamlessly across the floor, their steps effortlessly in sync. She made him feel aware, alive, light and...fun. A word he hadn’t used to describe himself in ages.
And then there was the conversation.
He’d caught hints in Abigail’s words of humbleness, kindness, genuine regret, and—
He stopped his thoughts. Had he imagined all of that? Was he painting her with the colors he wished to see rather than the ones that were already there?
But why would he do that? He didn’t want Abigail at all.
His body disagreed, his muscles tightening as he pictured her.
But perhaps he merely enjoyed stepping in and saving a beautiful woman in need. He did have a tendency toward playing the hero.
If they were at a different party, one where Abigail was the toast of London rather than the outcast, would he be as enamored?
The word rang in his head. Enamored? He glanced back at her, Abigail’s gaze still trained on him. Who wouldn’t be enamored? Tall and striking, she was a force of nature.
Then again, in moments like that dance, she seemed less a force and more a delicate flower with a slender stem. The beauty was there, fragile and promising to be even more stunning if only it was given the chance to bloom.
But that was the question with Abigail, wasn’t it? Would she bloom into the sort of woman who had real depth and character, or would she remain just another vapid darling of the ton?
The need to save her rose up again. He could
