“Of course, my dear,” the Duke cut in, effectively shushing the Dowager.
A determined tilt to her chin, Olivia wouldn’t risk another glance at Lord St. Alban or squirm beneath his steady, serious gaze. It was possible he saw through to her very soul. “Your Grace, this Salon will be declaredthecrush of the Season.”
They were the exact, correct words to speak to her hostess, which was yet another reason she should stay far away from Lord St. Alban. The correct words tended to perform a disappearing act in his presence.
She turned to make her escape when a pair of green bucks, with no more than forty years between them, rushed forward as if the house was on fire. “Duchess!” they cried in unison.
“Yes? Yes?” The Dowager’s face tensed in alarm. “What is it?”
Flight arrested by this sudden burst of activity, Olivia paused mid-step.Hisattention was still fixed upon her. She felt its blue ice down to her bones. How she longed to rid her body of its betraying blush.
“Duchess Dallie,” began one of the bucks in a studiously measured tone, “we must have dancing tonight.” The youth had imbibed a touch too much champagne punch.
“Dancing?” The tension in the Dowager’s face released in relief. “My dears, this isn’t a ball.”
“But it is a ballroom, Duchess,” pointed out the other young buck. “A glorious one.”
“Its magnificence is unrivaled by any other in London,” added his cohort.
Olivia suspected the two had been knocking back something a little harder than champagne punch. She risked a quick glance at Lord St. Alban, his serious gaze taking in the frivolous scene. She had a feeling they were all frivolous beings in his eyes.
Yet his close proximity had her body coiled tighter than a piano string, and she suspected all he would need to do was stroke a single key to make her vibrate and sing out . . .
She pressed cooling fingers to burning cheeks and inhaled a fortifying breath. She’d rather he not notice, but if he did, he did. She needed air.
“What sort of bet?” the Dowager inquired, calling Olivia’s attention back to the conversation around her.
The one young buck nudged the other. “To see if a certain lady will dance with Bletham.”
A smile, equal parts delight and mischief, teetered about the corners of the Dowager’s lips. “For a dance, you say?” She glanced at the Duke. “I don’t see why not?”
“A waltz?” one of the bucks pressed, boldness winning the day.
“Well, we’ve come this far, haven’t we?” the Dowager stated more than asked.
Before Olivia could blink, the young bucks and the Dowager rushed away to inform the string quartet of their new duties. The Duke hesitated, his gaze finding Olivia’s and holding it. She nodded once, subtly, decisively, and the Duke strolled away in the Dowager’s wake.
Now, in the midst of an ocean of lords and ladies, she stood alone with Lord St. Alban. She should acknowledge him. After all, he was standing directly in front of her. She possessed enough social acumen to deal with this viscount. He was a mere man, and if she chose, after this night, social protocol allowed that she never had to acknowledge his existence again. Besides, she’d already spoken her good-byes.
Then it happened: the string quartet struck up the opening notes of a waltz, the crowd raised its voice in a unified cheer, and Lord St. Alban held out his hand to her. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
She should say no. Sheneededto say no.
She couldn’t. Not without inviting more scandal from the odd curious eye that might be observing them. She’d endured enough scandal these last six months to last her a lifetime.
She stepped a hesitant foot forward and held out her hand, willing herself to look up at him. Most extraordinary were Lord St. Alban’s eyes: arctic blue rimmed in navy. They should be frosty, but they weren’t. They burned with the whitest heat of a blue flame.
She’d never entertained the idea that one could be incinerated by a waltz. But when he took her hand and her pulse jumped, she suspected that she would be lucky to escape this dance entirely unsinged.
She steeled herself and asked, “Shall we begin?”
On a nod, he pulled her toward him and set their bodies into motion. Her gaze remained resolutely fixed over his shoulder in the hope of foiling any attempt at small talk on his part. Her hope was immediately dashed.
“It is a strange sensation,” he began, “to have your body so completely in hand and, yet, the essence of you so far away.”
A shocked laugh escaped her. Words likebodyandessencecould make a lady go speechless. They weren’t words used in polite circles, particularly in the way they’d crossed his lips, as if a promise was located somewhere inside.
Desperate to summon an upright ancestor or two, she said, “You know nothing of my body or my essence.”
