“Yes of course,” she forced herself to say, still unable to look away from the marquess.
His brown hair was worn in glorious waves, longer than fashionable, yet the perfect foil for the harsh symmetry of his face. His countenance made no excuses for its blatant masculinity, and his nose was a slashing blade, his cheekbones high and sharp, his jaw a study in obstinacy, wide and harsh. The sole softness to be found was in his lips, which were well-molded and full. A cleft marked his proud chin, somehow tempering the severity, but his broad shoulders and tall, lean form held an air of command she had never seen on another gentleman.
He bowed with courtly elegance, his expression revealing nothing. “Lady Leonora, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.”
At last, he’d said. Two words that signified so much. As if he had been anticipating this moment. Leonora could not help but feel as if she had, even without knowing it would ever happen. As if the Fates had destined this man, this meeting.
She swallowed and forced herself to maintain her composure, even as her heart continued to race. The Marquess of Searle was not just compelling and handsome, though he certainly was both, but being in his presence made her giddy and weak all at once. He affected her as no man ever had. Most gentleman bored her. Even when they ignored her, they did not hold her interest.
But this man…
He was different, and she knew it in a deep, primal part of herself. She felt it in the warmth washing over her, as if she basked in the benediction of a summer sun in the country. As if she were whole for the first time. As if she were not Limping Leonora but instead, someone of interest. Someone a gentleman would wish to be introduced to. As if she were a lady a gentleman would want to dance with and court.
This man, he was more dangerous than she had even initially supposed.
She forced herself to speak. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well, my lord.”
Mama frowned at her, and she well knew why. Her voice sounded rusty and flat. She was incapable of flirting. She had never been seriously courted, aside from the odious Lord Robert Hurstly, who had courted her for a wager with the intent to cause her ruination. Her continued presence in the marriage mart was down to Mama’s determination rather than to any hope a man would ask for her hand after all these years, though a husband and children of her own were all she longed for.
What would it be like to be looked upon with something other than pity, disinterest, or mild disgust? What would it be like to pretend, even for one evening, she too could be light and carefree, capable of gracefully gliding about a ballroom?
She stared at Searle, something at once awful and yet incredible happening inside her.
“We are honored by your presence, my lord,” Mama said in a bright tone Leonora had never even heard. “Word of your bravery has been bandied about everywhere.”
A coldness entered Searle’s eyes, a rigidity seizing his bearing. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It is a miracle Searle is here with us at all,” the Duke of Whitley remarked, something in his expression and tone Leonora could not quite read.
“Would you care to dance, Lady Leonora?” the marquess asked suddenly then, and with such abruptness, even Leonora and her complete lack of experience with suitors was startled.
She wanted to tell Searle she did not dance. That she could not dance, and indeed never had in all the years since her debut.
But then it occurred to her that the reason she had not danced was not because she was incapable. She had taken lessons, and she knew all the steps, could even perform them, though she would never be graceful. No, she had never danced before because no one had ever asked her.
The knowledge sent a fresh emotion coursing through her, burning and fierce, part shame, part determination. She raised her chin. “I certainly would, my lord.”
Chapter Two
She had saidyes. Morgan had been brusque and rude, nettled into action by references to his heroics and war. The need to escape had been so fierce, he had not stopped to question the wisdom of playing his card early.
He need not have been concerned. It was a different conundrum entirely facing him now. Morgan led Lady Leonora away from Crispin and the turban, astounded. He had taken his time, conducted his research well, and laid the foundation for his battle plan. Which was how he knew Lady Leonora never danced. Not once.
But she had accepted his invitation.
Now he could not help but to wonder why. He led her slowly, accommodating for the hesitance in her gait. In truth, her limp was scarcely noticeable, but he could tell the leg she favored pained her. She had grimaced upon standing, and her bearing had initially been stiff.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation, my lady,” he said to her softly, because he knew he must say something.
He was meant to woo her, but it had been a long time—and a lifetime ago—since he had last attempted to charm any woman. There had been no need. No space in his mind or his life. There had been only war and then survival, and even now, dressed in his evening finery with Lady Leonora on his arm, he was still merely subsisting.
Surviving his current hell by creating a new one. A hell in which the Earl of Rayne and his glorious, innocent, unsuspecting sister, would join him. He supposed he ought to feel a needling of compunction. Instead, he felt only nothingness. A man did not survive the brutality he had suffered without being forever changed.
“Thank you for offering, my lord,” she returned.
Her voice was husky and sweet, and it settled in his gut with the potent fire of whisky, wrapping around him like ivy. “You are the only lady in attendance I wish to dance with,” he said, and it was true, even if his intentions were impure and cruel.
They established themselves on the dance floor, preparing for the next set to begin. Her lovely face was fraught with concern. Pinched. “It has been some time since I have danced, my lord. I fear I must warn you.”
