Why was he tarrying? Why was he, even now, playing the noble courtier when all he needed to do was to convince her to escape from the ballroom and meet with him in private?
They worked their way back to each other, hands clasped, gazes meeting once more. Her face was more carefully devoid of expression this time, though her limp was growing a bit more noticeable.
“You dance beautifully, my lady,” he praised, rather than inquiring after her welfare once more, something he could sense she would not wish.
Her face reflected her astonishment for a brief moment, before a flush stole over her pale cheeks. Damnation, she stole his breath. She was like a fae creature walking among mere mortals. Too beautiful to be real. He tried and failed to find any physical resemblance to her evil-bastard-of-a-brother. If only she had looked like the dark-haired, dark-hearted one,El Corazón Oscuro. It would have rendered what he must do so bloody much easier.
“I dance beautifully for a lame-legged spinster, you mean to say, my lord,” she responded tartly. “You need not sound surprised. I am as capable of dancing as I am of walking. Unfortunately, my weak limb does not wish to allow me to cultivate grace, regardless of how much I would prefer it.”
Devil take it, he was mucking this up badly. His dubious reputation as a war hero aside, he was aware of the manner in which most ladies viewed him. He was handsome. There was no reason why his overtures ought to be failing so abysmally.
Except he had underestimated Lady Leonora.
He forced a charming grin to his lips, recalling some of the old Morgan. The devil-may-care man who had been a silver-tongued rogue, carefree and unabashed in his pursuit of skirt. The original Morgan, before war had carved him out and left him a hollow shell.
“I said precisely what I intended, my lady,” he parried smoothly. “You dance beautifully, and I consider myself fortunate indeed to have the loveliest lady in attendance as my partner.”
They parted once more, circling each other and winding their way through the dance floor before coming together for a final turn. This time, when their hands clasped, her gaze was bright and glistening.
“Thank you, my lord,” was all she said.
And he knew then and there, he would win.
He would have this woman however he wanted. Sadly, the capitulation left him feeling as numb as ever. Not even a shred of relief or satisfaction could sweep aside the deadness within.
The dance ended, and he bowed to her as she dipped into a perfect curtsy, the concentration on her expression revealing how much control she exerted. He offered her his arm and began leading her slowly back to the turban.
Here was his chance, and he needed to seize it.
“I want to get to know you better, my lady,” he told her quietly. “I confess, you intrigue me in a way no other lady has.”
“In the manner of a spinster—”
“In the manner of a beautiful woman,” he corrected, not wishing to hear her disparage herself once more.
Because, though he had sought her out with impure motives, he could not help but to suspect the old Morgan would have been enamored of her, intrigued by her. The man he had once been would have noticed her on the periphery of the ball, and he would have been determined to win her. But his reasons would have been pure and true.
She swallowed, keeping her face averted when he would have dearly loved to search her gaze and take a guess at her emotions, her vulnerability.
“Was this dance the product of a wager, my lord?” she asked at last. “You would not be the first, though I must admit, you are the gentleman who has brought the most charm along with him for the duty.”
A sharp pang, something akin to regret mingled with anger, struck him in the chest then. Others had used her for a lark or to line their pockets with some betting, book-won gold. The notion made him sick twofold: one, that she had suffered such thoughtless and careless attentions when she was so clearly deserving of far more; and two, that he was no better than the nameless, faceless bastards who had transgressed against her.
He stopped them, well on the outskirts of the ballroom floor, but far enough away from her mother, they could still speak with candor. For he needed her to know. He needed it with a ferocity that threatened to tear him apart, and he neither understood it nor could avoid it.
He faced her, falling into her light-blue eyes. “I did not dance with you because of a wager, Lady Leonora. I danced with you because I have been watching you from afar, and I had become desperate to make your acquaintance. When my old friend, the Duke of Whitley, mentioned he was an acquaintance of yours, I could not stop myself.”
She searched his gaze, and he knew not for what. It wasn’t just her beauty that made him ache as he gazed down at her upturned face. Nor was it the sure knowledge he had found the one woman who would be able to help him achieve the revenge he so desperately needed.
He was a man broken, and in that moment on the outskirts of the Kirkwood ball, he found himself within the glittering depths of Lady Leonora Forsythe’s eyes. Her scent wafted to him then, gentle and sweet.
Or, at least, he found the version of himself he had been forced to become, vicious and merciless, even against the innocent. He would destroy this delicate flower, and he would do so without compunction. She could not possibly hold a candle to the blinding force of rage swirling within him.
She raised an imperious, ice-blonde brow. “My lord, you are the most eligible bachelor in London, a war hero freshly returned from rescuing yourself from Boney’s soldiers, horridly handsome, and here I am, a spinster firmly on the shelf, nine-and-twenty and suffering from the aftereffects of the limb I broke as a girl.”
Her impassioned speech answered one of his many questions. She had suffered a bone break as a girl, and that was the reason for her pain. Likely, it had never healed with proper care. He had seen more than his fair share of broken bones on the field of battle, and he knew all too well how difficult recovery was, ofttimes impossible given the grim panorama of war.
“My lady,” he returned with equal passion, merely one that originated from a vastly different source. “I have no wish to be the most eligible bachelor in London, and I most certainly am not a war hero. Nor are you anything less than the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”
