“I am claiming my dance,” he told her.
Her brows rose. “Now? But I am promised to Lord Quenington for this dance.”
The blighter in question was approaching them. Decker pinned him with a deadly glare. The sort that promised retribution in slow and painful manner should his warning go unheeded. Quenington’s lip curled into a sneer.
Predictable, that.
However, Decker was more than accustomed to the scorn of most lordlings such as the viscount—the sort who suckled on their papa’s teat whilst they waited for their courtesy titles to be exchanged for the coronets that would be theirs upon dear old papa’s demise.
Decker had the means to see Quenington’s long, perfectly straight nose rendered forever crooked—whether by his own brawn or that of hired strength. He also knew the viscount’s predilections. Moreover, it was an unspoken rule that all members of the Black Souls club would remain in Decker’s good graces if they wished to maintain their membership. If the viscount wanted to remain a part of the club, he would forego his dance with Lady Jo.
Decker and Quenington locked eyes in a silent battle for less than a minute before the viscount inclined his head and sauntered off in a different direction.
Immensely satisfied, he returned his attention to Lady Jo. “No longer.”
She began to protest. “But Lord Quenington—”
“Has wisely changed his mind,” Decker finished, interrupting her without qualm. “I will be your partner.”
“You threatened him,” Lady Jo accused quietly, her high cheekbones going pink.
Fuck, she was glorious when she was nettled.
“Do not be ridiculous,” he answered without a modicum of compunction. “He realized he could not possibly match me in looks and charm and wisely decided to retreat.”
He had not threatened the viscountwith words. There was a difference. And Quenington was bloody well undeserving of anything to do with Lady Jo Danvers, whether it be an innocent dance or an assignation.
Especially an assignation.
Decker was never going to allow that to happen. Not the chance of a flower blossom in a hail storm.
Lady Jo was still eying him suspiciously. The orchestra struck up the next song, which happened to be a waltz.Excellent.
He offered her his arm. “My lady?”
Her nostrils flared, the only indication of her pique. She placed her hand on his proffered arm. “Very well.”
“Do not sound so disappointed,” he told her,sotto voce, as he led her to the gleaming, freshly repaired parquet where their fellow dancers had assembled. “I am a deuced talented dancer. Quenington cannot possibly compete.”
He slanted a glance in her direction in time to catch her lips twitch.
“And so veryhumble, Mr. Decker” she added mockingly.
“I know my strengths.” He gave her a subtle wink.
The flush in her cheeks deepened.
“Why so embarrassed,cherie?” he could not resist asking. “If you were aware ofallmy strengths, that would put you to the blush for certain.”
“Mr. Decker,” she chastised in disapproving governess fashion, her voice outrage personified.
He barely stifled his grin—it would not do for her to realize how much he was enjoying himself. Or for the rest of the ballroom. Not that he gave a damn about what society thought of him, but he did have a certain reputation to uphold amongst the ladies of London.
Decker assumed his position on the floor opposite her. He placed one hand upon the middle of her back, whilst the other linked with her gloved hand. Her left hand settled upon his shoulder.
“Yes, Lady Josephine?”
She treated him to a ferocious frown. “All my friends call me Jo.”
