She had ignored him and fled, of course. Because when he had been holding her in the aftermath, she’d known a moment of tenderness for him. A moment of contentedness that did not belong between two lovers with no future together. And it had terrified her.
That had been mere hours ago, but it may as well have been a lifetime. Now, Lottie stood on the periphery of the ballroom floor, watching Brandon dancing with a young debutante who was perfect for him in every way—eighteen, golden-haired, beautiful, and innocent. Everything Lottie was not.
“Are you attending me, Lottie?”
Her friend’s voice jolted her from her disquieting reveries. She turned away from the ballroom crush and the sight of Brandon smiling down at the lovely Lady Lavinia Westermere and tamped down all hints of jealousy she had no right to feel.
“Of course I am, Rosamund, darling,” she chirped with feigned brightness.
But her dear friend was not so easily convinced.
“What did I say?” Rosamund asked, pinning Lottie with a shrewd look.
Lottie bit her lip, trying to recall any hints of conversation flitting about in her mind. But all she could think about was the moment she’d spied Brandon across the ballroom with Lady Lavinia in her pale-pink silk gown. Watching the two of them spin together had caused a physical ache deep within her.
“Was it something about Megs?” she guessed weakly.
Rosamund arched a winged brow. “No.”
“The Duke of Camden?”
“Not in this instance.”
Blast.
“The ballroom being a crush?” she tried next.
“What I said was that you certainly do seem preoccupied with the Duke of Brandon and his dance partners this evening,” Rosamund said pointedly.
She’d been caught. Heat crept up her throat.
“Is he in attendance? I hadn’t noticed.” She shrugged one shoulder, feigning indifference.
“You needn’t try to fool me, you know,” her friend said conspiratorially. “Something is going on between the two of you.”
“Whatever it was, it’s passed,” she muttered, trying to keep her gaze from seeking him out again and failing miserably.
He was one of the tallest gentlemen in attendance, which made him easy to spy. Curse the man. What a dashing figure he cut, far more handsome than any man had a right to be. Her heart pounded as she thought about him on the floor before her, on his knees, his tongue and mouth doing wicked, delicious things. His reputation as London’s greatest lover hadn’t been wrong. She simply hadn’t expected to receive that confirmation on his study desk when she was dusty and disheveled from a fall in Hyde Park.
“Then why are you staring at him?” Rosamund asked.
Lottie’s ears went hot, and she forced her eyes back to her friend, who looked resplendent herself in a becoming purple silk evening gown. “I wasn’t staring at him. I was…taking note of how poorly he dances.”
Another lie, but she didn’t want to confess the raw truth to Rosamund here in the midst of the ballroom, that she had been as intimate as a man and woman could be with the Duke of Brandon earlier that afternoon, and that they were now in attendance at the same fête, avoiding each other as if they were strangers.
Which was how it ought to be. How she wanted it to be, she reminded herself sternly.
Brandon glided expertly through another turn as Lottie and Rosamund watched.
Rosamund sent her a wry smile. “It looks as if he dances quite well to me.”
“To you and Lady Lavinia both,” she grumbled before she could help it.
“Are you jealous?”
Lottie flapped her fan wildly, making the fringe of curls artfully arranged on her forehead flutter. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rosamund. Why should I be jealous of Lady LaviniaWestermere? She’s a mere babe. Only look at her, fresh from the schoolroom. I’ve no doubt she scarcely knows anything at all.”
As the bitter words left her, Lottie realized just how very envious she sounded. Petty, as well. She heaved a sigh, disappointed in herself. She didn’t compete for a gentleman’s affections. Grenfell had been the last man she had shared, and she had vowed never to do so again.
