The blue of her eyes was so dark that it appeared, at turns, almost black. When she raised her eyes to his own, though, they appeared only a sensuous navy. The contrast with her pale skin and silvery hair made his breath catch.
He cleared his throat.
What was wrong with him?
He had to master himself. He couldn’t let his excitement at being free of his usual identity lead him to be overpowered by the first attractive female in sight. After all, he was used to beautiful women. He had had more than his fair share and he intended to continue. To be safe, he resolved not to speak to her, instead turning his attention towards Tremberley and Miss Plinty.
Still he couldn’t stop himself from looking at the beguiling girl while his best friend and Miss Plinty exchanged pleasantries clunky with double entendre.
John sighed in frustration.
He knew what Tremberley wanted. He wanted what Tremberleyalwayswanted when he signaled to you from across the ballroom.
John had to dispose of Miss Musgrave so that Tremberley could get Miss Plinty alone.
He was already trapped. He had no means of escape. Not if he wanted to keep his cover as Mr. Overton.
John gritted his teeth and turned towards the girl.
“Would you do me the honor of the next dance, Miss Musgrave?”
“It would be a pleasure, sir,” she said, her voice cool and light, a little haughty even, and she gave another of her shallow curtseys. As she dipped, she flashed a smirk, as if she knew exactly what Tremberley had just done to him. He cursed inwardly—and, yet, even as he did so, he couldn’t help admiring the creamy stripe of bosom that her curtsey revealed.
As he led her to the dance, he spared a glare backwards for Tremberley, who threw him a wink. He had been right—his friend clearly had plans for Miss Plinty that didn’t involve her maiden cousin.
At the center of the room, they glided into their positions. After the requisite two turns, he would pawn her off on Leith, who would hopefully still be interested in making up for Montaigne’s bad behavior. This evening John had every intention of misbehaving himself.
That plan faded the moment he took Miss Musgrave’s hand in the first sequence. John had thought dancing would dispel his attraction to her—he didn’t particularly care for the pastime; it was always a sure way to have him tire of a woman—but, instead, his initial instinct only deepened.
They had little opportunity to speak. The dance was fast and the thrum of conversation filled the room. Instead he watched her. Her eyes moved appraisingly over everything in their wake, her expression cheerful yet tinged with irony. She seemed aware that she was playing a role, the young miss at a country ball, but nevertheless her conduct was perfect, her every move in good taste. When their hands touched, he felt something disturbingly akin to yearning. He felt like he was in a bad novel, of the type his sister Henrietta had just discovered.
Yet this self-mocking thought would be chased from his mind the minute their fingers touched again.
John was so agitated after their two dances that he followed convention. He led her to an empty seat at the edge of the ballroom and proffered the following gem: “Would you like refreshment, Miss Musgrave?”
Usually, he knew how to delight a lady by staying just within the bounds of propriety. Now, he offered this line, delivered with the stiffness of an idiot just out of the nursery, to the bewitching woman before him.
He tried to train his countenance back into the familiar set of the bored aristocrat, before remembering that he was not supposed to be a brooding nobleman but Mr. Overton, the good-tempered vicar. So then he smiled, wide and inviting.
God, she must think I’m mad.
“You aren’t going to set me here and dash off elsewhere, are you, Mr. Overton? If you’re done with me for the evening, it is better to say it than pretend you are being a gentleman.”
“Not at all, Miss Musgrave. You mistake my intention,” he replied before he could check himself. Thathadbeen his intention. But now he was far from sure of his intentions. “I only worry for your comfort. If it is not refreshment, what is it that you desire?”
He sounded like an arse but at least he was managing whole sentences.
“To see the grounds.”
She flashed the same mischievous smirk she had before their dance.
This time, it made his bones ache.
And then the meaning of her words washed over him. She wanted toleavethe ballroom. To go into the night. Alone and unchaperoned.With him.
He had never met a lady this forward. Could she be some sort of pickpocket murderess in disguise? Trying to cut his throat and take his blunt? Gently bred young ladies never made such bold requests. Although shewasa relative of Tremberley’s Miss Plinty, which might go some way to explaining her forwardness. Even still, her request was very unusual.
“I am a bit of a history enthusiast, you see, Mr. Overton,” she continued, lowering her voice. “And I want to see the ruins. The Tremberley Ruins. I understand that the viscount does not allow visitors into his gardens—but I am dying to see them for myself.”
