“She’s volunteered to help Aunt Milly. And I’m grateful for it; she’s made a huge difference.”
“You’re grateful. To Georgie. My cousin. The same female who nearly punctured you with a parasol a few summers ago.”
Tristan shrugged. “As you said, Grey, no one’s been killed. No maimings or amputations, either.” Except for the negligible damage to his knuckles and his toes, her stay had been surprisingly injury-free for him.
The duke straightened, looking past Tristan’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but she’s approaching. Let the maimings begin.”
The familiar, charged tension that accompanied Georgiana’s presence ran through him. She kept him on his toes, figuratively speaking. And now it was doubly complicated, since he didn’t want to begin a fight if she was bearing an olive branch.
“Grey,” she said, going on tiptoe to kiss her cousin on the cheek, “the two of you wouldn’t be gossiping, would you?”
“Actually,” Tristan said, before Grey could remind Georgiana yet again of their mutual antagonism, “we were admiring the cut of Lord Thomas’s coat. He almost looks as though he has shoulders and a neck tonight.”
She followed their gaze. “Poor fellow. He can’t help that he’s the mirror image of his father.”
“Resdin should have known better than to propagate,” Grey commented. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go rescue Emma.”
Georgiana sighed as her cousin strolled toward the dancers. “He does look happy, doesn’t he?”
“Marriage agrees with him. I thought you were chatting with your friends.”
“Trying to get rid of me? That would leave you standing here all by yourself, my lord. How could I bear doing you such a poor turn?”
Tristan froze for a heartbeat. Lady Georgiana Halley was flirting. With him, of all people.
“Then perhaps you might wish to dance again?” he drawled, bracing himself for a nasty set down, or for a bolt of lightning to strike one or the other of them dead.
“That would be lovely.”
He studied her expression as he took her hand to lead her onto the dance floor, but saw nothing that indicated she might intend him bodily harm. The soft violet of her dress darkened her light green eyes to exquisite emerald, and if God had any compassion at all, the next dance would be a waltz.
The orchestra struck up a quadrille. Apparently God had a sense of humor. “Shall we?”
As soon as they joined the dance, another dozen couples hurried onto the floor. Before news of his father’s poor money management skills had reached every crevice of the ton, he might have assumed that he was the reason for the stampede. Ladies had once been known to fight over his affections. Tonight the gentlemen were in the lead, and they seemed to have their attention on Georgiana.
It had been that way since she’d turned eighteen. Over the last few years he had claimed aloud to pity the poor soul with whom she might choose to matrimonify. His private sentiments had remained less clear, even to him. Tonight, however, the ogling annoyed him a great deal.
She swooped past, then caught his hand as they changed direction. “Has someone else stepped on your toe?” she asked. “You look very dour.”
“I allow no one but you to tread on me,” he replied, smiling as they parted again.
Something was wrong with him. He knew she was up to no good: Nothing in the past six years led him to believe that she might suddenly forgive him for his duplicity and his abject stupidity. Yet there he was, glaring at the other males in the set as though he had some claim on her person. And he’d been ready to flatten Westbrook earlier just for complimenting her.
He turned to collect the hand of the next lady winding through the set, and blinked. “Amelia.”
“Lord Dare. You look well tonight.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t angry with him? He hadn’t spared her a thought in nearly a week, and at last count had missed scheduling a picnic and a ride in Hyde Park. “And you look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
She was swept away in the tide of dancers, and Georgiana returned to his side. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked as though she was trying very hard not to laugh. “What is it?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing.”
That wouldn’t do. “What happened?” he repeated, holding her gaze as they took their turn circling the other dancers.
“If you must know,” she said, catching a breath, “Lord Raymond proposed to me.”
