She couldn’t begin to explain that, herself. “He’s my cousin’s closest friend,” she said, giving her standard answer, “and his aunts are delightful.”
“No, Georgiana, you are delightful.”
Accustomed as she was to meaningless flattery and compliments, Lord Westbrook didn’t give them lightly. He was also one of the few gentlemen of her acquaintance, aside from Tristan Carroway, who had never proposed to her. Yet, anyway. “You are very kind, my lord.”
“You called me John, a few days ago.”
“John, then.” She smiled into his serene brown eyes. “How is it that you have no partner for the waltz?” With his wealth and title, he was as closely pursued as she was.
“I hadn’t intended to dance, tonight.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, then. I—”
“Because I thought your card would be full. I’m happy to be mistaken.”
Across the floor she caught a glimpse of Tristan looking at them as he turned Amelia in his arms. The dark expression in his eyes startled her. He was dancing with the woman he was supposed to marry, for heaven’s sake, yet he looked as though he would rather be brawling with Lord Westbrook over her.
Jealousy from him was new, if that was what this was. He’d made a point of arguing with the marquis in the park, but she’d ascribed that to his general contrariness.
Then again, perhaps her plan was working, and even better than she’d expected—which both thrilled and horrified her.
Chapter 10
I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me,
For I am much ashamed of my exchange.
—The Merchant of Venice, Act II, Scene vi
It was past two o’clock in the morning when the Dowager Duchess of Wycliffe’s coach stopped in front of Carroway House. Georgiana rubbed her tired toes one last time and stood as the liveried tiger pulled open the door for her.
“I’m glad Milly’s doing better,” Frederica said. “Do tell her I said so.”
“I will.” Georgiana kissed her aunt on the cheek. “Good night.”
“Come and visit me more often, my dear.”
She stopped, looking over her shoulder at the duchess. “I won’t be here forever. Milly’s nearly able to get about on her own, and then you’ll be able to get tired of me all over again.”
“Never, child.”
Dawkins couldn’t seem to remain awake during the day, much less after one in the morning, so Georgiana let herself in. Tristan and Bradshaw had vanished fairly early in the evening, undoubtedly to one of the half dozen gaming rooms the Duke of Devonshire had set up. She’d hoped Tristan might come by the ballroom again to at least see with whom she might be dancing, but he hadn’t. She wondered whether Amelia had looked for him as well, but swiftly dismissed the thought. At least Amelia had gotten to waltz with him.
One lamp still burned in the foyer and she saw another at the top of the stairs, enough to light the way to her bedchamber. She’d told Mary not to wait up for her, so she would have to find a way to unfasten the back of her dress on her own, or she would have to sleep in it. She wasn’t eager to take it off, anyway.
The way Tristan had looked at her, practically devouring her with his eyes, had started that once-familiar warmth in the pit of her stomach. Six years ago it had thrilled her, knowing she had been the one to catch his attention, and that Dare had eyes for no one but her. Good Lord, she had been stupid and naive. What did it say about her, that a compliment and a hungry look from him could still make her feel that way?
“Georgiana.”
The whisper, coming from the dark drawing room, made her gasp. “Tristan? What—”
“Come here.”
Frowning, she crossed the hallway to where he stood just inside the doorway, all dark planes of shadows but for his eyes. Thank goodness he couldn’t read minds.
He took her hand, pulling her into the room and closing the door behind them. “Don’t move,” he murmured, his breath warm on her temple. “I’ll get the light.”
In a moment the table lamp flared, bathing the room in golden, flickering light. Tristan still wore his formal clothes, though he’d shed his gloves and his greatcoat. He straightened from the lamp, his eyes dark and glittering in the dimness.
