“She hasn’t been killed by an angry mob yet, anyway,” he said cheerfully.
“I’ll go tend to her now.” Alexandra turned away.
“Save a waltz for me.”
Her pulse fluttering, she faced him again. The time had obviously come for another lesson in propriety. “Rose doesn’t waltz.”
He looked at her, annoyed. “Did I say I wanted to waltz with cousin Rose?”
From the corners of the room, the murmurings had already begun. The small thrill of nervous anticipation his words started in her was no match for the dread over what everyone must be saying. “I have no business being seen with you.”
“I pay your salary,” he returned, undaunted, and gestured a footman for a glass of whiskey.
Alexandra wished that pummeling thickheaded, arrogant earls were within her realm of expertise. “Governesses don’t dance when the Prince Regent is in attendance, for heaven’s sake. And no mama would wish her daughter to marry a man who would dance in public with a…with me.”
“Call me Lucien, then, and you may go hover about Rose.”
“I will not,” she declared.
“You’re blushing.”
“You’re embarrassing me. Even if you have nothing to lose by shocking people, I do.”
He didn’t look a bit repentant, though she supposed that would have been too much to hope for. “You’re the one prolonging your own agony,” he said, his gray eyes dancing.
She took a deep breath. He’d likely been planning something like this from the moment she’d refused to utter his given name the other night. “Very well,Lucien, might I go now?” she enunciated.
Lucien delayed a moment before answering. “Yes, you may, Alexandra,” he returned with a slight, superior smile.
He seemed entirely too self-satisfied, when all he’d done was bully her. “If that is the way to please you, my lord, perhaps you should have all of the young, single ladies present line up and say your name. That way you could immediately eliminate the ones whose accent displeases you.”
Kilcairn narrowed his eyes. “Go see to Rose.”
She escaped before he could come up with a more scathing response. When she reached Rose’s side and glanced back, he had vanished. He’d already warned her about playing with fire, and yet she continued to bait him, full knowing what the consequences might be. The only explanation that made sense was that for the first time in her life, she was beginning to enjoy being burned.
He hadn’t considered that he wouldn’t be able to dance with her. Despite her cynical commentary, she was right; his purpose at the soiree tonight was as matrimonial as his cousin’s. Waltzing with a ruined governess wouldn’t gain him any points with husband-seeking young ladies, or their mothers.
Even so, he was disappointed—he wanted something this evening that he couldn’t have, and as Alexandra had pointed out, he wasn’t used to that. In addition, her continual teasing over his conjugal efforts left him damned annoyed. It would serve her right if he dragged her out onto the dance floor, slid his arms around her slender waist, and waltzed with her all evening long.
With a last glance at the salon doorway, he strolled back through the maze of guests toward the main ballroom. To one side of the refreshment table stood a tall redheaded woman, surrounded by male admirers. Eliza Duggan had been the subject of an interesting contest last Season. He’d won with less effort than he’d anticipated, and tonight he wasn’t in the mood for her inane tittering. As she caught his eye he nodded and moved on, looking for more virginal game.
Finally he spied what he sought. The debutantes stood bunched together like a flock of chickens waiting for a fox, all fluffed feathers and nervous chattering. Thank God that Alexandra had talked Rose out of blasted feathers. With another glance behind him to make sure a certain caustic governess wasn’t in view, he approached. “Good evening, ladies.”
They curtsied like an undulating ocean wave. “My lord.”
Though only about half of them were on his finalists’ list, all but one at least had some potential. “I have frightfully few partners for this evening,” he said in his most congenial tone, “and I was wondering if any of you have a space on your dance card for me.”
At the looks of shock and horror they exchanged, Lucien realized he’d made a mistake: he’d given them the option of turning him down. It was a foolish blunder, and he blamed it on Alexandra Gallant. She’d made him so self-conscious about being polite to the delicate little things that he’d strayed into foppishness.
He broke into their stammering before they could flee. “Miss Perkins, surely you have a quadrille left for me. And, Miss Carlton, a waltz would be lovely.”
“But…Yes, my lord,” Miss Carlton squeaked, bobbing another curtsy.
“Excellent. Miss Perkins?”
“I…would be pleased, my lord.”
With a smile he allowed the rest of them to escape. A prolonged conversation with more than one or two of them at once would kill him. As a reward for his efforts and patience so far, he went looking for another glass of whiskey. Matrimony—what a damned annoying thing to have to spend one’s time doing.
