“A pity. For a moment I thought you’d made a point, Aunt.”
Fiona glared at him, then took her daughter’s note card and examined it. “You have a quadrille left, dear one. Perhaps your cousin might wish it?”
“Why would I wish that?”
Rose’s eyes filled with tears, and Alexandra grimaced. They’d gone for three days without crying, and she’d hoped to extend that dry spell at least through the weekend.
“Dancing with your cousin will indicate that you support and approve her willingness to marry,” she pointed out.
The earl eyed her, his expression disdainful. Finally he snatched the card from his aunt’s fingers, scrawled his name on it, and returned it and the pencil to his cousin.
“Oh, how splendid,” Fiona gushed, clapping.
Alexandra felt like applauding as well, and turned to view the fireworks so she could hide her smile. Whether he had done it to help his own cause or Rose’s, the earl had finally made a positive step toward his cousin.
“Well, well, well,” a male voice said from the shadows beside the box. “Alexandra Beatrice Gallant, in London.”
The blood drained from her face. For a moment she allowed herself to indulge in the absurd fantasy that if she didn’t look, he wouldn’t be there.
“And who might you be?” Kilcairn’s low voice demanded.
He almost sounded jealous, but that was ridiculous—for both of them. Lucien had no reason to be jealous, and she had no right to think anyone would protect her but herself.
“Lord Virgil Retting,” the voice replied, while Alexandra stared, sightless, at the dark and flashes of exploding light and tried to regain her wits. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Alexandra?”
She lifted her chin and faced him. “I’m not inclined to, no.”
He’d gained weight since she’d last seen him. His square face had rounded, and his neck pushed out against his high, starched collar. The only place he’d lost anything was the top of his head; his brown hair had thinned across the top, and he’d let it grow longer to try to hide his shiny pate.
Lucien was watching her, his muscles tense despite his relaxed pose. A leopard, ready to defend his next meal, except Virgil Retting wasn’t interested in the kill—just in mauling her a bit, and leaving her for the buzzards.
“Terribly rude, for an etiquette governess,” Lord Virgil chided. “That is how you’re earning money these days, isn’t it?”
“To repeat myself, Lord Virgil,” Kilcairn broke in, “who are you?”
Virgil shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to do it myself, then. I’m just in town from Shropshire. My father’s the Duke of Monmouth.” He smiled, teeth gleaming in the dim lamplight. “Alexandra here is my cousin.”
“Not by choice,” she said, wishing she could turn and escape.
Lucien touched her shoulder, forcing her to look at him. “You are niece to the Duke of Monmouth?”
She couldn’t tell whether his tone was more accusatory, shocked, or curious. “Again, not by choice.”
“Ha,” Lord Virgil broke in, “how do you thinkwefeel? A governess in the family? And now she’s tramping about London as if she thought she belonged, trying to embarrass those of us who actually have homes here.”
Tittering came out of the darkness, and Alexandra realized the box was still surrounded by members of thetontrying to catch Kilcairn’s attention and favor.
Slowly Lucien stood, leaning his hands on the outside of the box. “Lord Virgil Retting, you’re a buffoon.”
For a moment Alexandra had forgotten that catching Kilcairn’s attention could be a two-edged sword. She looked from him to Virgil, startled.
“I beg your pardon?” her cousin sputtered.
“That’s not necessary,” the earl replied, his voice dripping with kindness. “Most buffoons simply can’t help themselves. Clearly you’re one of those.”
“You’re…Kilcairn, aren’t you?” Virgil said, his voice tight.
“Good for you, Lord Virgil. Anything else?”
