She replied, “That is very kind, but I am?—”
“Excellent!” He did not wait for her to finish. “I shall return in an instant. Try not to disappear.”
He vanished into the crowd, leaving behind the lingering note of his cologne and the threat of imminent return.
Lavinia scanned the room, desperate for a plausible escape. Her gaze landed on Frances, who was now deep in conversation with a young man whose profile suggested a life spent in pursuit of foxes and not much else. Good. Frances would not need rescuing, at least for the next half-hour.
She slipped toward the refreshment table, intending to lose herself in the churn of servants and guests. She had made it only two steps when Lord Dawnford materialized again with two glasses in hand and a smile that said he would not be shaken off easily.
“To beauty,” he said, thrusting a glass toward her.
She accepted it, but did not drink. “You are very persistent, my lord.”
“Only when the cause is worthy.” He raised his own glass and, without taking his eyes from her, drained it.
She sipped hers, the champagne unexpectedly dry on her tongue.
“I do hope you liked the flowers,” he continued. “The roses, I mean. I took great care in selecting them. I have always thought the rose an unfairly maligned symbol—so many thorns, yet everyone remembers only the bloom.”
“They were lovely,” she replied. “Though next time, perhaps, consider including a warning for the housekeeper. She nearly fainted at the sight.”
He laughed again, louder this time. “I like you, Lady Lavinia. You do not mince words. It is refreshing in a world so intent on artifice.”
Lavinia wondered if he realized that he was the world, or at least its most insistent symptom.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if they were co-conspirators. “You know, I hear talk. Whispers. You are the talk of every club in London, Lady Lavinia. No one can decide whether you are an ice queen or a secret siren.”
She nearly choked on her champagne. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. The men are divided. Some say you are proud, others that you are untouchable. But I,” he said, placing his hand over his heart, “I see the truth. You are simply misunderstood.”
It was all Lavinia could do not to laugh in his face. Instead, she gave him the blandest smile she could muster. “Well, Lord Dawnford, I find your attention… flattering, but rather overwhelming.”
He grinned. “That is my specialty.”
She tried to step around him, but he mirrored her, not so much blocking as enveloping. “Would you do me the honor of the next waltz?” he said, bowing just enough to make the request a challenge.
She paused, aware that to refuse would only make him more persistent. “I?—”
As if to doom her, the orchestra picked up the first strains of a waltz. Before she could reply, he had set his glass aside and offered his arm, his expression leaving no room for argument.
She placed her hand on his sleeve. He led her to the floor, and as they joined the whirl of dancers, he leaned in close. “You move beautifully,” he murmured. “One might almost think you enjoy this.”
“I do enjoy dancing,” she replied. “It is the company that is variable.”
His mouth twitched. “I see. But am I so very terrible?”
She considered. “You have not yet trodden on my feet, so you are doing better than most.”
He laughed again, but this time there was a sharpness to it, as if her words had finally found purchase. Good.
They circled the floor, and she became aware of the pressure of his hand at her waist. She matched every move with perfect decorum, refusing to let him dictate the tempo.
“I like a challenge,” he said softly. “Most women try to flatter, or to coyly pretend they do not notice me. But you?—”
“I notice everything,” Lavinia replied. “It is the only way to survive.”
He studied her, and the predatory gleam in his eyes was briefly replaced by something more speculative. “You are fascinating, Lady Lavinia. I should like to know you better, truly court you.”
