Infatuation
Marcus Roberts, the Earl of Blakely, leaned against the brocaded wall, arms crossed. The gorgeous fellow seemed completely unaware that his good looks drew the gaze of nearly every wallflower present.
Miss Emily Goodnight was no exception.
Of course, she’d never confess her infatuation to anyone, especially her closest friends. They assumed Emily was immune to such nonsense. She’d gone out of her way, in fact, to perpetuate the opinion. She’d quite intentionally developed her reputation as a practical, rational miss to protect herself from the sting of rejection she’d surely experience otherwise. When she found herself forlornly seated while the comelier ladies danced, she wouldn’t feel so pathetic.
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and pretended to watch the dancers in his vicinity. In truth, she secretly watchedhim.
His appeal wasn’t only in his looks but something else, something nearly unidentifiable. He slouched slightly, as he leaned, not bothering to adhere to what was considered appropriate behavior, and his slightly hooded eyes perused the room lazily. He lifted his broad shoulders, stretching them up and back, drawing Emily’s attention to his abdomen, flat and firm looking.
When he tilted his head to one side, a lock of thick chestnut hair fell across his forehead, partially covering one eye.
Emily looked away before he caught her staring.
Surely, he would not remain alone for long.
Ah, yes, she was quite right.
Mrs. Cromwell, a newly widowed beauty, promenaded past several other ladies to reach him before “accidentally” dropping her handkerchief at his feet.
His bored eyes flicked up and down the woman knowingly before he bent to retrieve the effective wisp of fabric. With a flourish, he bowed and presented it to the raven-haired beauty. A subtle twinkle in his smoky gray eyes revealed his interest in what the widow offered.
Emily hated him at that moment.
Nearly as much as she hated herself for feeling sentimental emotions for such a rake in the first place.
Since their first meeting at a formal dinner party, when Emily had stuck her foot in her mouth more than once, she’d never failed to devolve into a graceless idiot in his presence. Not that she was graceful to begin with… but she floundered with unusual flare on such occasions.
Why continue torturing herself? Emily glanced down at her dance card. A few gentlemen who’d approached her friend Rhoda had charitably scribbled their names beside some of the livelier dances on her own. Those sets would not come up until much later in the evening.
Mrs. Cromwell tilted her head back in laughter and then gazed at him from beneath fluttering eyelashes.
How did ladybirds do it? What gave them the confidence to flirt so outrageously?
Emily peeked from beneath her lashes in the direction of the couple. Lord Blakely was smiling roguishly at the daring woman. He lifted Mrs. Cromwell’s hand and pressed his lips to the back of it for longer than was appropriate. As the voluptuous woman giggled and looked away, he turned his face slightly toward Emily. As though he knew her every thought, he dropped one eyelid in an insolent wink.
Oh, the rotter!
Heat crawled up Emily’s neck and into her face. Of course, now she would appear blotched and bothered. Drat, the swine.
She turned her legs firmly and stared intently in the opposite direction.
She missed Cecily and Sophia.
Cecily had married a bounder but then managed to find true love after all, and how could any man not have fallen in love with sweet, blond, lovely Sophia? Good heavens, Sophia was a duchess now, of all things! Of the four wallflowers, Emily and Rhoda remained unattached.
Normally Rhoda would be sitting beside her.
Rhoda, with her chestnut hair, sultry eyes, and complete lack of nervousness around gentlemen. Surely, Rhoda would be the next to become betrothed. In fact, last summer she’d practically landed an eminently eligible husband… the heir to a duke. But it had not been meant to be. The heir had died in a tragic accident.
Poor Rhoda.
Poor Rhoda indeed! Every single dance on her card had been claimed this evening. Seeing her squired about by a marquess last Season had apparently opened the eyes of the fickle gentlemen of theton. Tonight, at the first ball of the Season, she seemed the most sought-after lady of them all.
The sudden onslaught of attention was uncanny, really.
“Sitting alone this evening, Miss Goodnight?” Emily’s heart jumped at Lord Blakely’s voice. At the same time, his cock-sure attitude set her teeth on edge. “Has Miss Mossant abandoned you?” If he requested a dance, Emily thought she might scream. She refused to accept charity in any form.
