“Might I impose upon you for this set, Miss Mossant?” Lieutenant Langdon bowed with an eager smile.
Who was laughing now?
Rhoda curtseyed. “But of course, Lieutenant. I’m honored to dance with one so decorated as yourself.”
Prescott burst out laughing, drawing a scowl from all of them, whereupon he held up one hand. “I’m leaving. I’m leaving.” With a casual wave toward Rhoda’s dance partner and a wink in Carlisle’s direction, he pivoted on his heel and disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.
Miss Dillingham tugged at Carlisle, drawing him onto the dance floor, and Rhoda turned to her own partner, hoping her smile didn’t look as forced as it felt.
She did her best to give the lieutenant her attention but could hardly keep her gaze from straying to the other line. A golden-blond masculine head seemed to stand a few inches above all the rest.
Was it her imagination, or did that blue gaze of his drift in her direction more times than was appropriate?
The dance felt as though it went on for hours. And when it came to an end, she was quickly surrounded by eager suitors.
None of whom she trusted, of course.
Not Lord Moggersley, with his hands that seemed to have multiplied, nor Lord Odwick, who surely must have inhaled garlic before attending, and certainly not Sir Morris of Clopcott, with his exhortations of undying love. All of them did their utmost to lure her to some secluded place away from the dancing.
She’d never been so happy for her mother’s company. She imagined her mother would be exhausted before the night was over.
By the time the first waltz was announced, Rhoda hardly felt like dancing anymore. Strolling, on the terrace, however, was not an option.
In addition to being exasperated with nearly every male in the vicinity, she couldn’t help but note that her vicar danced every set with some new simpering debutante. It seemed not one of them had not set their cap for the poverty-stricken earl.
The evening had lost the magic she’d felt earlier.
Until, that was, he took her in his arms for their waltz.
She felt as though she’d come home.
Sinewy muscles tensed beneath her hand when she placed it upon his shoulder. He gripped her hand tighter than was absolutely necessary, and a line furrowed his brow as his gaze scanned the room. “Damned blighters, every one of them.”
He cared!
“They will give up eventually and nothing shall come of it.” She’d reassure him as much as herself. They’d all seemed awfully determined.
And Lord Kensington, Flavion, had been watching her with eagle eyes. Would he never cease to cause trouble for them?
The thought sent a shiver through her.
Justin pulled her slightly closer than was appropriate as the music began. “They’d better. Still, I’m glad to see your mother has been vigilant this evening.”
“She’s concerned about the wager.” The urge to bury her face against his chest nearly overwhelmed her. “You are exploring your other options this evening?” she stated baldly.
He chuckled. “There are no other options for me.” But did he mean it? Did he have a choice? They’d been over this.
And yet with his hand steering her, the warmth of it at her waist, and with his face only inches away from hers, she could not imagine ever wanting any other man.
She’d go to her grave a dried-up old prune rather than seek any other than her vicar.
She held his gaze and nodded.
And forgot everything else in the world but him as he steered her around the floor with long, elegant steps.
“How does a vicar learn to waltz so well?”
The thought struck her in the final dance of the set.
