“I’m…going to visit the retiring room.” That queasy feeling was worse now, and all the grace in the world wouldn’t help if…
She did not even allow herself to think it.
“Don’t take long, darling. The orchestra is warming up already.”
Felicity nodded and, as a cold sweat broke out on her forehead and the back of her neck, summoned all the poise she could muster until she was able to locate a shadowy corridor.
She needed to be alone. Spying a rather imposing door, she pushed it open and was relieved to discover it was a library. The temperature was noticeably cooler inside, and the air was fresh. She could handle the scent of leather and books far better than the cacophony of overpowering floral and musk in the ballroom.
Much better. So much better.
Crossing to the small sitting area, Felicity dropped her knees to the floor and buried her face in the seat of a leather settee.
Deep, cleansing breaths calmed her stomach.
In. Out. Felicity gulped for air. This cannot be happening.
“Dear God, help me, please?” she begged.
“Are you praying, Felicity?” The intruding voice had become familiar by now.
Manningham—Axel. She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d walked her along the lane at Brightland’s Manor. The door clicked shut behind him.
“Are you following me, Axel?” she answered without raising her head.
“As a matter of fact, yes. The last time you disappeared from a festivity, a ruthless rosebush was holding you hostage.”
“A gentleman would refrain from reminding a lady of something so embarrassing, thank you very much.” She startled when the cushion sank beside her. A peek to her right from beneath her folded arms put taut thighs in a pair of snug breaches in her line of sight. He shifted and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the carpet.
“I merely wished to add my name to your dance card—unless I’m too late.” He sounded tired and a little discouraged.
Felicity leaned back on her heels. Why did she persist in treating him so poorly? He had done nothing but allowed her advances. She wasn’t so hypocritical as to pretend she had not demanded his attentions that night.
No, her reasons for being so unhappy were all her own.
“I’m sorry. My head is aching.” It wasn’t a lie. But she wouldn’t go into the litany of what ailed her like an old woman, or they’d be sitting here all night. “Do you have a pencil?” She held out her hand, presenting the card tied to her wrist.
She was getting too old for this.
“I did earlier.” He searched his pockets and then, taking her hand, examined the card.
His touch, ironically enough, sent waves of comfort and warmth through her. And then she caught his scent, that clean manly fragrance she couldn’t quite identify.
“Last one of the night, if you don’t mind? It’s a waltz.”
Would she mind having him take her into his arms? “Are you proficient at it?” She teased. There was nothing worse than dancing with a gentleman who didn’t perform the steps correctly. Too many evenings, she’d returned home with scuffs on her slippers and bruises on her toes.
He leaned back and grinned. “I may have failed to master many of the finer pursuits, but dancing isn’t one of them.”
“In that case,” she dipped her lashes demurely. “The dance is yours.”
She watched him write his name very carefully, achieving a childlike quality.
“Shall I locate some willowbark for you?” Just as he had on the night of Lady Westerley’s ball, he exhibited that same compassion once again.
“I’m fine.” However, the idea of willowbark and her bed sounded far better than returning to the ballroom.
The first dance was set to begin any minute.
