“Meredith,” he whispered.
“Good evening, my ... my lord.”
Meredith wished she had the nerve to address him as Trevor, but it seemed far too presumptuous despite all they had shared in the past.
Though the years had wrought changes, he was still a commanding man. Handsome seemed too mild a word to describe his looks. He was like some golden god, spun from brilliant sunlight, created by magnificent sorcery. Yet for all the beauty in his face and form, it was his eyes that spoke to her. Despite his youth, they were old. Old and filled with a weariness buried within their depths she had never seen.
“Champagne?” he asked, lifting a second glass from a servant who stood silently near.
Though her mouth was dry, Meredith refused the drink. The marquess shrugged his broad shoulders. Instead of returning the untouched flute of bubbling wine, he lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it in one long swallow. He quickly repeated the gesture with the goblet he held in his other hand.
Meredith glanced at the silver tray the footman held. Among the empty glasses were three crystal flutes filled to the brim. The marquess placed his goblets on the tray. His hand moved fractionally toward one of the filled flutes, then hesitated.
As if sensing her intense regard, his head turned toward her.
Their eyes met. She lifted her brow fractionally, almost daring him to pick up another glass. A ghost of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“No words of disapproval?” he asked in a daring tone.
“ ’Tis hardly my place,” she replied demurely.
“That rarely stops a female from commenting with a scowl of her brow and a click of her tongue.”
Meredith smiled. “I am not like other women, my lord.”
“I remember.”
She blinked at him, suddenly uncertain. For a brief second, there had been a glimpse of the man she had known, carefree, fun-loving, mischievous. The man Lavinia had loved so completely.
It hurt to remember. Meredith expected it would feel strange to see him again, but she had not known how hard it would be.
“It has been a long time,” he said, forsaking a third goblet of champagne.
“Eight years,” Meredith whispered. She looked over at him.
His face was carefully expressionless, but she had the distinct feeling he was about to rebuke her. With a start she realized he must be experiencing the same feelings of loss and regret and pain that she felt. It was as if this meeting had brought to the forefront a wealth of shared memories of Lavinia—tragic, sad memories.
Dimly Meredith heard the strains of music as the orchestra began to prepare for the next dance. She assumed the marquess would be most anxious to depart from her company, for she now understood why her unexpected presence could be considered unwanted and unwarranted.
She nearly let it happen. Yet before the back of her throat closed completely with emotion, Meredith blurted, “Will you dance with me, my lord?”
The marquess said nothing. His head tilted, his golden brows pulled together in puzzlement.
“I own I consumed a fair amount of wine with my dinner, a drink of whiskey upon my arrival, and two glasses of champagne, yet I am not so far gone I cannot remember the rules of polite society. Ladies do not ask gentleman to dance.”
His frown deepened. “Or has there been some cataclysmic event that has changed everything we know to be proper and correct? If that is true, I am damned sorry to have missed it.”
“Neither of us have ever subscribed to the dictates of polite society. Besides, you just saiddamnin my presence, proof positive you do not think of me as a lady. And if I am not a lady then I am not bound by any silly rules of convention.” She slowly let out her breath and slanted an amused look in his direction. “So, my lord, will you dance with me? I believe the next set is to be a waltz.”
“You always had a reputation for being unconventional, Lady Meredith, not scandalous. Shall I assume from your current behavior you plan on changing?”
“If you dance with me, sir, perhaps you will learn the answer.”
It was an invitation no man could resist. He extended his gloved hand. She placed her fingers lightly in his palm, and the marquess escorted her onto the dance floor. He chose a position on the far side of the room. Deliberately? So they would not be so clearly in view?
Meredith suspected that was his motive, but whatever the reason she was grateful. The extra steps provided a little time for her to compose herself.
They made their proper bow and curtsy just as the dance began. Meredith felt the marquess’s hand tighten around her waist, and her hard-won composure slipped fractionally. She rested one hand ever so lightly upon his broad shoulder and obediently linked the fingers of her other hand with his.
