“Yes, obviously I know where your brother-in-law’s romantic inclinations lie.”
“Oh… Oh! But?”
“She hasn’t told me yet.”
I didn’t often wish for something stronger than lemonade. Presented with the choice of continuing to stand idly beside what was clearly a private conversation and the option offacing the masses below, either would be more bearable with something alcoholic.
Determined to find a way out of this situation, I surveyed the crowd. Perhaps I should offer Kit a rescue. Lady Grayson was now determinedly dragging her brother to every eligible young lady, save the one I suspected he would have been pleased with. He was making a valiant effort to frown them away and it appeared to work on the less determined ones. But what was a frown compared to a title and fortune? Nothing, if the bosomy one in the golden poof of a dress before him was any indication.
In France, I had never left a man behind. The war would have been much shorter if it had been waged on the dance floor. I was more than prepared to abandon my friend to his fate. After all, I had been noted by one of our hosts. Surely I could retreat from the field without repercussions.
Using my vantage to scout for an exit, my eyes brushed across her petite form with disinterest. Just for a moment. Just for the single second it took for my head to catch up to my heart, to recognize the interested, heavy thump the organ gave.
I needed only a single breath to reorient to true north.
I was halfway down the steps before I realized I had moved. She had already found her place on the dance floor by the time I made it to the floor and the crowds parted. A little thing, she reached just to her partner’s shoulders—though he was overly tall. She was lithe, graceful in her movements. Her smile was bright, teasing and overly familiar. Perhaps a brother? A husband? My stomach gave an instinctive wrench at that thought.
Her hair was pulled back from her face to twist down her neck like spun gold. It was not an entirely appropriate style and the sight of the loose waves felt… intimate. Her skin—a not insignificant amount on display—was a light golden shade, tanned, perhaps. My mind conjured a brief flash of her, headtipped back and eyes closed, allowing the sun to worship her. Her loose champagne waves would flow down her back, free as they brushed her shoulders in the breeze.
A laugh burst from her, throaty and sensual. What would that voice sound like, pressed against my ear, whispering the words of her pleasure?
My gaze was predatory, I knew that. But I could not have torn my eyes away for the world. My circuit around the dance floor was more of a prowl than a walk. The air was thinner now that I was closer to her, in her orbit. But not close enough.
I could not make out her eyes, not from behind her mask. It was a flimsy, lacy thing. What other flimsy, lacy things was she wearing?
Her gown was fine, finer than anything I’d ever worn, touched, seen. A mauve gauzy material overlay plum silk. It offset the golden kiss of her skin. All across the gown were tiny embroidered iridescent butterflies and flowers. Delicate little decorations to entice. Some had beads to catch the light and draw the eye. Others were textured in some mysterious way that ladies were taught to achieve and lords were taught to feign appreciation for. They were denser at the hem and up the center of the gown, growing sparser at her sides and bodice. She had no need for adornment there, nothing need distract from her face. She was shining, resplendent.
Another step, closer still, I could see a delicate metalwork butterfly on her mask as well. At last, her eyes slipped from her partner’s to catch mine. They were a greenish color in the candlelight and framed by lashes a shade darker than her hair. They widened briefly with something I could not name. Interest? Alarm? Lust?
As quickly as it arrived, the expression was shuttered away, leaving behind a self-satisfied smile. She turned back to her partner.
Dismissed.
I was well used to being disregarded by theton. This one stung, perhaps a bit more than usual, but it was nothing I could not manage. It served as a stark reminder of what she was; a pretty jewel, shiny and useless. Just like all the rest. If she shone a bit brighter, well, that was all the more dangerous. I was all too familiar with beautiful baubles. And I was not in a hurry to repeat the experience.
Freed from her entrancing presence, I searched the crowded floor for an escape. My past visits were confined to Wayland’s or Ainsley’s office. My comings and goings were always through the main entrance. Surely there was a back door though.
I stepped back, nearly tripping into an oversized skirt. Clearly some of these ladies had missed the panniers and hip pads because they’d made full use of them at the slightest of opportunities. I would have thought the slimmer silhouette currently in fashion would be more comfortable.
Finally, a few of them parted and I caught sight of a pair of French doors. Presumably—hopefully—they led outside.
After wrenching the doors open, I found myself on a lonely, rain-dampened stone balcony. Trapped. Trapped but at least free from the cacophony inside. And the mocking verdant eyes.
It was an uncharacteristically unkempt area of the club. Ainsley was nothing if not fastidious. But vines and flowering weeds had wound their way between and beneath the cobblestones, reclaiming the balcony for nature. In front of me was a stone balustrade overlooking an overgrown garden a few feet below. It was a more than acceptable perch for my elbows while I nursed my wounded pride.
As I contemplated the garden, weariness settled into my bones. Lord, I was tired. For a moment, I had felt like a young man again. The same giddy infatuation I’d felt the first time I saw Adriane had consumed me.
Now though, I remembered the aftermath, and I felt every one of my six and thirty years in my bones. I was a man grown. There was no reason to compose sonnets to every fancy bit of muslin I came across.
Now that I had looked away—blinked—I could see. She—the lady—wasn’t nearly as breathtaking as my impulsive heart had insisted. She was short, with a slightly pushed-up nose. Her effect was a trick of the light, an illusion of fabric and thread and hairpins. She was nothing special.
None of them were anything special.
Behind me the raucous sounds of the gaming hell rose and fell with the door opening and closing. I made no effort to turn, hoping the intruder would reevaluate their choice of location.
The even-paced tap of shoes on the stones, the drag of a gown, assured me that the evening’s luck remained precisely as unfortunate as it had been a few moments before.
The intruder stopped just a few feet behind me. She swallowed audibly and still I did not turn.
