And then her heart stopped entirely as his sparkling eyes returned to hers.
“Miss Eliza, may I request the favor of a dance?”
Chapter Two
Silently,astonished at this unexpected turn, Eliza lifted her wrist. Her dance card dangled humiliatingly bare for Lord Sinclair to sign.
If he was shocked to find it empty, he didn’t show it. Instead, he scrawled his name wide across the next two sets. The pencil was small in his ungloved hand.
Eliza raised a brow but didn’t feel herself equal to a comment. The corner of Lord Sinclair’s lips tipped up, his gaze locked on hers and impossible to read.
Lady Arabella, on the other hand, sighed at the sight of her brother’s signature. “Are you incapable of doing things properly? Or do you simply enjoy vexing me?”
“Both,” Sinclair said, gaze still trapping Eliza’s. “But my primary motive at present is to enjoy the company of Miss Eliza for as long as possible.”
Eliza could feel the penetrating looks from her sister and cousin, but she couldn’t bring herself to break from Lord Sinclair’s gaze. Not a single time, not once since they’d entered society months ago, had a man been presented with both Wayland twins and found himself captivated byEliza.
Once, Mr. Philips orchestrated an introduction to Eliza—even danced a set. But less than a minute into the dance, it became apparent that their waltz was a ruse to gather intelligence about Sophie.
“Behave yourself,” Lady Arabella directed her brother, a warning note in her voice. “Miss Eliza, I promise he was taught propriety. Whether he retained any of it is debatable.” Her address to Eliza had finally broken whatever spell Lord Sinclair’s eyes had cast on her.
“It is no matter, I?—”
The announcement of the next dance—the schottische—cut her off. Oh good Lord, why could it not have been something that separated them? Even at this distance, he bordered on overwhelming. In his arms…
“Shall we?” Sinclair asked, low, a private note to his voice as he offered her his hand.
Eliza nodded, swallowing her trepidation as she placed her gloved fingers in his bare palm without a second glance at her companions. His gaze lowered to their hands as his thumb brushed across her knuckles. The contrast was striking. His hands were large, their strength evident even in this light caress.
He led her with sure steps to the middle of the dance floor. Once situated, his free hand found the space between her shoulder blade and waist, spanning much of it easily. There was fire in his touch—it burned hot through the many layers of silk and linen.
“You’ll need to touch my shoulder now,” Lord Sinclair murmured, a teasing curve to his lips. The words were enough to shock Eliza out of her awe, and she set her palm along the broad plane, studiously ignoring the flutter in her chest. It was a nice shoulder, she noted, solid, without being so large as to overwhelm his frame. Her gray silk glove fit quite nicely against the lightweight black wool of his coat.
With four soft clicks, the quartet burst into life. The long-short, skipping beats of the dance filled her frame, spreading throughout her limbs and finally reaching her feet. At the precise moment Lord Sinclair’s hand tightened around her waist and he stepped forward.
Eliza’s feet responded without her input, lighter than they had ever been. She considered herself a skilled enough dancer—not that such skills were often displayed. But this—there was something instinctive about the way her body countered his, something thrilling in her smile that bloomed in response to his mischievous one, something giddy in the way her skirts swirled around them when he added a spin for no discernible reason.
“I do not believe that belongs there, my lord.”
“Perhaps not, but it made you smile,” he retorted, then added another.
“And it is your aim to do so?” she asked, a little breathless with exertion.
He shrugged the shoulder beneath her hand, the muscles defined through the fabric. “I suppose it is.”
The edges of her grin deepened, a flush rising on her cheeks.
“Perhaps Lady Arabella is right and you are incapable of propriety.”
“I learned many years ago, my sister is right in all things—including dance partners.”
There it was.
Eliza missed a step, faltering before righting herself. “Your sister?” Her voice was small, cold, but Lord Sinclair didn’t seem to notice. His brow remained furrowed over her misstep.
“Yes?” He peered at her curiously.
Eliza’s legs solidified beneath her once more. Each step required conscious consideration. Her body turned awkward. “She suggested me as a partner.”
