Discovering just how seriously he managed his responsibilities had significantly changed her opinion of him personally. Even more so was when she had sensed that he truly wished happiness for his sister. How could she not appreciate that?
And then there was the fact that she desired the man to a shocking, unprecedented degree.
But that, in itself, might be the biggest problem in considering him again as a potential husband.
Her opinion—her feelings—had become much more personal in regard to Redington. And when it came to taking on a husband, she needed to retain a mercenary approach. She would be using the man for his position in society. Coldly and intentionally.
She already knew that she was anything but cold and unfeeling when it came to the marquess.
“I’m simply suggesting you think about it, dear.”
She couldn’t. Not anymore.
But instead of issuing a fervent denial, Charlotte replied, “As long as you continue to seek out a match elsewhere.”
The Black Widow nodded. “Of course.”
Despite her agreement, Charlotte left the Lyon’s Den with an odd sense of foreboding. She felt as though her plan wasn’t hers anymore…that somehow, she’d become more pawn than master.
Standing behind histhree young charges at yet another ball, Ralston couldn’t keep his displeasure from fully registering in his manner. As Bridget very helpfully pointed out.
“Goodness, Rals,” the chit quipped with a cheerful smile, “you look as though you’d like to strangle the next person who steps up for an introduction.”
Lydia slid him a sideways glance at the comment and gave a sage nod. “You’ll never catch a bride with that expression.”
Clenching his teeth, Ralston replied, “I’m not looking for a bride.”
“You should be,” Eleanor interjected with firm assurance. “Mother and Father will be back in town next week and they’ll want news of your progress in securing the next duchess.”
He grumbled something noncommittal and defensive, causing his sister to raise her brows. “What has put you in such a wretched mood?”
Ralston clenched his jaw and ignored the query. He couldn’t exactly admit that he wasphysicallyfrustrated. His responsibilities had kept him so busy lately he still hadn’t had a chance to return to the Lyon’s Den. Yet, he hadn’t been nearly occupied enough to keep from constantly recalling each and every moment of his last visit to that private upstairs room.
He’d never gone for such a long length of time feeling so utterly unsatisfied. Pure sensual need had been building within him. And though he’d taken himself in hand each night since, it had done nothing to ease the pressure.
Since he sure as hell couldn’t say any of that, he stood still and stoic, resisting his desires in order to fulfill his duty.
Finally accepting that he would not answer, Eleanor rolled her eyes and didn’t press him further. A moment later, Bridget suggested the three of them take a turn about the room.
He deserved their desertion. The instant he was left alone, however, the pastel masses started to swarm in. Couldn’t any of them detect that he was not in a proper mood for their attention? Looking over the heads of the many debutantes smiling in approach, he searched for any reason to excuse himself.
Almost immediately, he spotted Miss Dickson standing not too far away.
Without pausing to wonder why her caustic company seemed infinitely more appealing than that of the fawning hopefuls, he gave a short bow of his head as he swiftly stepped through the approaching wave to angle straight for the dark-haired woman dressed in a lovely shade of lavender.
Miss Dickson wouldn’t even have noticed his approach if Lady Henmere hadn’t given her a sharp elbow just as he reached her side, causing the young woman to startle and turn in his direction with a dark frown of displeasure.
“Miss Dickson, are you free for the next dance?”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Ralston wished to call them back. He didn’t have to shift his gaze to know that his own shock at the invitation was reflected in the faces of those who’d heard it.
The Marquess of Redington never took a young lady to the dance floor. Such a thing could start a rash of speculation as to his intentions and before he knew it, he and his erstwhile partner would be betrothed by the gossips which would undoubtedly lead to a scandal of some sort when he had to take action to convince everyone that their rapid assumptions were false. It was a risk he’d always refused to take.
Despite the ripple of astonishment triggered by his query, the one lady he spoke to appeared less shocked than appalled as she stared back at him without replying. It was obvious that she wanted to refuse. And in that moment, he hoped she would—saving them both the wretched consequences of his impulsive and idiotic attempt at escaping what he’d thought would be worse. Miss Dickson’s mutinous expression made it clear that the crowd of young debs would’ve been a far safer option—easier to handle, anyway. Ralston almost looked back at them with longing when another pointed nudge of Countess Henmere’s elbow forced Miss Dickson to give a quick nod.
With her obviously reluctant acquiescence, any attempt at salvaging the unfortunate situation he’d created was lost. The young woman slid her hand into the bend of his elbow, her touch surprisingly firm, and he silently led her to the dancefloor as the musicians started up the next song.
A waltz.
