His smile was devilishly smug. “I knew you would.”
In spite of that, her heart began to pound as she put her hand in his and let him lead her out to join the rest of the dancers. More than one person glanced first at him, then at her, then again at him, this time in shock. She wondered what surprised them more, that Tristan Burke was dancing, or that he was dancing with her. Both were certainly shocking to her, but as the musicians began to play, she couldn’t keep a small smile from her face. Oh heaven—it was a waltz. Joan had never waltzed with anyone other than her dancing instructor or her father, and once, under extreme duress, with her brother. Lord Burke was obnoxious, but as long as he could waltz reasonably well, she would graciously forgive him. For now.
And he was even tall enough. Joan was determined to enjoy the dance, so she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead—not, as it usually happened, on her partner’s forehead, but this time on the silver pin stuck through his cravat. It was a crouching leopard with an emerald eye that seemed to gleam at her in predatory promise. Joan smiled at the leopard. Not only was she dancing, it was with a man taller than she was, who could waltz—glory be—so beautifully she barely felt the floor beneath her feet. She didn’t even need to hear his apology now. She would have been content to glide around the floor like this in perfect silence.
He, of course, didn’t allow that. “Are you contemplating your future reading hours, or plotting my demise?”
Mention of50 Ways to Sinmade her face warm. “Neither,” she said tartly. “I was merely saying a quiet prayer of thanks that you know the steps. I worried, you see.”
“Ah yes, it is quite challenging. One must countone, two...two... What comes next? Dear me, I seem to have forgotten already.” For emphasis he turned more sharply than ever, without losing his light yet confident hold on her. It felt like flying. Good heavens—Monsieur Berthold had never made it feel like this.
“I could tell,” she said, sounding sadly breathless once again. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Douglas, who was dancing with Felicity Drummond again and staring at them with mingled shock and anger. It made her think of her mother, and what her mother would say when she heard about this waltz with Lord Burke. Joan sighed softly, her delight deflated. Everything she enjoyed seemed to be inappropriate for ladies. “You had better make your apology before the music ends.”
His faint smirk faded. Unfortunately, he was even more devastatingly handsome when serious. Joan was beginning to think God hated her, to keep thrusting Tristan Burke in her path. He was obnoxious and rude and yet so bloody attractive. “Yes. I am deeply, humbly sorry for saying you look like an umbrella tonight.”
Joan stiffened. She would rather have never heardthatagain.
“It strikes me as foolish for women to wear fashions that don’t suit them, but of course it’s none of my concern how you want to dress.”
“It really isn’t,” she muttered.
His glinting gaze ranged over her face. “How long did it take to make all those ringlets?”
“An hour. Why? Are you thinking of trying it yourself?”
He grinned. Joan tried not to look at the dimple. “Not particularly.”
“Well, it probably wouldn’t suit you.” Although with her luck, he would try it to annoy her, and end up looking like a romantic cavalier of old, elegant and fine in brocade and lace.
“Was it your mother’s idea?”
She flushed. “Why would you think that?”
“You mentioned her the other day, when listing every color unflattering to your looks.”
Joan knew she never managed to look elegant, not even in the most fashionable creations to be found in London. She agreed that light blue wasn’t her favorite color, no matter how appropriate it was for unmarried ladies. But she’d wear green and orange stripes through Hyde Park before she admitted it to him. “If you must know,” she said airily, “it was in the latest copy of Ackermann’s. I expect it will be all the rage soon, and every woman in town will be wearing it.”
“That will hardly make it suit you any better.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Really, sir,” she trilled. “You take such an interest in my clothing and my hair! One might begin to wonder what your intentions are!”
He didn’t seem concerned; if anything, her words brought a faint grin to his lips. Staring up at his mouth, so near her own, Joan felt her stomach turn itself into another twist. Why the devil had he asked her to dance? With his one hand spread over her back, holding her close, and his other hand holding hers, it was all too easy for her wretched imagination to take flight and pretend he wasn’t the biggest boor in London, but someone who had once told her he liked impertinent girls.
“You’re safe with me,” he said. “My intentions are to apologize, return your book, and then go do something I actually enjoy.”
Joan almost rolled her eyes. Safe from ravishment, obviously, but not from irritation. “I accept your apology, halfhearted and weak though it was. I think I feel a pain in my ankle, you may escort me back to my friends now.” Most gentlemen usually accepted the excuse gratefully. She hoped Lord Burke would do something decent for once.
His steps didn’t falter. “Oh, no. Not yet. I’m not through with you.” And before she could ask what that meant, he twirled her with a little extra vigor and sent them both around a nearby pillar and into the alcove a few feet behind it that held a stand of potted palms.
“What—?” she began in a furious whisper, but he put one gloved fingertip on her lips as he reached inside his evening jacket and withdrew50 Ways to Sin—which, she couldn’t help noticing, was now unwrapped, exposing the title to full view.
“I also apologize for reducing you to tears in the bookshop,” he said, holding it out.
She stared at it in frustrated longing. So near, and yet so impossible for her to take. “I cannot walk back into the ballroom with it in my hand! Where will I put it?”
He wagged it back and forth, the evil gleam in his eyes completely undermining the solemn innocence of his expression. “You don’t mean to say you purchased something inappropriate, do you, Miss Bennet?”
“If anyone sees this, I shall swear on my grandmother’s grave you were trying to tempt me into debauchery with that piece of filth—not that I have any idea what it is.”
