He strolled to the door. “I am happy, however, to precede you into the ballroom and offer myself as your first dance partner. Perhaps that will count for something.”
She rose to her full height, barely inches over five feet, and turned a brilliant smile on him that had his heart doing an unusual erratic skip. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “According to Aunt Isobel, I’m a diamond. While my aunt may have left off the “rough around the edges” part, I expect I shall have plenty of proposals after that irritating fainting spell. Particularly, and apparently, with my choice of scoundrels.” She turned up that blinding smile. “Your abetment on my behalf is duly noted, Lord Kimpton. Alas, I shall have to decline your offer of a mercy dance. It is neither needed nor wanted.” The vein at her neck beat a fast pulse, but she was a cool one, inclining her head and ducking around him. “Good night, my lord.”
Lorelei felt as if she’d escaped within an inch of her life. Her heart pounded sure as if she’d beat Brandon in a swim across the Spixworth pond. An exaggeration? Then why was she trembling from the inside out? Because she likely had less than two minutes to reach the ballroom. That man had heardeverything:her destitute status and her brother’s dependence on her. Her jaw clenched until it ached. She would marry no one who wouldn’t accept Brandon along with her.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. You’re late.” Aunt Isobel’s shrewd eyes swept over her. “This is Lord Shufflebottom. My lord, may I present my grandniece? Lady Lorelei, elder sister of the young Viscount Harlowe.”
Lord Shufflebottom was dressed to the nines in a brilliant purple silk waistcoat that did nothing to offset his intricately tied cravat, so white, it dazzled. He was a little too perfect in her estimation. Perfection was difficult to live up to.
“How lovely to make your acquaintance, Lady Lorelei. Might I have this dance?”
One look at Aunt Isobel was enough to convince Lorelei that turning down Lord Shufflebottom would not go well for her. She laid her gloved hand atop his sleeve, allowing him to lead her to the crowded parquet. Dancing was not the strongest in her repertoire. Aunt Isobel had hired a dance instructor, but Papa’s teasing about her lack of coordination was never far from the forefront in her mind. In this instance, she had to just close her eyes and hope for the best.
“I trust you didn’t suffer any ill effects from your swoon earlier?”
Lorelei wrinkled her nose. “You saw that, did you?”
He grinned. “It was difficult to miss, as I daresay most anyone will be happy to inform you.”
There wasn’t much she could add to that. Her eyes flitted away and back to him. “I should like to apologize in advance.”
His brows raised.
“For my abysmal dancing,” she clarified.
“I believe I can survive the abuse,” he murmured.
But would she? Shufflebottom was a dandy, for sure, but an undercurrent of debasement she had no reason to assign him seemed to swirl about him like a low-lying fog. They took their place in line as the music cued up, effectively saving her from further conversation.
She made her curtsey, he made his bow.
Four
K
impton took the servant stairs to the Martindales’ lower level then made his way through a winding hallway to the ballroom. The dowager would have her eyes peeled for the main staircase watching for him. He’d lay odds she knew he was in the library the entire time. He reached the peripheral of the crush and, sure enough, her grace’s attention split, going from the top of the stairs then back to the dance floor.
He followed the dowager’s gaze to her niece, and bit back an irritated huff. Lady Lorelei was definitely a diamond, and not so rough as she believed. Shufflebottom was her equivalency on the Beau Brummel side. A fop of the first order. Yet, he was also a marquis. Anunmarriedmarquis.
The rest of the evening followed in the same vein less any further swoons. After Shufflebottom, Lady Lorelei was passed off to their host, the Earl of Martindale. Her dance partner lineup was impressive: Marquis of Dorset, Earl of Greenmont, Viscounts Hereford, then Winchester.
Thorne leaned a shoulder against one of the ballrooms columns, his arms folded over his chest and one ankle crossing the other with the toe of his boot on end, just observing. The girl had to be exhausted. Cotillion, Quadrille, Scottish Reel, country dance and back again. Even Brock had been able to claim a dance with the “diamond,” the cur. Yes, his closest friend was a cur.
He strolled over. “Aren’t you missing your nightly appointment with Miss Hollerfield?”
Good God. He’d completely forgotten. Thorne jerked his watch from his pocket and flicked it open, then winced. “Did you enjoy your set?”
Brock shot him a grin. “I did indeed. Lady Lorelei is an engaging young lady.”
She’d certainly managed to fill his senses. Thorne grunted, his gaze prowling the dancers like a hungry tiger ready to pounce. Hell, the palms of his hands tingled along with his nether regions, he wanted her so badly.
Currently, she was taking her turn with the Duke of Oxford, a portly fellow with large jowls. A man twice her age, with no wife, and with a young daughter who was reputed still in the nursery.
The music faded and Kimpton strode off, intercepting Oxford and Lady Lorelei, just as the orchestra was striking up the supper dance. It was his turn. He’s the one who’d saved her, after all.
Five
T
