Whitridge looked down at her, studying her for a moment. He and the duke had the same eyes, or were Whitridge’s sharper? More intelligent?
“Skirts become you.” His voice was low, for her ears only.
“But there is little freedom in a dress,” she countered.
“There is enough to dance, is there not?”
He was asking her to dance.
Char’s heart slammed against her chest. She swallowed, a bit unnerved.
He offered his hand. “Will you join me? If I am going to be standing in for my twin, we should at least enjoy ourselves.”
Oh yes, she thought, and she was very aware and very present in this moment. The sounds around her became clearer, the lights overhead brighter.
“I would like that,” she managed, her voice calm, slightly detached.
He smiled, the expression rueful, as if he had a sense of regret. His gaze did not meet hers but focused on where he offered his hand. She placed hers in his.
His gloved fingers started to close over her fingers and then paused, loosened. She understood. He was being carefully correct.
But as he led her to the dance floor, every fiber of her body was singing.
Chapter Twelve
Asking Lady Charlene to dance was not prudent, and yet what other choice did Jack have? His brother had figuratively thrust her into his arms. He must do what was polite... shouldn’t he?
He shouldn’t.
If he were wise, if he kept in mind his purpose for being in London, he would give a wide berth to her. He was far too attracted to the lady than was prudent, especially with his twin’s trust in the balance.
And yet, he could not help himself. He’d watched her dance with one partner after another and he’d been jealous.
His desire had become a primal thing, and he realized it had started building inside him from the moment he’d caught her in that alley and her hat had tumbled off her head. He’d understood all too well what Gavin had meant when he’d declared he “wanted” her.
Yes, she was lovely, undeniably the most beautiful woman in the room. Her youth, her coloring, the evenness of her features, combined with a hint of naiveté, would have stood her in good stead anywhere.
But he knew something else about her, something no one else knew—she was a survivor. It was a rare and valuable trait and explained her resilience, her resourcefulness, her willingness to carry her own weight. Perhaps the quality was not valued in the smoothly civilized society of London but from where Jack had just come, such a woman was worth more than gold.
Jack had never been on a London dance floor, but he hadn’t imagined it would be too difficult. He danced. His mother had insisted that all her sons receive lessons from an early age. He had enjoyed the raucous jigs and quadrilles of frontier society.
However, as he took his place in line across from Lady Charlene, he had his first inkling that this might not have been the wisest idea. First, he had no idea what dance they were about to do, and there was no caller.
Second, it put him in the position of being given a cut direct. The men on either side of him made a point of offering him their backs. The one on his left, ostensibly to speak to others. But the man on his right was very pointed in his actions.
Jack had suffered this particular cut several times this evening. He’d overheard whispers and words like “turncoat”—which he preferred over the more common “fool.”
Now he smiled at Lady Charlene, wishing to pretend all was fine and sincerely hoping the hostility of small minds did not influence or impact her.
She smiled back, squaring her shoulders, her arms held gracefully as all the other women held them. Her eyes were vibrant with anticipation and, looking in them, Jack could forget where he was... to the point that when the music started, he not only hadstillnot gleaned what dance they were doing—a minuet—but he started on the wrong foot.
One foot tripped over the other in his haste to right a wrong. Jack stumbled, his clumsiness disrupting the line of dancers. Eyebrows lifted in disapproval or confusion. The hand he’d used for balance accidentally hit the man in front of him, the man who had been the rudest, no less, and sent him off balance and into the man ahead of him in the line.
Quick as a deer, Lady Charlene leaped forward, hooked her arm in his, and circled, effortlessly directing him to where he should be. She laughed at her success, the sound so infectious that, for a moment, it seemed to him that even the musicians stopped to listen.
Other couples around them laughed as well and, to Jack’s surprise copied the movement. Up and down the line of the dancers, couples broke ranks and circled each other. Yes, there were those watching who censored them with their gazes, but these couples on the dance floor didn’t care. They were young and full of Lord Vetter’s punch. Jack had a moment to reclaim his equilibrium.
The musicians caught the spirit of the thing and the slow, sedate minuet was quickly whipped into a quadrille. The dance took on a life of its own. Even the gentleman on Jack’s right began stomping his feet. When the steps called for him and Jack to pass each other in order to regain their partners, the man actually looked him in the eye and smiled.
