He eased back in feigned surprise and left a space between them. “Merci.I did not know. You have saved me from making afaux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was so different to the night they’d spent together in the hut when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive? She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did. His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on a woman, or even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him almost overwhelmed her. She breathed in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linens, and closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. Does it have a name?”
He smiled down at her. “TheTrone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different to the English in other ways, too, which made him all the more intriguing.
He reversed her expertly, and as she gained confidence in his arms, she began to enjoy the dance.
She tried not to respond to his charm but when he smiled she had to smile back. She cautioned herself. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor? His familiarity with the Fortescue family seemed authentic. He’d talked so lovingly about them.
While she counted the steps, he spun her over the floor. Gasping, she fixed her gaze on the cleft in his chin. His full under lip might be a sign of a generous nature. A passionate one? Annoyed, she sought to silence her thoughts. “Is there a chance Napoleon might escape from St Helena?”
His mouth twitched up at one corner. Did he find her naïve? Amusing? He shook his head. “Bonaparte is a beaten man. The world will not see him, or indeed, his like, again.”
Were they his true feelings for the French general? He must care deeply for the country of his birth. Despite his inheritance, could England ever mean as much to him?
“You dance divinely, Miss Cavendish.” His hand at her waist tightened. “I am not making you breathless?”
It was not the exercise that made her gasp. “I’m hardly in my dotage, sir.” She looked down to the swell of her bosom, pale in the candlelight. Her chest gave her feelings away, rising and falling as if she’d run a mile.
“I should never have known.” He chuckled. “Why, you must be well past twenty. If I can be allowed to guess.”
“You are not allowed, my lord. I’m shocked you would mention it.” She wished she could whip the offending bit of net off her hair.
“I do apologize; I seem to have an aptitude for annoying you.”
“Not at all.”
It was his graceful moves that made her dance so well. They spun around and around. Her head, already a trifle woozy from the wine, spun a little. Their bodies were close again, too close for propriety’s sake and her peace of mind. There was nothing she could do about it, so she gave herself up to the sensation. She lifted her gaze to his and found his expression had become earnest.
“If you permit, I shall call on you and your father.” He paused as they reversed. “I desire to see Simon again. To thank him,” he added,sotto voce. “I worry he may get into difficulty on my account.”
Hetty’s heart sank to her dancing slippers. At this precise moment, she had no idea how to deal with such a request. To refuse him would be considered bad mannered, and in his arms, the urge to fight him deserted her. Her wits lost, she scrambled for some excuse. “Simon is a modest fellow. I doubt he would wish you to pursue this further. You will embarrass him.”
“Tiens! That is not my intention.” He sought her gaze and held it. “I promise to take care. I shall call on Monday at two o’clock.”
“Of course,” Hetty said in a high voice, her mind blank with horror.
The dance ended, and he escorted her from the floor. “Would you care for a refreshment?” he asked. “Dancing does make one warm.”
She settled herself into a chair aware her cheeks must be pink from the exercise. “Thank you, my lord.”
“I see you do not have your fan.”
Suspicious, she slanted a glance at him and caught his sympathetic smile. Somehow, she didn’t trust it. Hot and extremely bothered, she determined to rescue her fan at the first opportunity.
He signaled to a waiter and returned with a glass of Madeira. “I see the musicians are threatening to play again.” His eyes danced with amusement, and she wondered if he found them all terribly parochial. “If you’ll excuse me, I must ask another lady to dance.”
He bowed before Fanny. She curtsied and blushed prettily as he led her onto the floor as squares formed for the quadrille. What a handsome couple they made, but she wished Fanny would not giggle so.
With a quick glance around for rivals, Mr. Oakley hurried over. She suppressed a sigh as she rose to take his arm. His eyes, filled with hope, met hers as the dance commenced.
As soon as the dance ended, Hetty excused herself and slipped from the room. The salon was deserted. She plunged her hand into the urn and straightened with the fan in her hand.
A deep voice came from the doorway. “Ah, you have found it.”
She spun around. “Why yes, it must have fallen into this vase.”
