“Would you care for a glass of punch?” the marquess asked right on cue.
“Oh, yes, please. That would be lovely.” No it wouldn’t. Punch was never lovely. Unless it was spiked with wine, which, sadly, tonight it was not, but the marquess seemed pleased with her when she said such inane things. She smiled at him and watched him waddle off. As soon as he disappeared into the crowd, she grabbed her skirts, turned… and ran smack into a wall. Or it seemed like a wall, but it turned out to be Corporal Grimaldi’s chest.
“Enjoying yourself?” his deep smooth voice asked from above while she blinked and rubbed her smarting nose.
Corporal Grimaldi grinned down at her. In addition to the wideness of his shoulders and the darkness of his eyes, she was starkly aware of the fact that he was nearly a foot taller than she was. He also looked like a dream in his red coat and form-fitting white breeches. “Ah, it’s you, Corporal Grimaldi,” she said, smiling at him. “Myapologies for running into you, but at least you’ve given me a chance to thank you properly.”
“My fault entirely,” he said with a bow. “I was standing far too close. You’ve learned my name, I see.”
“I have.” She smiled up at him.
“And I have learned that you are Lady Nicole Huntington, granddaughter of the dowager Countess of Whitby and daughter of the late earl.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “But then you already knew that.”
“I didn’t know your given name.”
She glanced around, worried that the marquess might return and find her if they didn’t leave the area quickly. “Come and take a walk around the room with me?”
One dark eyebrow arched. “Won’t it cause talk?”
“It might, but if I stay here I’m in danger of having to drink the punch the Marquess of Tinsley is fetching for me, and I find that more tedious than talk.”
“We can’t have that,” the corporal said with a laugh.
“No, we can’t. Because the punch is bad and so is the company.”
They strolled toward the French doors that led out to the balcony, but didn’t go outside. Instead, Nicole propped her back against the wall next to the doors and surveyed the room. Mark joined her.
“If you dislike the marquess so much, why do you dance with him?” Mark asked.
“Because my mother and grandmama bid me to.”
“You can’t tell them no?”
She withheld a snort. “You don’t know my grandmama. It’s much easier to do what she asks than argue the point with her.”
“A formidable woman, your grandmother?”
“Yes, quite formidable. She was the one who told me your name, however.”
“Really?” He arched his brow again. “I’m surprised she remembered me.”
“Oh, yes. You made an impression, Corporal. Grandmama tells me you’re Italian.”
“Half Italian.” He tugged at the throat of his uniform.
She found it difficult not to stare at the sharp-edged line of his jaw. “So, your mother is English?”
“Yes.”
“What was her family name—”
“I’m much more interested in why a young woman like yourself decided to chase down a rogue in the mews.” He met her eyes again and smiled disarmingly. “Why don’t you tell me that story instead?”
She sighed. “I’ve never been good at sitting still and doing what I’m told, I’m afraid. I’m always watching people, noticing things.”
“Like what?”
