His sister might not believe it, but hedidintend to ask a lady to dance tonight.
One Lady Clare Handleton.
And the devil take the consequences.
Oh, it would cause talk. He could practically hear the whispers already. Lady Clare—Scandalton—had likely not been asked to dance since her debut year. And yet, here he was, prepared to make a spectacle of the entire evening.
He had every intention of setting theton’s tongues wagging tonight. And he could not recall the last time he’d been looking forward to something so much.
He’d made the decision last night. There had been something about the way Clare had said the words so casually. “I’m not expecting you to ask me to dance in a ballroom full of people. I’m only asking you to kiss me once, here, where only the two of us will know.” Those words were burned into his mind. He couldn’t forget them. Clare had been relegated to the shadows for so long that she no longer thought herself worthy of regard. She assumed no decent man would ever be so bold as to ask her to dance. And Ash intended to do something about it. Immediately.
Of course, their kiss had left a lasting impression on him too, one he didn’t dare dwell upon for long lest his breeches become too tight. Not quite a decent state of affairs for a ballroom in his sister’s house. But regardless of his indecent thoughts about Lady Clare, he intended to ask her to dance. He could onlyhopeshe would accept the invitation.
His gaze scanned the room until—there.
Across the ballroom, near a cluster of dowagers and wallflowers, stood Clare.
She was dressed in a gown the color of flames at sunset, rich and deep, catching the candlelight in molten waves as she shifted. The cut of the gown hugged her curves, the daring dip of the neckline offset by the elegant sweep of her shoulders. Her golden hair was pinned in a deceptively careless chignon, a few errant curls trailing down the nape of her neck in a way that made his fingers twitch with the sudden, overwhelming urge to touch them.
She took his breath away.
Ash ignored the longing stares of the debutantes, including Lady Julia, and the sharp, assessing gaze of his sister, and strode across the ballroom directly toward Clare.
Her back was to him as she spoke to Gemma, seemingly unaware of the ripple of awareness sweeping across the room. The moment he stopped behind her, the conversation halted.
She turned, her expression unreadable—until her dark eyes met his.
A flicker of surprise. Suspicion. Amusement.
And then wariness.
“Lady Clare,” Ash said smoothly, bowing slightly. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence.
Clare blinked, glancing around as if expecting someone to correct him.
“Me?” She pointed at her middle.
He arched a brow. “I see no other Lady Clare in attendance.”
She hesitated. Just for a moment. Then—slowly, deliberately—she placed her gloved hand in his.
“Yes,” she said simply.
The orchestra struck the first notes of a waltz.
Perfect timing.
Ash curled his fingers around hers, relishing the way she fit so neatly against him as he led her onto the dance floor.
The moment their hands met, the room shifted.
Everyonewas watching.
Clarefeltit—he could see it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her gaze darted briefly to the gathered onlookers.
