Barbara had no interest in taking over Margaret’s charming place among theTon, any more than she had of whirling in circles. Her foot was just a convenient excuse.
Her second cousin made his stammering apologies—apologies for her long-ago injury, or for mistakenly assuming she’d want to dance with him?—and bowed his way out of her life once more.
And Barbara stifled her yawn.
It was possible there was a man out there who would be more impressed by her mind than her inability to twirl about or make him feel important and intelligent…but she hadn’t met him yet. If Cousin Daniel had truly been interested inher, he might have sat with her, asked what she’d been gazing at, discussed his father’s famed collection with her.
Or, miracle of miracles, offer toescorther to see his father’s famed collection.
Cousin Errol, the Earl of Standish, had recently acquired a complete set ofushabtishe was just desperate to examine. The only reason she’d agreed to attend this ball with her parents was for the chance at touring the Earl’s study. Papa had promised he’d facilitate it with the utmost delicacy…but it hadn’t happened yet.
Stifling another sigh, Barbara turned back to the dancing couples.
Although she didn’t dance, she could admit there was a pleasant sort of artistry to the way they spun and bobbed; the debutantes in their pale pastels, the matrons in their bold colors, the men in somber black. It had been several years since she’d made her debut… It wasn’t the way she enjoyed spending time, but itwaspretty, in an inane sort of way.
Margaret had always enjoyed dancing, and marriage had made her even more vivacious and lively. She wouldn’t be invited to another ball after the scandal, of course—no matter her connection to the Earl of Standish—but apparently falling in love had been a sufficient trade.
What would it be like, to find that kind of love?
Do not pout. It is unbecoming.
Was that Mother’s voice, or her own? Barbara had long ago given up on finding a man who wouldn’t be threatened by her intellect, or repulsed by her disability. And that was not a problem. She’d accepted it.
Hoping forlovewas too much, but perhaps, one day on her adventures, she could find pleasure. Listening to Margaret giggle about it all these years, reading those naughty novels aloud to one another late at night in hushed tones, in case their mother heard… Barbara’s gaze flicked back up to the cornices and the not-a-wine-jug the satyr caressed.
She could admit herself intrigued.
“Good evening.”
Thisvoice was smooth. Dark. Creamy.
Unexpected.
Startled, Barbara’s gaze snapped to the newcomer and prepared to politely—and metaphorically—shove him away.
Oh.
He wasn’t like Cousin Daniel at all.
He was taller, for one, with broader shoulders, dark hair, and a confident smile. His waistcoat was embroidered with a red—no, pink?—design, an affection which, on him, was far from foppish. His build was similar to those she’d seen chiseled in marble on Grecian temple walls, and his tanned throat disappearing into a crisp white collar and cravat was surprisingly intriguing.
Good heavens, and was that a dimple? Barbara found herself sitting straighter, intrigued. The single divot somehow made the perfection of the rest of him more approachable.
As the dimple deepened and his smile grew, she realized he was waiting for her to say something.Drat, what had he said? Oh yes.
“Good evening,” she squeaked in return. And yes, embarrassingly, ithadbeen a squeak. Barbara swallowed and tried again, pleased when her voice emerged more in control of itself. “Have we been introduced?”
“Nay, but I dinnae allow such a wee thing to come in the way of a good time.” The Scotsman gave an elaborate bow. “I’m Sir Kenneth Fraser, and ye are Miss Fokette.” He straightened with a wink. “I asked around.”
She really shouldn’t acknowledge him, not if he’d approached her without an introduction—but he was Scottish, and everyone knew that the Scots did whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted.
Besides, his voice was doing interesting things to her stomach, and Barbara admitted she wouldn’t mind staring at him for a few more hours.
Purely for artistic reasons, of course.
If one was to holdhisnot-a-wine-jug, just how large?—
Barbara inclined her head. “How intriguing to meet you, Sir Kenneth.”
