Damn.Blade did not dance. He did not attend balls. He detested the frivolity of the nobility. But part of him was wondering what it would be like to dance with Lady Felicity in his arms. To be the sort of gentleman who bowed and twirled her about ballrooms.
“I would sooner give away my entire collection of knives than attend a ball,” Blade drawled instead of giving voice to any of the tripe residing in his obviously rotten mind.
Gen’s brows rose. “Your knife collection? Youloveyour knife collection.”
“Aye, I do. Hell, I would sooner scoop out my eyes with rusty spoons than attempt todance.”
He did not know how.
Bastards growing up in the rookeries did not have the luxury of dancing instructors. Cotillions and minuets made him want to punch someone. He would find his half brother’s brandy stores and drink himself silly instead. Yes, that certainly seemed an excellent idea.
“Aye,” Demon agreed. “But there is a lovely widow in attendance I would not mind spending more time with.”
“You do favor widows, don’t you, you rascal?” Gen asked.
Demon shrugged. “Mayhap.”
Gavin grunted. “Suppose I have to keep you company then. If any of these nibs give you trouble, I’ll blacken their eyes.”
That left everyone looking at Blade.
“Lady Felicity will be in attendance,” Gen said softly, her blue gaze searching his. “Will you have her dancing with all the lords? Thought you would be like Arthur, lifting his leg to piss on every corner of the alley.”
Arthur was Gen’s hound. And a more ridiculous mutt did not exist in all London. Three-legged and fearsome looking, he was in truth a big, silly mongrel who loved Gen to distraction and would protect her with his life.
“He cannot go and piss on a lady’s gown, can he?” Gavin asked, chortling.
Blade tugged at his cravat, which felt as if it were strangling his throat. Could the damned thing be tied any tighter? “I have no claims upon her.”
“None.” Gen rolled her eyes, her expression blatantly suggesting she did not believe him.
“Just think of her in the arms of all the nibs tonight,” Demon added.
Fucking hell.
“I’ll go to the goddamn ball,” he spat, quite disgusted with himself.
More disgusted with his stupid twat of a mind, which was envisioning Lady Felicity in a ball gown that put her delicious bosom on display, dancing with another man. His jealousy was instant and undisputable.
He had one afternoon to learn how to bloody dance.
He was here.
Blade Winter was at the ball. Devastatingly handsome in his evening finery, his cravat knotted with more of a flourish this evening. Golden haired, beautiful. Tall, commanding, dangerous.
Wicked.
He was the one gentleman in attendance with whom she should most keep her distance. Which meant, of course, that he was the only gentleman she could not stop watching. Their gazes had met across the dance floor half a dozen times. And on each occasion, she had felt the connection like a physical jolt.
There was something between them. Something bigger than the both of them.
Something, she admonished herself sternly as she finished dancing with her latest partner—Lord Chilton—and curtseyed to him. Auntie Agatha, for all her faults, was right about the viscount. He was indeed handsome. He was also the heir to his father’s earldom. He had been proper and gentlemanly throughout their dance.
But his warm, brown eyes did not make her giddy. His nearness did not cause her heart to flutter. She did not look at his lips and imagine what they would feel like upon hers.
He was, however, pleasant. Polite. He would be the perfect husband, she was certain.
“Thank you for the dance, Lady Felicity,” he told her. “Mayhap we should go in search of refreshments. I do think some negus would be just the thing.”
