“At once, my lord.”
He studied her for a moment, no doubt hunting for some tenderness in her eyes, some hint of breathlessness, some softening of her lips.
Eleanor gazed back at him, her face expressionless.
He dropped her hand and stepped back. “Very well. I wish you a pleasant evening, madam.”
It was far more likely he wished her to the devil, just like the rest of them, but it wouldn’t do to say so. “How kind you are, my lord.”
He folded his lanky frame into a stiff bow, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the crowd. Eleanor watched him go, her chin raised as she fought the urge to let her shoulders slump in defeat.
Just as she’d suspected. Flimsy.
* * *
Camden West stood off to the side of the ballroom, half-obscured behind a white marble pillar. Lady Foster had a fondness for pillars, it seemed—pillars, and wide gilt mirrors. Every turn brought him face to face with his own reflection: severe black evening dress, stark white cravat, tight mouth. Damn unsettling, but like the rest of theton, Lady Foster must want to see an endless echo of herself in every shiny surface.
But the pillars suited Cam. He preferred to remain unobserved tonight, which was difficult to do when one was the tallest gentleman in the room. Of course, his height did offer certain advantages. If he were a few inches shorter, he’d have spent all evening craning his neck to see around the crowds of gentlemen swarming Lady Eleanor Sutherland, like bees buzzing around their queen. As it was, he had a perfect view of the little drama unfolding about twelves paces to his left. The adolescent lord who’d cornered her didn’t look to be an especially sharp specimen, but he was sharp enough to have found a way to separate Lady Eleanor from the rest of the swarm.
That young lordling—what the devil was his name again? Cam had been introduced to him. He had a vague memory of watery blue eyes, but he couldn’t remember the boy’s name. No matter. The lad’s time would be better spent attempting to grow some chest hair rather than buzzing around a bee of Lady Eleanor’s majesty.
Her sting was legendary.
Cam couldn’t hear a word they said, but he didn’t need to, for this was a pantomime worthy of the Parisian stage.
The besotted swain grasped the lady’s hand and pressed it dramatically to his breast.
The lady remained unmoved.
The swain pleaded, cajoled, looked tragic, and finally, in desperation, hurled his throbbing heart at the feet of his cruel mistress. The lady, her face composed, dark eyes unblinking, brought one dainty foot down and crushed that tender organ under her heel, then kicked it back in his general direction with a careless flick of her satin-covered toe.
Cam suppressed an urge to laugh. Or applaud. He’d gladly pay a crown to see that performance again.
What did that make, then? Three seasons, five offers, five refusals, and now this poor devil, who hadn’t even made it as far as Lady Eleanor’s brother. Impressive, how she’d dispensed with him before he had a chance to come to the point. Lord Carlisle was said to be fond of his sisters, and he must be. Fond enough to permit Lady Eleanor to reject suitor after suitor.
Reason enough to bypass the earl altogether.
How fortunate for Cam that Lady Eleanor thought herself too good for every gentleman in London, and how lucky none of these fine lords had the remotest inkling how to handle a woman like her.
Cam didn’t have that problem. Handled she would be, and soon.
Poor lord whatever-the-devil-his-name-was slunk off into the crowded ballroom. He looked like a puppy who’d taken an unexpected and vicious kick to the ribs. Lady Eleanor looked as if she found the whole thing tedious, as if she made it a habit to kick a puppy every day.
Lady Frost. Cam smiled. Oh, yes. She was every inch the proper aristocratic lady.
She’d do. She’d do quite nicely.
Lady Eleanor flapped her fan in front of her face, no doubt to cool the flush of irritation from her cheeks. Cam’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. It must exhaust the poor lady to be the object of such constant adoration. Did she encourage them, and then refuse them? He thought it likely. What were the chances five suitors could have been so mistaken about her affections?
He waited, watching her from behind his pillar. She wouldn’t take much time to fume. No more than a few minutes, and then she’d remember.
Her hand dropped to her side and she looked around, and a slight frown creased that smooth, white brow. She grasped a fold of her silk gown, rose to her tiptoes, and moved her gaze over the crowd, searching.
Ah. There. Cam knew it the moment she spotted her sister in the sea of whirling couples. He followed her gaze to the other side of the ballroom, though he knew what he’d find before he saw them.
Lady Charlotte Sutherland, the younger of the two Sutherland sisters, rumored to be a bit on the wild side. Indeed, from what Cam had heard, Lady Charlotte had driven thetonright out of countenance this season. If she placed another toe over the line of propriety, she’d suffer dire social consequences.
Charlotte Sutherland was dancing with Cam’s cousin, Julian West. Handsome, charming, irresistible Julian. Damn shame he was such a rake. With every turn of the dance Julian drew closer to the open French doors leading onto the terrace and the dark garden beyond, his quarry caught in his arms.
