“The dance is finished.”
* * * *
Lachlan had endured any number of awkward experiences in his life.
Mary Mackenzie and the split breeches was only one example. There was the time he’d emptied an entire bottle of his father’s best whiskey down his throat, and woken the next morning with his face in a puddle of his own sick. Or the afternoon he’d stumbled upon Ciaran with a girl from the village, and witnessed a feat of anatomy that still made him cringe when he thought about it.
But nothing was more excruciating than leading Hyacinth Somerset through a dance while every damned aristocrat in London gawked at them, as if this were a bloody cockfight instead of a waltz. At one point, when her fingers had gone slack in his hand, he’d been certain he was going to lose her to another swoon.
Lachlan glanced down at the top of her shining head, and waited for the last note of the waltz to fade before he released her, and drew back a fraction so he could get a better look at her.
Golden hair. Fine, pale skin. A slender, graceful figure, and curved lips so pink and plump they made a man’s mouth water. Columns or no columns, these Englishmen were daft if they could overlook a lady with such a face.
Aingeal.
But he didn’t have any business lingering over her face. Her face, or any other part of her, no matter how tempting those parts were. He’d sworn he’d treat her just as he treated Isla—that he’d take care of her for the duration of the season as if she were his own sister. He wasn’t her suitor or her lover, but herbrother, and from this point on, he’d allow himself to think only brotherly thoughts about her.
And no more sneaking glances at her bosom, either.
He cleared his throat, and offered her his arm. “Shall I take you back to Lady Chase?”
She rested her fingertips on his coat. “Yes, I think that would be best. I wish I had more acquaintances in London to introduce to Isla, but between my grandmother and I, we should be able to ensure she isn’t obliged to sit out a dance, and—oh! Look, Mr. Ramsey.”
They’d reached the edge of the ballroom, but she’d turned back to look at the couples assembling for a country dance. Lachlan followed her gaze to find a tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman taking his place opposite Isla in the set.
“He’s Lord Sydney,” Hyacinth murmured. “The Earl of Sydney, that is.”
Lachlan studied the man with narrowed eyes. “He’s a decent sort?”
“Oh, yes, and quite respectable. I believe this is his first ball since his father died last year.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“I don’t know him well, but he’s always been friendly to me. He’s rather lively, and very fashionable, but not at all affected, like so many gentlemen of theton.”
They all looked affected to Lachlan—the gentlemen, and the ladies. He watched the couples twirling across the floor, and wondered idly which of these chits was this season’s belle.
Whoever she was, she didn’t compare to Hyacinth.
He glanced over the crowd, but not a single one of them stood out. It was like looking over a meadow of white daisies. They were pretty enough, but unremarkable, and each indistinguishable from the next in their pale-colored gowns. There was one auburn-haired young lady who’d do for the belle, or perhaps that girl in yellow, with the chestnut-colored hair. She looked likely enough, but none of them were anywhere near as beautiful as—
“Miss Somerset. How do you do this evening?”
Lachlan and Hyacinth both turned at the low, throaty voice.
A young lady with sparkling dark eyes and gleaming ebony locks piled atop her head offered Miss Somerset a shallow curtsey, but when she raised her eyes, she wasn’t looking at Hyacinth at all.
She was looking at Lachlan, her full lips tilted into an inviting smile.
Lachlan quirked an eyebrow at her. No pale daisy here, but a showy rose in full flower, the single bloom that stole all the water and sunlight until every other flower withered on the vine. Curved red lips, white shoulders rising from the low neckline of a pale pink gown…
Shewas the belle.
“How do you do, Lady Joanna?” Hyacinth’s tone was perfectly courteous, her curtsey proper and polite, but the flatness in her voice gave her away.
Hyacinth didn’t like Lady Joanna.
Lady Joanna either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Her gaze was fixed onhim, and she hardly spared Miss Somerset a glance.
